Free Murder on the Hour by Elizabeth J. Duncan Page A

room would suit me, and that’s when I, well, you know the rest.”
    â€œActually,” said Mrs. Lloyd, leaning forward with an ingratiating smile, “we don’t know the rest but we’d love to hear about it, if you’re up to telling us, that is. Wouldn’t we, Florence? Now I’ve had an idea. What if you told us everything you can remember and Florence here writes it all down, and when the police come, you’ll have already done it, so you won’t have to go through it all again with them?”
    Jean looked confused.
    â€œOh, I don’t know about that, Evelyn,” said Florence. “We are not trained interviewers and I’m sure the police would want to ask their own questions.”
    â€œWell, maybe so,” snapped Mrs. Lloyd, “but at least it would be a start. And Jean here can tell us what she saw before she forgets anything.”
    â€œOh, I don’t think that’s very likely,” said Jean. “I keep going over everything in my mind. I can’t stop thinking about it.” She scrubbed at her eyes with clenched fists. “In fact, I wish I could erase what I saw from my memory.”
    â€œIf it would help you to talk about it, you’ll find me a very good listener,” encouraged Mrs. Lloyd, with a sympathetic smile.
    â€œBut if you’d rather not talk about it, that’s all right, too, of course,” said Florence.
    â€œWell, the buses being what they are, I arrived at the house a few minutes late and I hoped that wouldn’t give a bad impression to the lady,” said Jean. “In fact, I saw you,” she looked from one to the other, “walking down the street just as I arrived. You must have just passed the house. And when I went to knock on the door, I was rather surprised it wasn’t closed properly. So I thought, well, she’s expecting me, so she’s left it open for me, so I pushed it open and went in.”
    â€œThat’s an important clue,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Write that down, Florence. The door was slightly open so she went in.”
    â€œI never agreed to write anything down,” muttered Florence, pretending to reach for her little notebook.
    â€œGo on,” said Mrs. Lloyd eagerly. “The door was open slightly, so you went in. And then you probably called out, ‘Hello? Is anybody home?’”
    â€œI don’t think you’re supposed to tell the witness what she probably did,” Florence said to Mrs. Lloyd. “It’s called ‘leading’ the witness, I believe.”
    Mrs. Lloyd shot her a dark look with an accompanying little noise of disapproval and then turned back to Jean.
    â€œGo on,” she repeated. “Tell us what happened next. After you called out, ‘Hello? Is anybody home?’”
    Jean let out a little howl and her shoulders began to shake. She covered her eyes with her hands as if trying to block out the image of what she had seen.
    â€œShe was lying on the floor in the sitting room. I’m pretty sure she’d been hit with something. Her head…” Jean raised her right hand to the side of her head. “Just here. It was covered in blood. I’d never seen anything like it. It’s like something you see on telly but never expect to experience in real life.”
    Mrs. Lloyd nodded wisely. “Was the room disturbed in any way?” she asked. “Lamps knocked over, that sort of thing?”
    â€œNo,” said Jean slowly. “I don’t think it was.” She took a sip of tea, savoured it for a moment, and then drained the cup. “Oh, that’s such good tea,” she said. “I didn’t realize how much I needed that.”
    â€œVery restorative,” agreed Mrs. Lloyd.
    *   *   *
    Recently promoted Detective Inspector Bethan Morgan slowly descended the stairs in Catrin’s home. When she reached the bottom, she waited in the small