Free Ghosts of Mayfield Court by Norman Russell Page A

been more than a mere fancy. A stalwart uniformed constable stood impassively on the doorstep, keeping guard. The sun reflected from the silver ‘C’ badges on his collar.
    Michael shouldered a passage for us through the crowd, and we made towards the door. The constable stepped forward, and held up his hand as though to bar our entry to the house.
    â€˜Are you family?’ he asked, and when Michael replied in the affirmative, he moved aside, and we entered the house.
    As soon as we stepped into the hall, Milsom came running along the kitchen passage towards us. Her usually placid face was ravaged with tears, and she was wringing her hands in anguish.
    â€˜Oh, Miss Catherine!’ she cried. ‘Your uncle’s dead – poisoned! That wicked woman – I wish I’d never let her into the house. She poisoned him! And it was such a lovely day!’
    She poisoned him…. I suddenly recalled poor Uncle’s words in the ruined garden, after he had rescued a packet of letters from destruction: ‘The harpy will be pleased – maybe she will take her claws out of me once I have given her that elusive deed!’
    I clung tightly to Michael’s arm. I was not surprised at the terrible news. My uncle had bade me farewell, as though he knew that he would not survive that day. Perhaps he had a premonition that the ‘harpy’ would be the death of him. For a fleeting moment I saw him in my mind’s eye, shaking his fist at the heavens while he burnt letters and papers on the bonfire in the garden ofMayfield Court. I, too, had had a strong premonition of impending disaster.
    â€˜What woman?’ I asked, and was surprised at how strong my voice sounded.
    â€˜The woman who came to tea, miss. She arrived not fifteen minutes after you and Mr Danvers had left for the theatre. She came in a private-hire carriage, and the driver came down from the box to open the door. Well, she was a recent widow, as far as I could make out, clothed entirely in black, and with a long mourning veil, which she didn’t lift. She – she looked like an angel of death.’
    â€˜What kind of woman was she, Mrs Milsom?’ asked Michael. ‘Did she say anything?’
    â€˜She spoke only to the carriage driver, telling him to wait for her. She was a lady, and I’d say she was about sixty years of age. I took her into the parlour, and poor Mr Paget rose to greet her. Then they both sat down to tea. I’d already brought the teapot in, and placed it on the table. And then I left. I came back again in less than half an hour, to see if they needed anything more, and found him – he was still alive, but gasping and shaking like a leaf. There was no sign of the woman. He looked at me, and there was terror in his eyes. And then he died! He gave a kind of muffled shriek, and fell back in his chair, dead—’
    The door of the parlour opened, and a tall man in the uniform of an inspector came out into the hall. He had a red face, a fleshy neck, and thick silvery hair, but his quiet, thoughtful voice belied his truculent appearance.
    â€˜Miss Paget?’ he said. ‘I’m very sorry to tell you that your uncle, Mr Max Paget, has been murdered. Your housekeeper found him dead, and sent for the local constable. Very commendable . I am Inspector Blade, of “C” Division, at Little Vine Street Police Station.’
    He turned to look at Michael.
    â€˜And you are, sir?’
    â€˜I am Michael Danvers, Miss Paget’s friend. I am a doctor at St Thomas’s Hospital.’
    â€˜St Thomas’s? Then perhaps you’ll know our divisional police surgeon, Dr Whitney? He’s in the parlour now, examining the body of the late unfortunate Mr Paget. I suggest you join him, sir. Meanwhile, Miss Paget, it would be a good idea if you took your housekeeper to some private room elsewhere, and listened to her story. I’ve already questioned her, and will ask for a