realize this is a difficult time and I'm sorry to trouble you. You might perhaps have heard that I'm studying your first husband's murder for my new book?'
'Did the same man kill the social worker?'
Straight to the point, which, thankfully, meant he needn't tread warily. 'It's possible, but I might have a clearer idea if we could discuss it personally, which is the reason for this call. May my assistant and I come to see you?'
A slight pause, while he held his breath. Then, 'I haven't anything new to add.'
'Even so, a first-hand account would help enormously.' He glanced at his watch, anxious to tie her down before she changed her mind. 'Would later this morning be convenient? We could be down in about an hour.'
He heard her sigh. Then she said, 'Very well. But I warn you, you might feel it's a wasted journey.' She cut short his protests. 'Have you got our address? It's off Lower Broad Street, just before you come to the hospital. Batchwood Drive, number twelve.'
'Thank you,' Frederick said, checking it against the address Paul had given him. 'I'm most grateful. In about an hour, then.'
On that sunny Saturday morning, the country road was clogged with caravans, joggers and cyclists. Frederick, checking his watch for the umpteenth time, said, 'What do we know about her? Anything?'
'Only that she and Philpott were married for ten years, very happily, it seemed. No children.'
Frederick lifted his briefcase and took out the notes he'd made while waiting for Paul to collect him, several sheets closely covered in his small, cramped handwriting.
'She sounded quite calm on the phone; I hope it won't upset her, resurrecting it all.'
'It's water under the bridge now, and she'll have her new husband for moral support.'
Something in his tone made Frederick glance at him sideways. Blake was a tall, thin young man with dry-looking dark hair and brown eyes which peered short-sightedly through horn-rimmed spectacles. He was the ideal researcher: thorough, efficient and meticulous. Frederick frequently marvelled at the speed with which he transcribed his own tightly packed pages into neat, easy-to-read print.
Of his private life, Frederick knew nothing, nor wanted to, grateful only that he had materialized in response to the advertisement for a researcher which he'd placed in a professional journal. He never spoke of family or friends or of his life before he came to Ashmartin, but there had been no cause to; theirs was, after all, a business relationship. All Frederick knew was that he was unmarried and had lodgings in Sheep Street, a location within five minutes' walk of the main library, which was doubtless why he'd chosen it.
'It's good of you to give up your Saturday morning,' he said suddenly, as the thought struck him for the first time.
Blake smiled. 'It's no hardship; I'm as interested as you are.'
They slowed down still further on the approach to Broad- minster, entering the old town from the north east and filtering through the shoppers on to Broad Street before reaching Lower Broad Street and the turning to Batchwood Drive. The houses here were a mix of semi-detacheds and bungalows, each in a colourful and well-kept garden. Paul pulled up outside number twelve, a bungalow, and both men got out into the stifling heat.
As they walked up the short path the front door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man stood there. 'Peter Bradburn,' he said, holding out his hand. 'My wife's expecting you.'
She came forward as they were shown into the sitting- room, a small, pretty woman in her forties, wearing a print dress and sandals.
'We thought you might like coffee on the terrace? It's shaded out there at this time of day.'
'That's most kind of you.'
'Peter will take you through while I get the tray.'
'We sent the kids out to play, so we could have some peace,' Bradburn said, as they settled on the wrought-iron chairs.
'Oh? I understood â' Frederick began, before he could stop himself.
'My kids,' Bradburn
'Did the same man kill the social worker?'
Straight to the point, which, thankfully, meant he needn't tread warily. 'It's possible, but I might have a clearer idea if we could discuss it personally, which is the reason for this call. May my assistant and I come to see you?'
A slight pause, while he held his breath. Then, 'I haven't anything new to add.'
'Even so, a first-hand account would help enormously.' He glanced at his watch, anxious to tie her down before she changed her mind. 'Would later this morning be convenient? We could be down in about an hour.'
He heard her sigh. Then she said, 'Very well. But I warn you, you might feel it's a wasted journey.' She cut short his protests. 'Have you got our address? It's off Lower Broad Street, just before you come to the hospital. Batchwood Drive, number twelve.'
'Thank you,' Frederick said, checking it against the address Paul had given him. 'I'm most grateful. In about an hour, then.'
On that sunny Saturday morning, the country road was clogged with caravans, joggers and cyclists. Frederick, checking his watch for the umpteenth time, said, 'What do we know about her? Anything?'
'Only that she and Philpott were married for ten years, very happily, it seemed. No children.'
Frederick lifted his briefcase and took out the notes he'd made while waiting for Paul to collect him, several sheets closely covered in his small, cramped handwriting.
'She sounded quite calm on the phone; I hope it won't upset her, resurrecting it all.'
'It's water under the bridge now, and she'll have her new husband for moral support.'
Something in his tone made Frederick glance at him sideways. Blake was a tall, thin young man with dry-looking dark hair and brown eyes which peered short-sightedly through horn-rimmed spectacles. He was the ideal researcher: thorough, efficient and meticulous. Frederick frequently marvelled at the speed with which he transcribed his own tightly packed pages into neat, easy-to-read print.
Of his private life, Frederick knew nothing, nor wanted to, grateful only that he had materialized in response to the advertisement for a researcher which he'd placed in a professional journal. He never spoke of family or friends or of his life before he came to Ashmartin, but there had been no cause to; theirs was, after all, a business relationship. All Frederick knew was that he was unmarried and had lodgings in Sheep Street, a location within five minutes' walk of the main library, which was doubtless why he'd chosen it.
'It's good of you to give up your Saturday morning,' he said suddenly, as the thought struck him for the first time.
Blake smiled. 'It's no hardship; I'm as interested as you are.'
They slowed down still further on the approach to Broad- minster, entering the old town from the north east and filtering through the shoppers on to Broad Street before reaching Lower Broad Street and the turning to Batchwood Drive. The houses here were a mix of semi-detacheds and bungalows, each in a colourful and well-kept garden. Paul pulled up outside number twelve, a bungalow, and both men got out into the stifling heat.
As they walked up the short path the front door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man stood there. 'Peter Bradburn,' he said, holding out his hand. 'My wife's expecting you.'
She came forward as they were shown into the sitting- room, a small, pretty woman in her forties, wearing a print dress and sandals.
'We thought you might like coffee on the terrace? It's shaded out there at this time of day.'
'That's most kind of you.'
'Peter will take you through while I get the tray.'
'We sent the kids out to play, so we could have some peace,' Bradburn said, as they settled on the wrought-iron chairs.
'Oh? I understood â' Frederick began, before he could stop himself.
'My kids,' Bradburn
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