Free After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) by Dolores Gordon-Smith

it’s my day off, and a trip to the country with friends sounds just the ticket. Thanks, Jack. I thought I could rely on you.’
    Jack parked the Spyker beside the Brown Cow in the middle of the village. It was a pleasant spot, with a bench in the shelter of a shady oak tree. The post office and a parade of shops stood across the square and, behind them, a wide grassy bank led down to where a stream, nearly wide enough to be a river, gurgled against the piles of a stone bridge.
    ‘The car should be safe enough here,’ said Jack, climbing out and offering his hand to Betty. ‘Is it far to Signora Bianchi’s cottage?’
    ‘About half a mile or so, but there’s nowhere closer to park.’
    Beech View Cottage was much as Jack had imagined it from Betty Wingate’s description. It was a small, brick-built Victorian building with a slate roof, a black-painted wooden porch and a small, flower-edged lawn in front. It was attractive enough in a homely sort of way, but certainly not a likely place to find the sophisticated sort of woman Betty had described Signora Bianchi as, living or dead.
    The cottage stood by itself, its nearest neighbours two or three hundred yards up the road on the corner of Bridge Street. The name of the cottage faithfully represented the surrounding countryside. There were plenty of beech trees and, for that matter, lots of other types of trees to view. There were trees behind the house, trees across the narrow road and a line of trees running along the edge of the fields which bordered Greymare Lane.
    It was a delightful place on this sun-filled afternoon, but Jack could imagine it having a very different atmosphere by the light of a scudding moon, with the wind soughing through the branches.
    Bill looked up and down the road and frowned in disapproval. ‘This was a pretty isolated place for you to find yourself in, Miss Wingate.’
    ‘I know,’ she said with a shudder. ‘I don’t mind admitting, I got thoroughly rattled.’
    ‘Let’s take a closer look,’ said Jack, opening the gate and walking down the path. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anyone in, but you never know your luck.’
    Rather to his surprise, his knock was answered. A grey-haired woman wearing a wrap-around apron and holding a duster came to the door. She must be Mrs Hatton, the daily.
    ‘Good afternoon,’ said Jack, raising his hat. ‘We were hoping to see Signora Bianchi.’
    ‘She’s away for a few days, sir. I’m not sure when she’ll be back, I’m sure.’ Mrs Hatton looked up and nodded in recognition at Betty. ‘Hello, Miss. Did you get your bag back? Bert Shaw told me as how it was yours. I couldn’t think how it came to be in the parlour, but Bert told me some tale about how you’d been in the house. How the door came to be unlocked I don’t know, because I’m always careful to make sure everything’s fast before I go.’
    Jack glanced to the side of the porch where there was a large flower-pot holding a straggly yellow azalea. There was a rim of earth where it had been moved. ‘You don’t leave the key under the mat, by any chance? Or under the flower-pot?’
    Mrs Hatton drew back. ‘Now how did you know about that flower-pot? It’s true, as sure as I’m stood here.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You haven’t been watching me, have you?’
    ‘No, of course not,’ Jack reassured her. ‘It’s just that I’ve got an aunt who lives in the country and she always leaves a key under a flower-pot.’ That wasn’t strictly true but it placated Mrs Hatton. ‘And if I could guess where the key’s kept, maybe someone else could guess as well.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ said Mrs Hatton doubtfully, ‘although who would be wanting to break in, I don’t know, without it being one of those nasty tramps we get. It’s been dreadful since the war, with tramps looking for what they can scrounge, but I’m sure no one like that’s been in this cottage. I’d have noticed if anything was missing. Bert Shaw asked me if