‘Was the door unlocked?’
‘It was wide open, sir,’ he said nodding at the big house next door. ‘The lady next door was hovering around when we arrived. She says she knows who’s done it. She was a witness. A Lady Blessington.’
Angel brightened. That would be a great start: an eyewitness, maybe. He wondered. ‘Lady Blessington?’ he said. ‘A name to be conjured with. A member of the aristocracy? Did she say why she was here?’
‘No, sir,’ he said and made his way to the SOCO van.
Angel followed him down the path.
A car drove up and braked noisily. It was DS Gawber, who dashed out of the car and up to Angel, who went over to him.
‘It’s a murder, Ron. Only about an hour ago. Mrs Alicia Prophet. Do the door-to-door. I’m going into this one, Number 24.’
‘Right, sir,’ Gawber said and rushed off.
Angel unlatched the gate and rushed up the crazy-paved path through a well maintained lawn to the door. He saw the illuminated bell push and pressed it. The door opened immediately. A tubby, middle-aged woman with a red face and thick bottle-bottom spectacles greeted him. She was clearly distressed: agitated, touching her face, swallowing and licking her lips frequently.
‘Mrs Duplessis?’
‘Yes. Are you the police?’ she croaked.
‘Yes. I am DI Angel.’
Her cheeks were moist and she wiped them with a tissue. She had obviously been crying.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I am so upset.’
‘Of course. Of course,’ he said gently. ‘I am so sorry to press the matter, but time may be of the essence. I understand you were a witness to the—’
‘Come in. Come in.’
He went in and she closed the door quickly.
‘Sit down, please.’
‘What happened,’ Angel said quickly. ‘What exactly did you see?’
‘I know who the murderer must have been. It’s unbelievable. No doubt about it.’
‘What did you see?’ he said urgently.
She shook her head, licked her lips and said: ‘Lady Blessington arrived by taxi next door at about two o’clock. She must have been with dear Alicia Prophet for about an hour or less then came rushing out looking rather flustered. She didn’t look across to me. She seemed too anxious to get away. She dropped her handbag on the path. It opened up and spilled out. Anyway, a taxi rolled up. She got into it and rushed off. Couldn’t get away fast enough.’
Angel nodded.
‘Who is this Lady Blessington?’
‘She’s a long-standing friend of Alicia. At least I thought she was. Oh dear! She has visited Alicia several times lately. I was in the garden, enjoying the sun, this afternoon when she arrived. She waved to me as she went up the path.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I sensed something was wrong. I don’t like to pry, but I couldn’t stop myself. There’s a small gate in the privet behind the forsythia. It’s a short cut between the houses. I went straight through it and up to Alicia’s front door and knocked on it. I knocked very hard. And called out, so that she wouldn’t be nervous. Of course, she didn’t reply. I tried three times. Then I was very worried, with her being blind.’
Angel’s head came up.
‘Blind?’
‘Registered blind. Yes. That’s what makes it so worrying, Inspector, and so … so sad.’
He nodded.
‘So I tried the door. It wasn’t locked. I opened it a few inches and called again. Again, of course, there was no reply. I went in, still calling her name all the time so that I wouldn’t startle her. She wasn’t in the kitchen, so I went into the sitting-room and there she was. At first I thought she was asleep. But she didn’t reply to my calls, so I went up closer to her and then I saw the blood … on her face.’
She broke down. She removed the spectacles and wiped her damp cheeks.
Angel wanted to pat her on the shoulder but restrained himself. After a few moments, he said: ‘Then you dialled 999?’
She nodded
‘Mmmm. Could you describe this Lady Blessington for me?’
She put a hand to a corner of her mouth, her fingers shaking like a dying butterfly.
‘Erm. She was very ordinary. With blonde hair, crimped like we used to do. She was wearing a fussy, light blue dress and a big yellow straw hat trimmed in matching blue.’
‘Shoes? High-heeled shoes?’
‘No. Flatties. Summer shoes. White, I think.’
‘Of course. And a handbag. What colour?’
‘White.’
‘Right,’ he said decisively. ‘How old would Lady Blessington be?’
‘Deceptive, Mr Angel. She wasn’t young. I never got a close look at her face. They say you can tell from the wrinkles round the eyes, don’t they? She was a strange woman. Hmmm. Somewhere between forty and sixty, I suppose. That’s about as close as I can get, I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ he grunted. ‘Why do you think this Lady Blessington would murder Mrs Prophet.’
‘I have absolutely no idea. She seemed such a pleasant woman.’
‘You met her then?’
‘Not exactly. No. Seen her a few times. She always waved if I was in the garden. Her name came up one day when I was chatting to Charles … that’s Mr Prophet. She was an old friend of Alicia’s from way back. Charles didn’t seem to care for her much.’
Angel pulled a face, sighed and rubbed his hand hard across his mouth. He thrust his hand into his pocket for his mobile. ‘Excuse me a minute,’ he said as he opened it, tapped in a number, then put it to his ear.
‘What can you tell me about the taxi driver?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Never saw the driver. Saw the taxi, though.’
‘Anything distinguishing about it?’
‘I should have had my contact lenses in. They dry out in this heat, you know. The taxi was big, like those in London, and black.’
He wrinkled his nose.
‘Never mind. We’ll find it.’
There was a voice from the mobile.
‘Excuse me,’ Angel said to her and put the phone to his mouth.
‘Ahmed. Has Trevor Crisp turned up?’
‘No, sir’
His lips tightened against his teeth.
‘Find him,’ he snapped. ‘I want him urgently. Now Ahmed, I want you to see if we have anything on a Lady Blessington. And a Charles Prophet, solicitor, of Creesforth. Got that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then I want you to find the taxi driver who dropped a woman in a blue dress and/or collected her from this address, 22 Creesford Road, this afternoon. You’ll have to ring round the taxi firms a bit smartish. All right? Phone me back when you get anything. You might get Scrivens to give you a hand.’
‘Got it, sir,’ Ahmed said promptly.
Angel closed the phone and dropped it into his pocket. He looked across at Mrs Duplessis. ‘Did you know the Prophets well?’ He quizzed, meanwhile thinking that it was time that he met the man.
‘I like to think I was a … good neighbour. I, sort of, tried to keep an eye out for her, particularly in regard to any strangers who might have called when Charles was out at work. They have a young woman who comes for a few hours a week. Does the cleaning, washing, tidying round and so on.’
‘Has she been in today?’
‘Don’t think so. Haven’t seen her.’
‘I’ll need a name and address.’
‘Her name is Margaret. I’m not sure what her surname is. She lives in the top flat in that block at the top of Mansion Hill. She seems a willing enough girl … pleasant and that. Don’t know anything more about her. Charles will be able to—’
‘Of course. Happily married, the Prophets, were they?’
Mrs Duplessis looked taken aback, as if he had asked something improper.
‘As happy as any married couple, I should say,’ she said firmly.
Angel thought about her reply. It sounded genuine.
‘Been blind long, had she?’ he asked carefully.
‘A few years, I think. It happened before we moved here – a big shock to her, and to him. Fell down some stairs. Hit her head on a step.’