Free When the Devil Drives by Caro Peacock Page A

she went up the afternoon before and the attendant, Mr Jenkins, failed to check before he locked up for the night. He insists that he did and that furthermore, if she had gone up in the afternoon, he’d have seen her and taken her entrance fee. He didn’t.’
    â€˜Did they believe him?’
    â€˜On the whole, yes. Some of the jury were sceptical, but the coroner knows Mr Jenkins quite well.’
    â€˜And the entrance is locked at night?’ I said.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜So did they decide how she got up there?’
    â€˜No. Mr Jenkins’ theory is that somebody must have borrowed the key and had it copied.’
    â€˜And then gave it to a young woman so that she could throw herself off? That’s nonsense surely.’
    â€˜Nobody seemed impressed with the theory, but nobody produced any other.’
    â€˜What was the verdict?’
    â€˜That Janet Priest destroyed herself while labouring under temporary insanity.’
    The usual kind verdict, meant to spare the feelings of relatives. I finished my coffee.
    â€˜Did anybody ask why Miss Priest’s hair was wet?’ I said.
    â€˜What?’
    Jimmy had been staring into the fire. He turned to me, surprised.
    â€˜I was at the Monument yesterday afternoon,’ I said. ‘A policeman who’d seen her soon after the body was discovered said her hair was soaking wet. It hadn’t rained that night or morning.’
    â€˜No, a workman gave evidence about finding the body and so did a policeman, but neither mentioned her hair.’
    â€˜I suppose he thought it wasn’t relevant to anything. And by the time the sister saw the body, her hair would have dried. Strange though.’
    â€˜Very strange.’ He was staring at me, reporter’s instincts aroused. ‘Another strange thing.’
    â€˜Another?’
    â€˜Yes, there was the question of a ring. Did your policeman say anything about that?’
    â€˜Yes. He said she had a ring on her wedding finger. I think he described it as funny looking.’
    â€˜Miss Priest wasn’t married,’ Jimmy said. ‘The sister and the older woman were quite sure there was nobody even in prospect. The coroner and the jury gave some time to that and had to conclude that it was another of those inexplicable things.’
    â€˜So why should she wash her hair and put a ring on her wedding finger?’
    â€˜If she put it on her finger.’ He was being provoking now, trying to lead me on.
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜The surgeon was a thorough man. He said there were abrasions on her knuckle. The ring was too small for her finger and it looked as if it had been forced on quite roughly.’
    â€˜By somebody else?’
    â€˜How could they tell? It’s possible, after all, that she was so desperate to have it on her finger that she forced it on herself.’
    â€˜Why should she be desperate about that? I’m surprised that they brought in a verdict of self-destruction. There are too many things not explained,’ I said.
    â€˜Yes, but where was the evidence for anything else?’
    We discussed it for a while, but it was no case of mine, after all. When we left, Jimmy insisted on paying for our coffee. He’d never accept money from me for his help. Once, as a thank-you, I’d been allowed to buy him an edition of Martial he’d coveted. That was all. He also insisted on walking me to the stop for the Piccadilly omnibus and seeing me on board.
    â€˜I’ll let you know if I hear anything of your fair-haired lady,’ he said.
    Much though I liked to solve my cases, I hoped not. If Jimmy Cuffs had news of Miss Tilbury, it would be from a mortuary. Miss Priest had thrown such a gloom on my spirits that I did not want to contemplate another death.

FIVE
    T he contessa’s white forehead was creased in doubt so deep that it looked painful. Her tongue tip, bright and plump as a strawberry, was clamped between pearly