The first body was that of Mrs. Bolton, who had been felled by a single bullet to the back of her head. She had been kneeling down at the time and her killer had stood behind her to take her life. Rosemary Hartley-Davies was on her back, her skull bloody and splintered. A revolver lay in her open right hand. Maisie bent down to look more closely at the wound and then at the revolver. She took note of the shape, of distinctive markings. She was no expert, but it seemed to be a Browning—or perhaps the copycat Ruby. She looked around the body, at the rug and the surrounding furniture. The blood splatter that emanated from the brain of Mrs. Bolton seemed confined to the floor, as did that of Hartley-Davies. Maisie looked to one side of the latter woman’s body, and noted a spray of blood. Though she could not be sure, the condition of the bodies indicated death to have been late the previous evening. Maisie was confident Constable Sharman would have recoiled from the smell. She had once told a policeman that, having smelled the inimitable fragrance of gangrene in soldiers who had languished in no-man’s-land, she was quite immune to the smell of death.
She set her handbag on a nearby table and began to make notes. First, was there a link between Maisie’s visit and the murder of the two women. If so, how had the killer known who Maisie was, when she had visited, and why? Could Hartley-Davies have walked to a telephone kiosk to inform someone—and if so, where was the nearest kiosk? How long would it have taken Hartley-Davies to reach the kiosk? Why were the gates padlocked? Had Hartley-Davies put on the locks after Maisie departed? In that case, the killer either had to leap a fence, was directed to an alternative way in, or knew another means of entering the grounds. Or did the killer lock the gates after committing the murders? Maisie wondered if she had been followed on her journey to the village. No—it was so small, she would have noticed. Or had someone seen her leaving the property the day before? After all, she had a most distinctive vehicle. She wasn’t sure how long it would be before the police arrived, but she had to find the woman’s handbag, and an address book, if she had one. Moving from the drawing room, she searched the hall, where she heard whimpering coming from the under-stairs cupboard.
“Oh my—the dog!” said Maisie, running to the cupboard and unlatching the door. At the last moment she remembered to hold out her hand for the Alsatian to take her scent and—she hoped—know that she was a friend.
The dog had been cramped and emerged half stumbling from the cupboard, her back legs bending together at the joints. At first she struggled to stand, but sniffed Maisie’s hand and gave a shallow wag of her tail. Her nose went up, and she began to whine. Maisie breathed a sigh of relief that she had closed the door leading to the hall from the murder scene, for now the dog moved at an ungainly lope towards the drawing room and put her nose along the gap between the door and the floor. Her whine gave way to a howl.
“Come on, dear girl, come with me—come on, let’s get some water for you.” Maisie took the dog by her collar, and though Emma did not want to leave the place where it seemed she knew her mistress lay dead—for Maisie was in no doubt that the dog had caught the scent of death even before the first shot was fired—she allowed herself to be led to the kitchen. The dog’s water bowl was in a corner near a back door that opened onto the side of the house. Maisie filled it to the brim and set it down, waiting while the dog lapped away her thirst. A lead was hanging by the door, so she slipped it on Emma’s collar, opened the door, and stepped outside. It took only a moment for the dog to relieve herself. Once back in the kitchen, Maisie locked the back door and left the dog to her bed and water bowl—she would find her some food later. She closed the door behind her and made her way upstairs to the bedrooms.
She was correct in her first guess as to which door led to Rosemary Hartley-Davies’ bedroom. Overlooking the gardens, it was feminine without being frivolous, a room she might have chosen for herself. On the bed she found the woman’s handbag. A search revealed her purse, a lipstick, comb, an invitation to the local harvest festival, and a key with a tag attached, indicating that it was for the back door. The purse inside held some money and a ticket for the opera. Maisie took the ticket. In the bedside table drawer she found an address book, and put it in her pocket. Continuing her search, she found nothing more of note in the room. She returned to the upper corridor. She wondered how far Constable Sharman would have to drive to alert his superiors, and to summon a detective. She had a feeling that, once Caldwell had been apprised of her presence at the house where two women had been murdered, he might well be on his way to Sussex.