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

who put it back on its hook. “Miss Milne?” he said, curiously.
    “Miss Milne?” said Mrs Swan.
    “And I thought . . .” said Maggie.
    But before I could ask her what she thought, Mrs Swan had wheesht her and threatened her with her character and warned her to “be sure those fires are well lit by half past six of the parlour clock” and chased her off to bed.
    There were no further occurrences that evening.

3
    AT THE STATION in the morning I went in to the big drawer under the front counter and took out the bunch of keys. God alone knows how we had acquired them, but little by little, slowly but surely keys of all shapes and sizes begin to accumulate in a police office. Somebody would find a key, hand it in and it would lie unclaimed in the big drawer. Two or three others would join it until, after a few months, somebody would get sick of them rattling around, taking up room and getting in the way. Then they went on the big steel ring and were forgotten.
    But a key is a handy thing and, from time to time, when somebody found themselves locked out, we would help with our selection of keys. From time to time it worked and I decided I would take them up to Elmgrove with me.
    First I had to walk the length of the street, fully half a mile to Coullie’s. He had a place – he has it still – a fine joiner’s shop behind his house along at the far end of Brook Street, opposite St Aidan’s Church with a neat white sign hanging on the fence advertising, “Carpenters and Joiners” and, on another line, in a sloping hand, “Funerals Undertaken.”
    There was no answer at the house so I went up the lane at the side to the big tin shed where the business is carried on, and at first he didn’t hear me knocking and calling for the noise of the saw, which I thought inappropriate since it was a Sabbath morning and early. When, at last, he looked up from his work, I jingled my ring of keys at him and said: “We’re needing a house opened up.”
    “Whereabouts?”
    “Elmgrove, up Grove Road.”
    “It’s a fair step.”
    “The usual rates.” I took my watch from my pocket. “You’re on the clock, Mr Coullie.”
    “In that case, Sergeant, I’m more than happy to do my duty. I’ll just get my coat.”
    Coullie was right, it was a fair step. We walked along together side by side, through the deserted streets, quite convivial, two respectable citizens engaged in their lawful duty, me with my ring of keys, jangling at every step, Coullie with his tools held in a sack contraption, a big, folded blanket of jute with handles on each side that bounced off his knee as he strode along. We walked together back along Brook Street to the police station and then nearly as far again along the Dundee Road to the railway bridge, then on a bit again to the West Ferry railway station and up the hill a step to the bottom of Grove Road. But Elmgrove is at the top of Grove Road and, I may as well admit, my hot breath was hanging in the cold November air long before we reached the gate, and by that time I had told Coullie as much of the story as was his business to know.
    Constable Broon was waiting at the gate like a faithful hound and he turned the handle and stood aside to let us in, making his respectful “Good mornings”.
    Coullie walked up to the front door and he saw at once in the morning light what I had not noticed in the dark. “You needn’t bother trying your keys here, Sergeant.” He pointed through the glass of the fancy front door. “There’s a key left in that lock on the inside. It won’t accept another.”
    Broon said: “There’s another door down here,” and he began to lead the way to Miss Milne’s back stair.
    That pamphlet was still hanging from the door handle, though sadly limp and crumpled after a night of chill mist. Coullie took it off and held it between two fingers – which he should never have done – saying: “Would you have me break the lock?”
    “Don’t you be so hasty,” I said.