Edward took a while to read theletter. Edith watched as his eyes darted around the page, his mindseeming to re-read and question its content.
‘What do you think?’ Edith asked, tryingto keep her tone as neutral as possible.
Edward met her eyes, his own filled withtears. ‘It’s not from Mary,’ he said.
‘It’s her handwriting,’ Edith insisted.
‘But it’s not from her. Doyou believe it’s her?’ he asked, his eyes searching her face to understand herthinking. He didn’t wait for a response but continued with hiscase. ‘I’m telling you, Edie, there’s no way she—’
‘I know,’ Edith interposed. ‘There’sno way she would write a letter like that. There’s no way she would havetaken off like that. And there’s no way she wouldn’t have told oneof us at least.’
Edward seemed to calm a little uponhearing that he and Edith were allied in their thinking. ‘Now what do wedo?’
Edith shrugged. She had no idea whatto do next.
LadyRothborne watched from the east window as a black coach drew up at the backentrance to the house. From the carriage, Mr Risler, the butler steppedout with his case. Lady Rothborne took a moment to savour the fact thathe had returned from Scotland alone: her despicable nephew, Frederick, hadthankfully not returned.
A quiet knock came from her bedroomdoor. She recognised the light tapping as belonging to her lady’s maid,Miss Herriot. ‘Enter,’ she bellowed.
‘Your coffee is ready in the library, LadyRothborne,’ Miss Herriot said from the doorway.
‘Very good, Miss Herriot. Thankyou. Could you have Mr Risler visit me there, please?’
‘Yes, Lady Rothborne,’ Miss Herriot said,deferentially backing from the room.
Lady Rothborne smiled. FrederickMansfield will not be getting his way.
Chapter Seventeen
Mortonwas exhausted and no amount of caffeine could counteract it. He wasslumped at one end of the sofa cradling a large cup of coffee, resting his legson Juliette, who was sitting at the opposite end. His mind was stillrerunning the events of last night. Over and over. It had beentruly awful. Upon discovering Douglas Catt’s dead body in the church,Morton had dialled 999 and waited on the phone to an operator until the firstpolice car had arrived. Only then had he dared to turn his car around andventure back to the church. Inside the safe confines of their police car,the first officers on scene had taken his basic details, then referred him tothe ambulance crew who had turned up tasked with removing the body. Aftera few checks, he had been released, apparently not suffering from shock orinjury. When he had stepped out of the ambulance it was as though he had entereda wormhole and exited from a place different to that which he hadentered. Police tape had criss-crossed each of the entry gates to thechurch, guarded by policemen and policewomen to keep out a surprisingly largecrowd of chattering curious locals. Three white forensics tents hadsprung up just in front of the church entrance and between them moved anassortment of personnel in protective white suits and plastic blueshoe-covers. Two further police cars had also emptied their staff intothe medley. Morton had been fairly sure that sleepy Winchelsea had notseen anything like this in quite a while.
Morton had looked bewildered standing atthe rear of the ambulance, surveying the scene before him. He hadn’treally had time to process what had happened. Douglas Catt wasdead. Could it have been suicide? he wondered. Was hisdeath something to do with the Mercer Case? In his heart, Mortonthought that it probably was.
‘Morton Farrier?’ a voice had asked,suddenly cutting through the darkness.
‘Yes,’ Morton had answered, struggling tomake out the face behind the voice.
‘Detective Inspector Harding,’ he hadsaid. He was a tall serious man in plain clothes with a scowl on hisface. ‘I need to ask you a few questions.’
Morton had nodded. As the person whohad found the body, Morton knew that he would face a barrage ofquestions. He had also known that, unless it was suicide, for the momentat least he was likely to be the number one suspect.
Detective Inspector Harding had led Mortonthrough a throng of police personnel into the churchyard. Finding a spotaway from the prying ears and eyes of the crowd, and with just sufficient lightfrom one of the huge floodlights, he had begun his questioning, all the whilemaintaining a disbelieving scowl on his face.
Morton had answered the questions as besthe could and even volunteered all that had gone on with Douglas during thecourse of the Mercer Case.
‘So this guy has been taking pictures ofyou and your girlfriend? Threatening you? Then you get a message tomeet here and he ends up dead. That all sounds a little strange, wouldn’tyou say?’ His frown had at last disappeared and turned into asmile. But it was a fake smile, one which had spoken volumes of hisdisbelief.
‘Is there any way it could have been suicide?’Morton had asked.
Detective Inspector Harding hadlaughed. It was a full, belly laugh that was so loud that two nearbypolicewomen turned to see the cause of the hilarity. ‘Only if he was a veryclever man who could defy the laws of physics.’
‘Okay, just a thought,’ Morton hadreplied, feeling somewhat sheepish.
Detective Inspector Harding had ended thequestioning by telling him that they might need to speak to him again as theinvestigation progressed.
‘You’re lucky they didn’t lock you up lastnight,’ Juliette mused, jolting Morton back to the present. ‘Youralibi—me—only lasts until a few moments before Douglas was murdered. You couldbe the person who killed him.’
Morton pulled an incredulous face. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘I’m just saying, you were there atthe time of the murder and you’ve got motive—the guy threatened you andyour occasionally stunning girlfriend—just not stunning in the pictures that hetook.’
‘I don’t rule out being framed for it,’Morton answered. He was acutely aware that what they talked abouthalf-heartedly was actually a possibility. ‘That’s not my biggest worry,though…’
Juliette looked at him and waited for himto continue.
‘I think I should have been the onecarried off in the body bag last night—not Douglas.’
Juliette nodded slowly as if processingthe information, but Morton knew that Juliette would have already reached thatconclusion herself long ago. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because whoever sent that
