The Language of the Dead Read Free

realized that the joke had not come off as he’d hoped. He counseled himself not to overdo things. He believed that Lamb had not detected any hint of the fact that, less than an hour earlier, he’d been sitting in a pub feeling elevated.
    Lamb returned to the table. “I’m afraid I have to go out,” he said to Marjorie. “Someone has killed an old man near Quimby.” He emphasized the
near
.
    Years before, Marjorie had grown used to Lamb having to leave the house at odd hours. “What happened?” she asked.
    Lamb always tried to spare Marjorie the gory details of the murders he investigated. “The usual thing, I’m afraid,” he said. “He probably quarreled with somebody.”
    â€œAll right,” Marjorie said. “If you see Vera, give her my love. And try not to stay too late.” She rose, kissed Lamb’s cheek, then began to clear the dishes from the table.
    Lamb picked up the
Mail
, grabbed his hat, and went to his aging black Wolseley, which he parked in the lane in front of the house. He was one of the few men of his rank who drove his own car. He preferred it that way: driving himself allowed him more freedom of movement. A month earlier, though, his Wolseley had developed the habit of failing to start faithfully; sometimes he had to give the bloody thing seven or eight cranks before it turned over. He wasn’t sure what the problem was—he didn’t understand motorcars. But hehadn’t found the time to turn the thing in to be checked. In truth, he was afraid they’d take the old car from him and he didn’t want to lose it. He’d grown comfortable with it, despite its eccentricities. He understood that the entire business—becoming attached to a bloody car—was asinine. But there it was.
    He settled behind the wheel and lit a cigarette. Given that he was about to go look at an old man with a pitchfork rammed through his throat and a scythe in his chest, a butterscotch wouldn’t do. And he decided that he’d had enough of his own cowardice—he opened the paper to the turf results, where he discovered that his instincts had failed him: Winter’s Tail had won the fourth race at Paulsgrove. Rather than being two quid lighter, he was four richer.
    He pushed the starter and the ancient Wolseley sputtered to life on the first try.
    He smiled slightly and thought,
Lucky indeed
.

THREE

    LAMB PULLED THE WOLSELEY TO A STOP IN FRONT OF WILL BLACKWELL’S stone cottage in Quimby. Several other dark motorcars belonging to the Hampshire police were parked by the cottage, as was the large, dark blue Buick saloon that belonged to the police surgeon, Anthony Winston-Sheed, and the van in which Blackwell’s body would be transported to the hospital in Winchester.
    A dozen or so villagers milled in groups by the cottage, talking quietly. Lamb felt their gaze turn toward him as he emerged from his car. He knew Quimby to be a former mill town in which many of the older residents still looked upon the police as mere extensions of the mill owners, though the owners had abandoned the place more than forty years earlier. He looked for Vera among the knots of people but did not see her.
    A trio of small children—ragamuffins in torn clothing—sprinted past him, nearly bowling him over, then vanished in the twilight up afootpath near the small centuries-old stone bridge that lay at the center of the village. The bridge conveyed Quimby’s High Street across Mills Run, which tumbled into the village from the top of Manscome Hill.
    A bobby approached Lamb at a trot. “Inspector Lamb?” the man asked. He stopped and saluted. He was fit-looking and fresh-faced, not more than twenty-two or so. Prime cannon fodder, Lamb thought—he couldn’t help it. The bobby’s face was flush.
    â€œConstable Harris, sir. Sergeant Wallace asked me to meet you.”
    Harris made a gesture in the direction of