Free Cover Her Face by P. D. James

was set at right-angles to the smaller window and had a chair on one side and a bedside table with a lamp on the other. The child’s cot was in the opposite corner half-hidden by a screen. It was the kind of screen which Dalgliesh remembered from his own childhood, composed of dozens of coloured pictures and postcards stuck in a pattern and glazed over. There were a rug before the fireplace and a low nursing chair. Against the wall were a plain wardrobe and a chest of drawers.
    There was a curious anonymity about the room. It had the intimate fecund atmosphere of almost any nursery compounded of the faint smell of talcum powder, baby-soap and warmly aired clothes. But the girl herself had impressed little of her personality on her surroundings. There was none of the feminine clutter which he had half expected. Her fewpersonal belongings were carefully arranged but they were uncommunicative. Primarily it was just a child’s nursery with a plain bed for his mother. The few books on the shelves were popular works on baby care. The half-dozen magazines were those devoted to the interests of mothers and housewives rather than to the more romanticized and varied concerns of young working women. He picked one from the shelf and flicked through it. From its pages dropped an envelope bearing a Venezuelan stamp. It was addressed to:
    D. Pullen, Esq., Rose Cottage, Nessingford-road, Little Chadfleet, Essex, England.
    On the reverse were three dates scribbled in pencil—18th, 23rd, 30th.
    Prowling from the bookshelf to the chest of drawers, Dalgliesh pulled out each drawer and systematically turned over its contents with practised fingers. They were in perfect order. The top drawer held only baby clothes. Most of them were hand-knitted, all were well washed and cared for. The second was full of the girl’s own underclothes, arranged in neat piles. It was the third and bottom drawer which held the surprise.
    “What do you make of this?” he called to Martin. The sergeant moved to his chief’s side with a silent swiftness which was disconcerting in one of his build. He lifted one of the garments in his massive fist.
    “Hand-made by the look of it, sir. Must have embroidered it herself, I suppose. There’s almost a drawer full. It looks like a trousseau to me.”
    “I think that’s what it is all right. And not only clothes too. Table-cloths, hand-towels, cushion covers.” He turned them over as he spoke. “It’s rather a pathetic little dowry, Martin. Months of devoted work pressed away in lavender bags and tissue paper. Poor little devil. Do you suppose this was for thedelight of Stephen Maxie? I can hardly picture these coy tray-cloths being used at Martingale.”
    Martin picked one up and examined it appreciatively. “She can’t have had him in mind when she did this. He only proposed yesterday according to the Super and she must have been working on this for months. My mother used to do this kind of work. You buttonhole round the pattern and then cut out the middle bits. Richelieu or something they call it. Pretty effect it gives—if you like that sort of thing,” he added in deference to his Chief’s obvious lack of enthusiasm. He ruminated over the embroidery in nostalgic approval before yielding it up for replacement in the drawer.
    Dalgliesh moved over to the oriel window. The wide window-ledge was about three feet high. It was scattered now with the bright glass fragments of a collection of miniature animals. A penguin lay wingless on its side and a brittle dachshund had snapped in two. One Siamese cat, startlingly blue of eye, was the sole survivor among the splintered holocaust.
    The two largest and middle sections of the window opened outwards with a latch and the stack-pipe, skirting a similar window about six feet below, ran directly to the paved terrace beneath. It would hardly be a difficult descent for anyone reasonably agile. Even the climb up would be possible. He noticed again how safe from unwanted