Free The Language of the Dead by Stephen Kelly Page A

to the job of finding the killer. I’ve arranged a twenty-pound reward for information leading to an arrest of a viable suspect, which should loosen tongues in the village.”
    He nodded at Lamb. “DCI Lamb will take the lead, seconded by DI Harry Rivers and DS Wallace.” Harding raised his hand in Rivers’s direction. “Rivers arrived yesterday from Warwickshire; he’ll be replacing DI Walters. I’ll leave it up to you to make introductions among yourselves.”
    Harding then yielded the floor to Lamb, who spent five minutes reviewing the particulars of the case.
    â€œAt the moment, Abbott is our best suspect, though we have nothing solid to connect him to the killing,” he said. “We expect to find his fingerprints on the pitchfork and the scythe both. He claims he tried to pull them out of Blackwell’s body after he and the niece found the body and the niece went into hysterics—a claim the niece confirmed last night.”
    He assigned Rivers to take charge of the canvassing of the village for statements and Wallace to take charge of the search of Blackwell’s cottage and a grid search of Manscome Hill. A mild look of surprise crossed Rivers’s face. He had expected Lamb to assign him to something unimportant—to keep him out of the way.
    They drove to Quimby in several cars—Rivers and his team of three constables in one; Sergeant Cashen and the remaining uniformedmen in the second and third cars; and Lamb, Wallace, and Larkin in Lamb’s temperamental Wolseley (which took only two tries to kick over, causing Lamb to wonder if he hadn’t made a mistake in not placing a bet that day).
    They rendezvoused in front of Blackwell’s cottage, where they found Harris awaiting them. Unlike on the previous night, no one seemed to be about; the village seemed to have shut itself up, as Lamb had feared it might.
    â€œHow is Miss Blackwell?” Lamb asked Harris.
    â€œShe’s gone off to her sewing job.”
    â€œHas she now?” The news surprised him.
    â€œNot the grieving type, then,” Rivers said.
    â€œWhat about Abbott?” Lamb asked.
    â€œHe doesn’t seem to be home, sir. He likes the ponies, so he might have gone down to Paulsgrove. He normally goes midweek.” It was Wednesday.
    â€œAlso not the grieving type, then,” Rivers said. “Neither of them seem too broken up over the old man’s death, despite what they said yesterday.”
    Lamb was thinking the same thing. He found it interesting that Abbott was a betting man and wondered how Abbott’s luck had been running recently. Also, Abbott had ignored his admonition of the previous night not to stray too far from the village.
    Harris removed from the pocket of his tunic a small, slender book with a red cover and black spine, which he offered to Lamb. “And I have this for you, sir—
Myths and Legends of the Supernatural in Hampshire
by Lord Jeffrey Pembroke.” The title was embossed in gold lettering. “It belongs to the wife. She has an interest in the supernatural, ghost stories and the like. She’s marked two stories she has an idea might be helpful.”
    Lamb glanced in the book and found two places marked with blotting paper. “Please tell your wife thank you,” he said.
    With that, they got down to work. As Rivers and Wallace deployed their teams, Lamb went to the rear of Blackwell’s cottage, intendingto inspect the toolshed he’d found the previous evening. He pushed open the door and stepped inside; the shed’s dark, musty interior was roughly eight feet long and six wide. It was nearly empty, which Lamb found strange. Dusty shafts of light filtered in through the irregularly spaced wall slats. A rusting shovel leaned against the right wall by the door, along with perhaps a dozen pieces of milled wood of various lengths. A wooden crate that appeared to be full of rags lay in the middle of the