Ten Guilty Men (A DCI Morton Crime Novel Book 3) by Sean Campbell, Daniel Campbell
Authors: Sean Campbell, Daniel Campbell
Ads: Link
afternoon. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Morton, and this is Detective Inspector Ayala. We’re here to see the Lord of the Manor.’
The old man frowned, as if trying to work out if he had forgotten an appointment.
‘Is he expecting you?’ he asked.
‘We don’t have an appointment. Would you be kind enough to phone up and ask if he might be able to see us?’
The old man limped off, and Morton watched him return to the guard hut. He spoke animatedly on the telephone. When he’d finished, he hit a switch which opened the main gate.
‘Straight up the driveway. The main house is about a mile down. You’ll be met at the front door. And mind the daffodils. Someone’s already run over one of the beds this year, and his Lordship wasn’t best pleased.’
Morton nodded. The drive was lined with oak trees whose branches entwined overhead, causing dappled light to splay across the gravel driveway. It really was quite pretty, and made a pleasant change from the drab grey of inner-city London.
About halfway down the road, Morton passed an access road going off into the woods. Eventually the drive ended in a great circle that stopped in front of an enormous oak door guarded by a pair of stone gargoyles stationed either side. The Manor was a grade one listed building with stone parapets that loomed overhead. According to Morton’s research, the Manor was the site of a minor skirmish during the War of the Roses. He imagined archers lining up at the narrow windows to rain death down upon those assaulting the Manor.
Just as the guard had promised, a man waited for them on the front steps. He was a short, grey-haired man who had to be at least sixty.
‘Lord Culloden, I presume?’ Morton said.
‘His Lordship is not at home at present. I am merely the butler. Lady Culloden asked me to see you through to the living room, if you’d care to follow me.’
He swept through the doorway with Morton and Ayala trailing in his wake. They strode briskly along the hall and into a sitting room blessed with a double-height ceiling and enormous bay windows opening out onto the rear of the property. The gardens were as grandiose at the back as they were at the front. A gardener perched on top of a stepladder dangling over a hedgerow. He hoisted a pair of hedge trimmers that looked like they could decapitate a man. As Morton watched, he struck the hedge quickly and several branches fell to the ground leaving behind a level top. There was something to be said for working outdoors, especially in the springtime.
A floorboard creaking snapped Morton out of his reverie, and he turned to see a young lady enter. Morton glanced at Ayala, who flashed a cheeky grin. If this was Mrs Culloden then Mr Culloden was surely the luckiest pensioner on the planet.
‘Lady Culloden?’ Morton said.
‘Indeed. I am she.’
‘You’re Lord Culloden’s wife?’
‘Correct. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘We were hoping to speak with your husband.’
‘That, my dear, was readily apparent. However he is not here, as you can plainly see. Perhaps I can assist you?’
‘This is a matter of some delicacy, My Lady–’
‘Please, call me Harriet. Lady Culloden makes me sound like an elderly lady who lives in a great big house with a dozen cats, and I hate cats.’
‘At least you’ve got the big house,’ Ayala said.
‘Quite.’ Harriet turned up her nose at Ayala and sniffed.
Morton continued gingerly: ‘As I was saying, we’d like to talk to your husband about a party he attended in Richmond on the night of Saturday the 30th March.’
‘The 30th of March you say? This year? There must be some mistake. We were in Venice for the weekend. I can send Grant to fetch our plane tickets if you so wish.’
‘That would be helpful.’
Harriet picked up a small glass bell from a side table that Morton hadn’t previously noticed, and rang it once. A high-pitched ring echoed throughout the room and the man who had greeted Morton and Ayala at the
The old man frowned, as if trying to work out if he had forgotten an appointment.
‘Is he expecting you?’ he asked.
‘We don’t have an appointment. Would you be kind enough to phone up and ask if he might be able to see us?’
The old man limped off, and Morton watched him return to the guard hut. He spoke animatedly on the telephone. When he’d finished, he hit a switch which opened the main gate.
‘Straight up the driveway. The main house is about a mile down. You’ll be met at the front door. And mind the daffodils. Someone’s already run over one of the beds this year, and his Lordship wasn’t best pleased.’
Morton nodded. The drive was lined with oak trees whose branches entwined overhead, causing dappled light to splay across the gravel driveway. It really was quite pretty, and made a pleasant change from the drab grey of inner-city London.
About halfway down the road, Morton passed an access road going off into the woods. Eventually the drive ended in a great circle that stopped in front of an enormous oak door guarded by a pair of stone gargoyles stationed either side. The Manor was a grade one listed building with stone parapets that loomed overhead. According to Morton’s research, the Manor was the site of a minor skirmish during the War of the Roses. He imagined archers lining up at the narrow windows to rain death down upon those assaulting the Manor.
Just as the guard had promised, a man waited for them on the front steps. He was a short, grey-haired man who had to be at least sixty.
‘Lord Culloden, I presume?’ Morton said.
‘His Lordship is not at home at present. I am merely the butler. Lady Culloden asked me to see you through to the living room, if you’d care to follow me.’
He swept through the doorway with Morton and Ayala trailing in his wake. They strode briskly along the hall and into a sitting room blessed with a double-height ceiling and enormous bay windows opening out onto the rear of the property. The gardens were as grandiose at the back as they were at the front. A gardener perched on top of a stepladder dangling over a hedgerow. He hoisted a pair of hedge trimmers that looked like they could decapitate a man. As Morton watched, he struck the hedge quickly and several branches fell to the ground leaving behind a level top. There was something to be said for working outdoors, especially in the springtime.
A floorboard creaking snapped Morton out of his reverie, and he turned to see a young lady enter. Morton glanced at Ayala, who flashed a cheeky grin. If this was Mrs Culloden then Mr Culloden was surely the luckiest pensioner on the planet.
‘Lady Culloden?’ Morton said.
‘Indeed. I am she.’
‘You’re Lord Culloden’s wife?’
‘Correct. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘We were hoping to speak with your husband.’
‘That, my dear, was readily apparent. However he is not here, as you can plainly see. Perhaps I can assist you?’
‘This is a matter of some delicacy, My Lady–’
‘Please, call me Harriet. Lady Culloden makes me sound like an elderly lady who lives in a great big house with a dozen cats, and I hate cats.’
‘At least you’ve got the big house,’ Ayala said.
‘Quite.’ Harriet turned up her nose at Ayala and sniffed.
Morton continued gingerly: ‘As I was saying, we’d like to talk to your husband about a party he attended in Richmond on the night of Saturday the 30th March.’
‘The 30th of March you say? This year? There must be some mistake. We were in Venice for the weekend. I can send Grant to fetch our plane tickets if you so wish.’
‘That would be helpful.’
Harriet picked up a small glass bell from a side table that Morton hadn’t previously noticed, and rang it once. A high-pitched ring echoed throughout the room and the man who had greeted Morton and Ayala at the
Similar Books
