The Secret Life and Curious Death of Miss Jean Milne Read Free

calling, but I was a sergeant of Broughty Ferry Constabulary and about my lawful occasion so I had no hesitation. I went through the gate and up the gravel path and rang at the bell – an electric bell I might add. Mr Swan was not one to stint on conveniences for himself or his family. But this time, when it rang, it rang with the warm sound of a house that was full of folk and life and light and warmth and joy.
    Mr Swan’s lassie came to the door in her peenie and her wee lace cap, and when she saw me and Constable Broon her face fell and she turned pale as the wall, whether from a guilty conscience or from fear of hearing bad news I couldn’t say. I can never say, but it’s a look I have seen often in my line. A police sergeant is rarely a welcome visitor.
    I was about to state my business, but before I could open my mouth I heard a door opening and a voice calling out: “Who is it, Maggie? At this hour!”
    Poor Maggie stood gawping and clapping her lips together and it seemed clear to me that she had no more brains in her head than Constable Broon. I very much doubted that the two of them together could have passed the sergeant’s exam, and while she stood there, saying nothing, I called out: “It’s Sergeant Fraser of the police, sir, come to beg the favour of the use of your telephone.”
    At once Mr Swan came bustling out, in his shirtsleeves and his waistcoat with his collar off, as well he was entitled to be in his own house at that hour of the evening: “The police? Well come away in, Sergeant, come away. Maggie, get out of the door and let the man in,” and then, because he was no more than ordinarily curious, he naturally enquired, “Is there some trouble?”
    Constable Broon had enough sense to stay quiet, a respectful couple of paces in the rear as we entered the house, and I said: “There’s no reason for alarm, sir, but I would be grateful if you could permit me the use of your telephone until I consult with the Chief Constable.”
    “Of course, of course,” and Mr Swan busied and bustled again and led the way to the kitchen passage, where the telephone instrument hung on the wall in its polished oak box. “There you are, Sergeant.”
    I looked at him and I looked at the box and Mr Swan said: “Allow me.” He lifted the earpiece and clattered on the hook and, after a moment, he shouted into the trumpet in a careful, clear voice: “Give me the police station of Broughty Ferry,” and then he stepped back in the narrow passage and held the earpiece out to me. “You are being connected,” he said in the same careful, clear voice.
    We stood waiting, the three of us in the passage, me and Broon and Mr Swan, with Mrs Swan looking round the edge of the door frame and the lassie Maggie no doubt listening close by, but, in a queer way, I was no longer there as part of the company because I was engaged with the telephone, so Mr Swan turned to Broon and said, very quietly: “But you’re sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
    Broon shook his big bull head and mouthed a silent: “No.”
    “Hello,” I said. “This is Sergeant Fraser. Let me have a word with Chief Constable Sempill.” And then there was another moment or two of quiet before the Chief Constable came on the line.
    “We had a report,” I said, and I told him the whole story.
    “And you’re sure there’s no sign of any wrongdoing.”
    “The whole place is secure.”
    “You’ve checked thoroughly?”
    “All round the premises, round the gardens, and, as well as I can in the dark, I’ve examined the upper windows.”
    “I don’t see what else we can do at this time of night,” said Mr Sempill. “Leave it for now and take a joiner up in the morning in case we need to force an entry.”
    “Very good, sir,” I said. “Constable Brown and I will resume our patrol and I will engage the man Coullie in the morning.”
    “Right you are.” And he broke off with a loud click.
    I handed the telephone instrument to Mr Swan,