Free Lamb to the Slaughter by Aline Templeton

a lot of good things about the new young doctor; her mother was a great fan and this certainly confirmed her belief in Janet’s good judgement. ‘I’m glad that’s the way you see it,’ she said warmly.
    They walked on up the drive to the house. Fleming had never been to Fauldburn before and she looked now at the frontage of the pleasant, sprawling family house, built of grey sandstone and softened by a Virginia creeper which was starting to take on its fiery autumn colours.
    There was a lot of activity, with uniformed officers now marking off the area with blue and white tape. She nodded to the sergeant in charge, but she was startled to see, lying on the gravel, two bunches of flowers, white chrysanthemums and lilies.
    ‘A bit premature for that sort of thing,’ she said sharply, then, raising her voice, ‘What’s going on here? Has no one sealed the site?’
    A uniformed constable hurried forward, a clipboard in his hand. ‘Just going down to do that, ma’am.’
    She took it from him. ‘Who else have you logged?’ The sheet was blank. ‘Not good enough, constable. I can see at least five officers, the doctor and myself. And where did the flowers come from? I take it this wasn’t a little floral tribute you picked up on the way here?’ She handed back the clipboard.
    The young man flushed to the tips of his rather prominent ears. ‘Sorry, ma’am. The flowers were there when we arrived.’
    ‘I see. Well, record those names now, get yourself to the end of the drive and see to it that there are no unauthorised visitors to the site.’ She turned away, and then on an afterthought turned back. ‘And that includes DS MacNee, if he appears. He’s on sick leave at the moment so he has to be treated as a civilian.’
    Rutherford had been waiting a short distance away. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said as she rejoined him.
    ‘Not at all,’ he responded politely, but she thought he was eying her a little warily. It was always hard for civilians to understand that in running an operation, sweetness and light didn’t feature.
    ‘How much can you tell me?’ she asked, walking over to where Andrew Carmichael’s body lay. It was the first time she had been confronted with a murder victim she had known in life and she hoped she would be able to view it with professional impassivity. She hadn’t known him well, but she’d had the impression of a decent man, very much of his age and class. He’d served as a Justice of the Peace for a time too, with a reputation for being firm and fair, if a little too inclined to believe a sob story.
    Carmichael’s blank face, skin waxy in death and eyes fixed in an empty stare, gave no indication of the violence that had torn the gaping hole in the breast pocket of his blazer, displaying torn and bloody flesh. His head was resting on the floor of the vestibule, its blue, yellow and red encaustic tiles and a brilliantly polished brass door-sill seeming incongruously cheerful, like an ill-judged stage-set.
    Fleming had often thought that death scenes looked unreal and it was a relief to find that she could feel the same sense of detachment about this one, as she listened to what the doctor was telling her.
    It was the first time he had attended at a murder scene; he was tentative and, Fleming thought, a little shaken by the experience. In any case, the police doctor’s examination was a cursory one, though it would be interesting to know what his impressions were.
    ‘I want to stress that I’m no expert,’ Rutherford said earnestly. ‘Anything I can say would be guesswork more than anything.’
    ‘Believe me, detectives understand all about guesswork. Carry on.’
    ‘From the face, I’d say he didn’t know what hit him. No time to register pain, or surprise, even. Opens the door, then bang! A full-on shot, and he dropped where he was standing. From a shotgun, obviously.’ He pointed to the filigree of holes in the blazer and shirt which indicated the scatter of