Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

“But how do you get a girl to just lie there while you plunge a dagger into her heart? Or was she killed somewhere else and the body brought here and arranged like this? And where on earth would you come by precisely the same dagger as the old man’s got at his side? That’s a misericorde, I think. It’s all so deliberate! Look at her hair. It’s been arranged to fall like that. Her dress — someone’s folded it. And what would Taro Tyler be doing wearing an outfit like that anyway? It looks medieval!”

I gasped as the connection struck me.

“Only just caught on?” he asked acidly.

“She’s meant to look like — be a replica of — the original figure... the figure I was supposed to be inspecting with you this morning.”

“I think so. Your firm sent some chaps last week to remove Sir John’s alabaster wife, Lady Alienore. She was in need of remedial treatment. We called your boss, who said, ‘Awfully sorry, I shall be away on holiday in Puglia but — tell you what — I’ll send you my assistant. She’s young and highly qualified, a sound art historian. Pretty girl, too,’ he added. Recognise yourself? I had the remains of the first Lady Brancaster placed over there in the corner on that tarpaulin.” He nodded towards the bell tower and to an ordered pile of pale-gleaming fragments rising from which I could make out a single white hand pointing forlornly heavenwards.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said, and for a moment it seemed horribly likely.

“No you’re not,” he said. “Have a thought for the Suffolk Constabulary. They’ll have quite enough bodily fluids to put under their microscope without being distracted by extraneous and irrelevant ones from the visiting architect. Pull yourself together!”

He’d said it again! No one had told me to pull myself together since primary school. I breathed deeply, beginning sincerely to dislike Edward Hartest. I waved away the red spotted handkerchief he held out. “No thanks, Mr. Hartest. I find that, after all, my stiff upper lip is equal to the task of keeping back the vomit.”

“Good show,” he said. “Keep it on board. And look here, Miss Hardwick...”

“Ellie, call me Ellie,” I said impatiently.

“Fine. And you might as well call me Edward. Now, look here, Ellie, I want you to note a few things before the police get here. I’m certain that we can rely on them to use the full range of their forensic techniques but...”

“I know what you’re getting at. Not straightforward, is it? It’s as though someone’s left a challenge. If it weren’t such a gruesome thought, I might even say someone’s playing a game.”

“Yes, and I have a feeling I may know the identity of this joker. Do you see, over there, just below the scrolled edge — don’t touch it, for God’s sake! — there’s a smudge.”

“A fingerprint,” I said firmly. “In blood!”

We looked at each other in silence for a moment until outside in the real world, one by one, cars crunched to a halt.

A Detective Inspector Jennings accompanied by a detective sergeant and a uniformed officer marched competently in through the door and up the aisle. He made his way towards us, holding up his credentials for our inspection, unnecessarily, it seemed, as the Hon Edward greeted him with an easy, “Oh, hallo there, Richard.” After briefly establishing who I was and my role in the discovery of the body, the inspector courteously invited us to get out of the church by the fastest route and to avoid treading again on the carpet. I noticed that he spoke to Edward Hartest formally but with an underlying deference and I remembered — not only Honourable but also J.P., a local magistrate. This heir of an ancient family moved smoothly into action and, replying with just the right blend of formality and charm, informed the inspector that we would leave the scene of crime clear for the investigating officers and go to await his questions in the comfort of the library at Tilbrook Hall, where he trusted Richard would be able to join us later for coffee. Edward picked up my briefcase, put a chivalrous arm around my shoulders, and led me out into the sunshine.

Through the thin cotton of my overalls I could feel the solicitous arm shaking perceptibly.

As we left, uniformed policemen were cordoning off the churchyard with plastic tape, one firmly standing his ground and denying access to an indignant, weather-beaten lady. “Young man, kindly move aside. I always do the flowers on a Wednesday!”

We seemed to be in an earlier world where deference to the squire was in order. I was impressed to see the scene-of-crime officer, red-faced but determined, stand his ground. “But not this Wednesday, I’m afraid, madam,” I heard him say cheerfully.

A middle-aged figure, bespectacled and distinguished, climbed out of his Volvo, an assistant carrying his medical bag. The pathologist? “Got a little local difficulty, I hear, Edward?” he said easily.

“Local, Gordon, but I’m not so sure about little,” said Edward.