‘She has a head wound certainly,’ Clement agreed cautiously. ‘She might have slipped and fallen and banged her head on the floor.’
‘But you don’t think so?’
Clement shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t like to make a guess – not without moving her head for a closer look, anyway. And I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
Trudy had a sudden thought. ‘Where’s Janet?’ But before Clement could respond, she turned and checked the living room – which was also empty – then ran upstairs. She was relieved to find that all the bedrooms and bathroom were also empty.
She came back downstairs. ‘Janet’s not here,’ she informed Clement.
Just then, Angela’s eyes fluttered opened. Clement saw at once that her pupils were distended, and that she looked vague and puzzled.
‘Janet?’ Angela said.
‘It’s Dr Ryder, Mrs Baines. Everything is all right, an ambulance is on the way. Don’t worry,’ Clement said in his best reassuring bedside manner. But he doubted that she heard him, let alone understood him, for there was no flicker of reaction on her face.
‘Janet,’ she said again. And then, quite clearly, she added, ‘Hit me …’
Trudy felt the shock go through her and glanced at Clement inquiringly. But already the coroner was shaking his head in warning.
‘I doubt she’s aware of what she’s saying,’ he said quietly.
‘It’s all David’s fault,’ Angela said next, with a huge sigh. ‘Why did she have his diary?’
At this, even Clement looked shaken. With a questioning look, Trudy sank to her knees by the injured woman, and said softly, ‘Where is the diary, Mrs Baines?’
Angela sighed and closed her eyes.
Patiently, Trudy and Clement kept watch. It could only have been a few minutes since she had phoned for an ambulance, but already it seemed an age. Clement, his fingers clasped around the stricken woman’s wrist, kept one eye on his watch.
‘Bedroom,’ Angela suddenly said, about a minute later.
Trudy, more because she couldn’t bear to continue to watch the woman’s shallow breathing, dreadfully anticipating the moment when it might stop altogether, got to her feet and went back upstairs.
It was easy to tell which of the two bedrooms belonged to Janet by simply checking the contents of the wardrobe. Then, unknowingly mimicking the actions of Angela Baines less than ten minutes ago, Trudy set about searching Janet’s wardrobe, then her chest of drawers, finding nothing that she wouldn’t expect in a young woman’s bedroom.
Would she really find the diary? And if she did … how had Janet come by it unless she had taken it from David Finch’s dead body? Of course, there might be another explanation, but at the very least, it certainly put Janet Baines firmly mixed up in things! And what must her poor mother have thought when she’d found it? Surely she too, must have wondered if her daughter was a murderess?
But so far there was no sign of the incriminating book. Perhaps Janet kept it with her? It wasn’t until she sat down at the vanity table and met her own troubled reflection in the oval mirror, that she noticed the fancy wooden box.
It had been placed hastily back onto the lace cloth runner where it must habitually have been kept, making the delicate material scrunch up untidily on itself. Since the rest of the table had been laid out very neatly and with precision – brushes, scent bottles and a little dish of potpourri – it caught her eye as being incongruous.
Trudy picked it up to examine it further and felt something push unexpectedly against her hand, almost dropping it in surprise.
She didn’t know it then, but Angela, in her haste, had failed to push the hidden drawer firmly enough back for it to catch on its locking mechanism. All that Trudy knew was that the bottom segment of the box had jerked open and was now revealing a hidden compartment.
She opened the drawer out, her eyes widening and her breath catching, as she saw the dark, leather-bound book inside. As she reached to retrieve it, the sudden sound of a siren, not far away, had her head shooting up. She stood and looked out of the window, seeing a blue flashing light appear at the far end of the village.
The ambulance!
Clutching the book in her hand she ran back down the stairs and out into the garden to the gate, waiting to guide the medical personnel to the kitchen.
Clement was relieved to see the attendants deal quickly with the woman. Although he was no longer able to practise medicine, he had been able to impress on the ambulance team the urgency of the situation, and his calm and knowledgeable précis of her suspected injuries were accepted with respect and relief. Probably both of them knew him by sight, for neither one questioned him, but simply accepted his orders with quiet efficiency.
As they watched the ambulance depart in a rush of speed and noise – not going unnoticed by Angela’s immediate neighbours – Trudy finally felt able to turn her attention to the journal in her hands.
‘I think I might have found David Finch’s journal,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to read it quickly, before DI Jennings arrives and takes over.’
Clement needed no second bidding and right there, in the doorway of the house, they began to read.
It was a detailed and careful account of everyone that David had talked to after Iris’s death, and his own thoughts and feelings, and independent researches, plus his thoughts on Iris and one particular piece of jewellery. All of which lead to his growing conviction that he knew who it was who must have murdered Iris, and culminated in the final sentence of the lined notepad.
Although I don’t want to believe it, it must have been RD
‘RD,’ Trudy breathed. ‘Ronnie Dewberry. His best friend.’ Trudy suddenly clutched Clement’s arm and looked at him with wide, frightened eyes.
‘Janet!’ she wailed. ‘Janet must be with him now! We’ve got to find her! You said once before
