Close to Death

‘I don’t know . . .’

It was impossible. The shaft of the well was too narrow and he wasn’t sure he would be able to climb back out again. A ladder was needed and someone thin enough to fit inside.

‘I’ll call the RSPCA,’ he said.

‘Oh, Ellery! Poor Ellery!’ May was also crying.

Ellery had fallen silent. He was no longer moving. Later on, May would say he had heard their voices, had known they were there, and that perhaps there was some crumb of comfort in the knowledge that he had not died alone.

‘He must have fallen in,’ Pennington said. But he knew it wasn’t true. Ellery wouldn’t have been able to jump in. The brick well head was far too high for the little French bulldog with its stubby legs, and why would he even have tried? There was only one solution. Ellery must have been picked up and deliberately dropped in. Pennington knew it, but he didn’t say it. His years at the bar had taught him never to make an accusation without proper evidence, and anyway, what would be the point? He flicked off the torch, sparing the two women the sight of their dead pet.

May had reached the same conclusion. Her face was set in stone. ‘This was them!’ she whispered. ‘They did it!’

‘What do you mean, Mrs Winslow?’

‘You know what I mean. Giles Kenworthy. She asked him to do something – to sort it out – and this is what happened. He was responsible and I’ll never forgive him. I’m not going to allow him to get away with it . . .’

May and Phyllis were still sitting at the table in The Tea Cosy, Phyllis rolling her cigarette between her fingers like a very old pianist warming up before a performance. They were both haunted by the empty space where Ellery’s basket had been. They knew they would never have another dog. Even if they had wanted one, it was too late for them.

It had been Sarah, the gardener, who had retrieved Ellery’s body from the well in the end. They’d had to wait until the next day for it to happen and once again the sun had been shining. Sarah was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and as she had lowered a ladder into the opening, they had both seen it.

Fresh, livid scratches on both her arms.

5

After they had left Roderick Browne’s garden, Hawthorne and Dudley walked back round to the close and stood in the centre, enjoying the sunshine and the smell of the flowers. If it hadn’t been for the parked police vehicles, it could have been just another pleasant July day.

‘Look at it!’ Hawthorne muttered. ‘A private close in one of the nicest suburbs in London. Designer houses. What do you think they’re worth? Millions! And yet all these people at each other’s throats . . .’

‘Quite literally in the case of Giles Kenworthy,’ Dudley agreed. He had a strange sense of humour, a way of joking that always made him sound sad. ‘Although, I suppose it could have been an outsider,’ he added.

‘I doubt it,’ Hawthorne said. He pointed to the archway. ‘First of all, there’s the automatic gate. Closed at night and you need an electronic key to get in. The crossbow was tucked away in Roderick Browne’s garage. Someone must have known it was there. And then there’s the opportunity. Kenworthy on his own in the house, his wife having it away with her French teacher, the kids at boarding school, the Filipino cleaner out of the country. It had to be someone close by.’

‘Nightmare neighbours,’ Dudley agreed. ‘When I was in Bristol, we were always getting called out to local estates. Loud music, parties, dustbins and parking. It was the most miserable part of the job, the sheer futility of it all. Makes it a bit tricky, though, when you add murder into the mix. I mean, basically they’ve all got the same motive. They all hated Giles Kenworthy. That’s all it comes down to.’

‘Parking . . .’ Hawthorne said.

A woman had appeared in the doorway of Gardener’s Cottage and was leaning forward, examining the driveway as if she was afraid of what she was going to find. From a distance, she presented herself as healthy and attractive, dressed in a loose shirt, designer jeans and sandals, with a silver necklace and earrings. She had jet-black hair, parted in the centre, framing a serious face. However, as Hawthorne and Dudley walked towards her, it was as if the sky had clouded over and a shadow had fallen. The woman hadn’t slept. There were dark worry lines tugging at the corners of her eyes and lips. She had put on too much make-up, trying to disguise her malaise. It was striking that all the jewellery she was wearing seemed to have been inspired by poisonous creatures.

Hawthorne stopped in front of her. ‘Mrs Beresford?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can we talk to you?’

‘Now?’

‘Do you mind?’

‘Are you journalists?’

‘What makes you think that?’

So far it had been a conversation made up entirely of questions. ‘You don’t look like police officers,’ she said.

‘As a matter of fact, we’re helping the police with their inquiries.’

Gemma Beresford examined Hawthorne with suspicion. She seemed even more undecided about his assistant. ‘You could be anyone,’ she said. ‘Why should I believe you?’