Free Death Line by Geraldine Evans, Kimberly Hitchens, Rickhardt Capidamonte Page A

Rafferty nodded. “The killer didn't bring the murder weapon with him. Astell told us it belonged to Moon and that it usually sat on his desk.” He was silent for a moment, contemplating the rest of the cleaner's statement. “Mrs Hadleigh implied Henderson was worked up about something, as if he was...”
    “She said he seemed nervous,” Llewellyn corrected. “That could mean anything. Perhaps only that he was consulting Moon about some pressing personal problem. Confiding in a third party would be enough to agitate most people. At the moment, he's merely one possibility,” he reminded Rafferty. “Perhaps, when we find out Moon's previous identity, we'll discover many more.”
    Llewellyn was right, of course, and Rafferty told himself to slow down. As usual, he was rushing ahead of the game. He often wished he had Llewellyn's calm, rational approach to crime. The logical, Holmesian process of deduction might – jokingly – have been claimed by Sam Dally, but Dafyd Llewellyn was the true practitioner of the art. Rafferty had never been able to work that way and doubted he ever would. He put it down to his genes, inherited from generations of hot-headed, impulsive Irishmen. When he saw a clue – even when he only thought he saw a clue – he wanted to be up and at it, clutching at it and the straws that came with it. He knew it was inefficient, but it was the way he functioned. And it seemed to work most of the time – eventually.
    He smiled ruefully at his sergeant and decided to show him that he could go about things in a logical manner. “It strikes me that the quickest way to find out if this Henderson was a client is to ask Astell.” Llewellyn picked up the phone, but Rafferty waved it away. “No. Let's pay a visit. I want to speak to Mrs Astell, anyway. There are a number of points I want to check.”
    The Astells lived in some style. Of course, Ellen Hadleigh had mentioned that Mrs Astell was well off, Rafferty remembered, so Astell presumably wasn't dependant on the business for income, which, from what he had said, was fortunate in the circumstances.
    The house was on two floors and detached. Mid Nineteenth century, according to Rafferty's knowledgeable guess, it stood in its own small grounds and while not by any means ostentatious, it was one of those irregularly-built old houses which incorporated bay windows, a gabled porch, steeply-pitched roofs and tall chimney stacks, which together gave the house a picturesque charm.
    Ellen Hadleigh opened the door. After his initial surprise at seeing her there, Rafferty remembered Astell had told them she cleaned for them. He explained that they wanted to speak to Astell and she stood back, gesturing for them to enter the square hall. “He's not here at the moment,” she told them. “I don't think he'll be long, though, if you want to wait.”
    The hall was lined with photographs, and Rafferty remembered that Astell's late father-in-law had been a well-known Society photographer. He recognised a lot of the faces; many of them were still featured in the gossip columns today. “Maybe we could have a word with Mrs Astell while we wait?” Rafferty suggested. He felt sure, that being female, Mrs Astell might have some interesting insights into the victim. Besides, he needed to get her statement.
    Mrs Hadleigh frowned. “She's lying down at the moment. She doesn't usually see visitors.”
    Rafferty forbore from remarking that they were scarcely visitors in the accepted sense. “We won't keep her long, tell her. Mr Astell mentioned that his wife's a semi-invalid. Some kind of nervous ailment, I gather?”
    “Too much time to think and not enough to do.” Bluntly, Ellen Hadleigh gave them her opinion. “And I don't think all those pills help any. A little job would do her more good, get her out and about, seeing people. It's not as if she's got anything physically wrong with her, yet she's become worse rather than better since she had Victoria five years ago.