Free The Plague Maiden by Kate Ellis Page B

husband?’
    ‘He said he loved me. He said he’d wait for me no matter how long it took. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t feel like that
     and by then I just wanted to get him out of my life.’
    ‘So when did you find out about the Reverend Shipborne’s murder?’
    ‘I read all about it in the paper the next day, of course. I took a particular interest because I’d been in Belsham around
     that time and I still recall all the details.’ She closed her eyes tight, as though trying to remember. ‘It said the vicar
     was killed between five to seven when his cleaner left and ten when she went back and found him. I remember I’dmet Chris at seven on the dot and we talked in the car in the pub carpark for ages. We were probably there at the time of
     the murder but I certainly didn’t see anything. And Chris definitely couldn’t have done it because he was with me all that
     time.’ She looked Wesley in the eye. ‘How did he come to be arrested? Surely they didn’t have any evidence against him.’
    Wesley said nothing.
    ‘Didn’t he tell them he was with me?’ she asked, puzzled.
    ‘Not when they arrested him.’
    ‘He probably wanted to keep my name out of it,’ she said quietly.
    ‘Later on, when he was charged, he changed his story. He said he’d been with a woman who was no longer in the country and
     he didn’t know where to find her. But by then the evidence against him was overwhelming so I don’t think this tale of a mystery
     woman was taken too seriously.’
    In the file this last-minute alibi had been mentioned as an afterthought and Wesley couldn’t even remember seeing Janet’s
     name. His only thought was that if Hobson hadn’t told the police about Janet’s involvement as soon as he was questioned because
     of love, he had been a complete fool.
    ‘At least I can put things right now,’ she said, smiling shyly.
    Wesley stood up. It’s a pity for Chris Hobson that you didn’t put things right twelve years ago, he thought to himself as
     he took a witness statement form from the drawer.
    Fred Sommerby didn’t cry as the nurse covered his wife’s face with the sheet. Fred had never cried. Crying was for women.
     He looked at the small shape beneath the sheet and felt no emotion: no sadness, no elation, no regret. Nothing.
    The nurse looked at him. She was plump with a kind face and she reminded him of a cow. Her eyes were full of sympathy – the
     smooth sympathy of the professional carer.She was asking him whether he would like a nice cup of tea. He stared at her, wanting to wipe the smug, dogooding smirk off
     her stupid face. He mumbled something that she took for a yes and she hurried away.
    He stared down at Edith’s body. She looked so small and insignificant. They’d taken all the tubes out, which was good. He
     hadn’t liked the tubes. They’d made her seem strange, inhuman – not like his Edith at all.
    The nurse returned with tea and ushered him into a side room with practised efficiency. The small room was carpeted and the
     low coffee table in the centre was covered with a selection of two-year-old editions of
Country Life
and last year’s Sunday supplements. Around the pale pink walls stood six institutional easy chairs, upholstered in light
     blue tweed. This was the room set aside for grieving relatives.
    The nurse announced that the doctor would be along in a moment to speak to him, as if this was some honour he should be looking
     forward to. Fred said nothing. There was nothing to say. Edith had gone. And he would mourn her in his own way. Not here in
     front of others.
    Fred ignored the magazines and sat staring ahead for ten minutes until Dr Choudray entered the room.
    ‘I’m very sorry about your wife,’ the doctor began, his face solemn. ‘We did all we could.’
    Fred stared at him and said nothing. He didn’t like Indian doctors … in his opinion there were far too many of them. He stood
     up. He had nothing to say and he wanted to get home,