Free The Mills of God by Deryn Lake Page A

you’d better wake up sharpish, sir. There’s been another murder.’
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜In Lakehurst. The cleaning lady went in early to get his breakfast and found him lying at the bottom of the stairs.’
    â€˜Who, Potter? For heaven’s sake who?’
    â€˜Oh, sorry sir. Gerrard Riddell, one of the people you were still going to interview.’
    â€˜Damn and blast,’ said Tennant violently. ‘All right, I’ll meet you outside in fifteen minutes. Have the mobile unit been informed?’
    â€˜They’re already at the scene.’
    Five minutes later, showered, shaved and suited, and looking remarkably smart despite the time in which he had had to get ready, Tennant dived into the car which Potter had brought almost to his front door.
    â€˜How can you be sure it wasn’t an accident?’ was his first question.
    â€˜We can’t, that’s the devil of it,’ Potter answered, ‘but it’s a helluva coincidence, wouldn’t you agree, sir?’
    â€˜Odd, to say the least. Step on it, Potter. I’m anxious to get a look at this one.’
    Pausing only briefly at the police mobile unit to get kitted up in the familiar protective clothing, Tennant and Potter made for West Street. Turning into it from the High Street, the inspector grimaced, seeing before him a narrow road and a lot of parked cars, presumably belonging to the people who lived in cottages and houses on the raised embankment which bordered it. He promptly sent two uniformed men to either end to turn motorists away. He looked up at the raised dwellings and turned to his sergeant.
    â€˜Which house is it?’
    â€˜That one there. April Cottage. It’s deceiving because it’s larger than it looks.’
    Tennant nodded and climbed the flight of stone steps that led to the residences above. The familiar tape was up and even though it was not yet eight o’clock a small crowd had already gathered beyond it. The inspector looked round for the vicar but thought that it must be a bit early for him.
    The front door, guarded outside by a constable, led directly into a living room with french doors which opened on to a neatly kept garden, still bright with autumn flowers. Tennant stepped outside and breathed in the sharp morning air. Running his eye over the plot which was quite large, going down to newly mown lawns, he noticed a gate in the fence at the bottom.
    â€˜Where does that go to?’ he asked Potter, who was hovering at his elbow.
    â€˜I’m not quite sure, sir, but I’ll get one of the boys to have a look.’
    â€˜Yes, please do so.’
    He turned back into the house and walked from the living room to an extremely chi-chi dining room, with silver candlesticks everywhere and masses of mirrors, many of which looked Georgian to Tennant’s fairly knowledgeable eye.
    Across a narrow passageway lay the kitchen and there, lying in a heap at the bottom of a spiral staircase, was the body. Tennant knelt down beside it and peered closely.
    There was a huge blow to the back of the head but whether this had been caused by falling or whether by some blunt instrument it was hard to say.
    â€˜What do you think, sir?’
    â€˜Um. I don’t know. Could have been an accident but somehow I don’t think so.’
    â€˜Shall we take a look upstairs?’
    â€˜Is there another way up?’
    Tennant, peering upwards, could see two forensic experts painstakingly going over the staircase, step by spiralling step.
    â€˜I don’t think so, sir.’
    â€˜Odd, having the only access to the bedrooms from the kitchen.’
    â€˜That’s old cottages for you,’ Potter answered brightly.
    Fifteen minutes later the police surgeon arrived to examine the body. He crouched down beside it and looked at the head, turned to the right partially revealing the expression on the late Gerrard Riddell’s face.
    â€˜Looks a sour old puss,