An Air That Kills by Andrew Taylor Page A

envelope and shook a tarnished brooch on to the palm of his hand. He passed it to Charlotte.
    â€˜No need to worry about fingerprints, I suppose,’ she said with a smile.
    Jill handed the book back to Thornhill. He took it from her without meeting her eyes. She disliked men who would not look her in the face.
    Charlotte passed the brooch to Jill, who turned it over in her hands. The hallmark on the back looked perfectly clear. With a little cleaning and a magnifying glass, it should be legible. She thought she could make out an anchor, which meant the piece had been assayed in Birmingham; but the inspector would be able to find out that sort of thing himself. He must be sick of members of the public offering him help he didn’t need.
    She turned the brooch over again. Her throat tightened. A true love’s knot. There was no knot that couldn’t be undone – or if you couldn’t undo it, you could cut it or burn it or simply let it rot. She put the brooch on the arm of Philip’s chair, turned towards the fire and pretended to warm her hands. The manoeuvre prevented the others from seeing her face.
    â€˜Ah, well,’ Charlotte was saying. ‘No doubt the obvious explanation is also the correct one. Some poor unfortunate servant girl. A stillborn child – we must hope it was stillborn, in any case. Desperate to conceal her shame. Of course, in those days the line between right and wrong was very clearly drawn. If people do these things, then they must expect to have to pay the price.’
    Jill stared at the flames. What do you mean – do these things ? she wanted to say. Fornicate? You stupid woman, you don’t really believe that the wages of sin should be death? And what about the man, for God’s sake? What price did he have to pay?
    â€˜And mark you, there was a lot to be said for making it quite clear where people stood. None of this shilly-shallying we get today. Making excuses. Some things you can’t excuse and that’s the end of it.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Thornhill said. He busied himself with returning the brooch and the piece of newspaper to their envelopes. ‘You’ve been very kind.’
    â€˜And what happens now, Inspector?’ Charlotte asked.
    â€˜I’m not sure. I shall have to talk about this with the superintendent.’
    â€˜Mr Williamson?’
    Thornhill nodded. ‘In case we do take this further, is there anyone else you would advise me to talk to about the history of the Rose in Hand? It’s not that long ago, is it? There must be records and so on.’
    â€˜You need to have a word with John Harcutt. He probably knows more about nineteenth-century Lydmouth than anyone else.’
    Thornhill put the envelopes in his pocket and took out a notebook. ‘Harcutt? Could you give me his address please?’
    â€˜He lives in Edge Hill, Inspector. It’s that big white house on the main road – opposite the church. Chandos Lodge.’
    Thornhill stood up. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’
    He said goodbye. Philip got up to show him out. As the door closed behind the two men, Charlotte reached for her cigarette case.
    â€˜Seemed quite pleasant, I thought,’ she murmured.
    â€˜I thought he looked a bit like a schoolmaster.’
    â€˜I suppose these days you need a certain amount of education to become a detective inspector. Quite a good-looking man, too. I wonder if he’s married.’
    They heard the thud of the front door closing.
    â€˜Someone sewed those patches on his jacket.’
    â€˜Yes, dear, but that might have been his mother, or a sister or something.’
    â€˜I still think he’s married,’ Jill said. ‘He looks that sort of man.’

Chapter Six
    Victoria Road sloped gently up to the park and the cemetery. It was considered to be one of the better residential addresses in Lydmouth. It was also one of the more expensive. Edith Thornhill had cajoled her