Death in Disguise Read Free

He wore a pale silky suit and his hair was pure white (no trace of yellow or grey), and gathered into a rubber band. The resultant ponytail fell to below his shoulders. Mrs Bulstrode was heard to mutter that white hair could be very deceiving and it was true that the man’s eyes were not at all rheumy but a vivid cerulean blue and his clear pale skin was hardly wrinkled. When he began to speak the quality of the court’s attention changed. His voice, though gentle, had a strange almost revelatory quality as if the most tremendous news were about to be imparted for those who had ears to hear. Everyone leaned forward as if to miss even a syllable might deprive them of something precious.
    Yet, after all, he had little that was new to add, agreeing merely with the previous witness that the deceased had behaved much as usual—being cheerful and positive on the morning of his death. He added that Mr Carter was a founder member of the community, had been greatly liked and would be greatly missed. The rest of the gathering then came forward but merely to confirm their own and each other’s absence from the scene in question. Then the coroner began summing up.
    The jury, now one melting mass on its long hard bench, strove to look impartial, intelligent and reasonably awake. There seemed to be no reason, they were told, to suspect foul play in this instance. All occupants of the Manor House were proveably elsewhere at the time of Mr Carter’s unfortunate death. The rucked runner at the top of the landing, and the small amount of alcohol consumed by a person apparently not at all used to it and on an empty stomach, had probably between them combined to bring about the fatal fall. The coroner pointed out the advisability of using some sort of rubber grip or backing between loose rugs and highly polished floorboards, and he offered his sympathy to the friends of the dead man. Then a verdict of Accidental Death was pronounced.
    The coroner rose, the fan gave a final apathetic groan and a dead bluebottle fell on the usher’s head. The Windhorse group remained seated whilst everyone else drifted towards the door. You could have cut the disappointment with a knife. A murder, people unreasonably felt, had been as good as promised. They looked around for someone to blame but the Bulstrodes—prophets without honour—had already slipped away. The crowd moved, rumbling and grumbling, down the steps and into the car park or off to The Soft Shoe.
    Two girls, young and pretty, long golden legs disappearing into stone-washed shorts, hung about waiting to see the witnesses emerge. One of them, staring round, nudged the other and pointed to a shabby Morris Traveller.
    â€˜Will you look at that.’
    â€˜Where?’ A sun-bleached Afro turned and turned about.
    â€˜You blind? There, dimmo! That’s their van.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜Look…’
    An indrawn gasp. ‘Ange…’
    â€˜D’you fancy him?’
    â€˜Are you kidding?’
    â€˜Chat him up then. I dare you.’
    â€˜Kev’d kill me.’
    â€˜If you don’t, I will.’
    â€˜You wouldn’t.’
    â€˜I’ll say the car won’t start.’
    â€˜We haven’t got a car.’
    Giggling, pushing each other, retreating, lurching forward, they eventually fetched up against the side window of the van. The one who wasn’t Ange nudged her friend and said, ‘Go on…’
    â€˜Stop laughing then.’
    A rap on the glass. The man turned. For a moment all three stared at each other then the girls, suddenly cold, their faces slack with shock, stepped back.
    â€˜I’m ever so sorry…’
    â€˜Sorry.’
    â€˜I was only…’
    â€˜We didn’t mean anything.’ They gripped each other’s hands and ran swiftly away.
    Back in the courthouse the wearer of the muslin trousers was weeping and being comforted. Her companions crowded round, hugging and patting