Jane A. Adams - Death scene

Contents

The Henry Johnstone Mysteries

THE MURDER BOOK

DEATH SCENE

The Naomi Blake Mysteries

MOURNING THE LITTLE DEAD

TOUCHING THE DARK

HEATWAVE

KILLING A STRANGER

LEGACY OF LIES

SECRETS

GREGORYS GAME

PAYING THE FERRYMAN

A MURDEROUS MIND

The Rina Martin Mysteries

A REASON TO KILL

FRAGILE LIVES

THE POWER OF ONE

RESOLUTIONS

THE DEAD OF WINTER

CAUSE OF DEATH

FORGOTTEN VOICES

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First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

Trade paperback edition first published

in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

Copyright 2017 by Jane A. Adams.

The right of Jane A. Adams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8703-0 (cased)

ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-808-8 (trade paper)

ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-872-8 (e-book)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

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Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

I t should, she thought, have been a lovely evening and indeed the play had been enjoyable and the conversation lively and cheerful.

If it hadnt been for one small thing, it would have been a perfect time.

That one thing, though; that had played on her mind throughout and Cissie had been unable truly to relax.

The evening had been warm and, although it was late, Cissie laid her coat down on the red armchair and went back outside on to the veranda. The night air felt cooler as it drifted in off the ocean, reminding her that it would soon be autumn and, she noted, the scent was changing. It was still salt-tanged and sharp and pungent with the smell of seaweed but with an underlying mellowness that predicted harvest and falling leaves.

She stepped down on to the shingle beach, pebbles crunching beneath her feet as she wandered down towards the sea. It was only when she stopped and her own feet ceased to crunch on the pebble beach that she became aware of other footsteps.

Cissie turned in surprise. Oh, she said. Its you. I thought youd gone home.

I thought we should talk.

She sighed and then shook her head. Theres nothing to say. I promised to keep quiet and asked you to promise to leave me alone.

Its not as simple as that.

She had turned her back on him, hoping that he would take that as a hint to go.

Really not as simple as that, my dear.

The blow felled her. Cissie crumpled, dropping to the sand and pebbles without making a sound.

Her assailant tucked the blackjack into his pocket and slid his hands beneath her arms. He dragged her up the beach and back on to the veranda, then inside the little wooden house that had been Cissies home for the past three years.

After hauling her up on to the bed he then went back to close the door, shutting out the cool night air, the fresh breeze, the soothing wash of the ocean.

You lied to me, he said as he stood over her. You lied to me and caused me trouble. You cant just promise to keep your mouth shut and hope that will be enough.

A quick search uncovered what he wanted, and she was coming round by the time he returned to the bedroom. He was glad that hed not had to wait too long though hed brought smelling salts with him in case he needed to wake her more quickly. He wanted her awake; he wanted her afraid. He had suffered; why shouldnt she do the same?

He took the pillow from beneath her and laid it on the chair. Unfolded the paper that wrapped the powder, filled the glass from the covered jug she kept on her bedside table.

She opened her eyes What ? trying hard to focus on him, fear suffusing her features as she remembered what had happened on the beach.

I told you, she whispered. I wouldnt tell. Not ever.

No, he said quietly. You wont. Not ever.

C issie, darling. Cissie, I did knock but I suppose you didnt hear me. Im just off to the

She paused, standing in the centre of the living room rug, oddly concerned to see Cissies coat still lying on the back of the chair. She called out again and then realized that it was more than the coat that was bothering her. It was the smell, and the sound. The smell was not strong, but it was definitely there, as was the buzz of flies.

Cissie? Are you there?

She crossed the room and pushed the bedroom door and the first thing that registered was that Cissie was still wearing the pink dress she had worn two nights before, when they had all gone to the theatre. The second was that Cissies stockings were wrinkled at the ankles and Cissies stockings were never allowed to be wrinkled at the ankles. The third was: why did she still have her shoes on when she was lying on the bed?

Muriels fourth reaction was to scream, and scream very loudly. Her friend was dead, there could be no doubt about that, and the most shocking thing was that she had probably lain there since their evening at the show two nights before and had not even had time to change out of her favourite dress.

Constable Prentice had been summoned, as had Dr Arnold, and the two of them arrived at pretty much the same time.

A suicide, Dr Arnold said, pointing at the glass and the opened paper (which had evidently contained powder of some sort) lying on the bedside table. You say she was an actress?

His tone of voice let Constable Prentice know that Arnold considered actresses particularly prone to such deaths. Apparently so, he replied, though whether he was agreeing that Cissie Rowe had been an actress or that she had committed suicide was open to debate.

The two men crossed the room and stood on either side of the bed. The eyes were still slightly open, the lids having receded after death, and the flies had taken advantage, crawling into the damp places of the nose and slightly open mouth. Arnold waved them away and they shifted briefly before settling back. Blasted creatures, he said.

Dont touch the glass, please, sir, Prentice advised as the doctor reached out for it. Just in case its not as it first seems.

Dr Arnold scowled at him. I know a suicide when I see one. Or possibly an accident, he conceded. But he left the glass and the paper alone anyway. No doubt she was in the habit of taking a sleeping draft and then took more than her stated dose. Ive seen this many times, Constable. Too many theatrical types round here. Too many would-be actors and actresses. Temperamental types who find themselves in dire straits when they hope for stardom.