The Good Wife

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Jane A. Adams From Severn House

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Recent titles by Jane A. Adams from Severn House

  The Naomi Blake mysteries

  MOURNING THE LITTLE DEAD

  TOUCHING THE DARK

  HEATWAVE

  KILLING A STRANGER

  LEGACY OF LIES

  SECRETS

  GREGORY’S GAME

  PAYING THE FERRYMAN

  A MURDEROUS MIND

  FAKES AND LIES

  The Rina Martin mysteries

  A REASON TO KILL

  FRAGILE LIVES

  THE POWER OF ONE

  RESOLUTIONS

  THE DEAD OF WINTER

  CAUSE OF DEATH

  FORGOTTEN VOICES

  The Henry Johnstone mysteries

  THE MURDER BOOK

  DEATH SCENE

  KITH AND KIN

  THE CLOCKMAKER

  THE GOOD WIFE

  THE GOOD WIFE

  Jane A. Adams

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2020

  in Great Britain and 2020 in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2020 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2020 by Jane A. Adams.

  The right of Jane A. Adams to be identified

  as the author of this work has been asserted

  in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8962-1 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-676-0 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0380-9 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

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  PROLOGUE

  Southwell Races, Spring Bank Holiday, 1929

  It wasn’t the first time he had been summoned that day, but so far there had been nothing unexpected. A driver detained because he was suspected of having imbibed a little too much – Dr Mason had tested his responses and agreed with the constable. A jockey with a dislocated shoulder, already put back in place by his boss and a couple of colleagues. He had been treating the pain with heavy doses of brandy, but Mason had given him analgesic powders and told him to rest, conscious that the powders would be taken with yet more brandy and that it would be a waste of breath to advise to the contrary.

  Other than this, race day had passed off pleasantly. He had spent most of it with his friends, Ephraim Phillips and his wife, Nora. Ephraim was also a medic and also on the list of police surgeons and the two had shared rooms at college and now practised in the same area. Mason’s own wife, Martha, was friendly with Nora and all had seemed right with the world.

  The constable that came and found Dr Mason informed him that a woman had been bashed over the head and her bag stolen. He thought she might be dead but he didn’t know.

  Serious, Mason thought. He left Ephraim at the bar, chatting to another group of friends, and he followed the constable away from the main stands, round the enclosure where horses and riders made ready for the next race, and to a quiet field at the back that had been designated for horseboxes and vehicles.

  ‘What was a woman doing here?’ Mason commented.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to say, sir. But it’s been known for the toms to make use of the empty horseboxes …’ He trailed off, not sure this was something to be saying to a respectable police surgeon.

  Mason grinned. He should have thought of that. It was obvious when it was pointed out. ‘Well, whoever the poor unfortunate is, she didn’t deserve to be bashed over the head and have her property stolen.’

  ‘No, sir, I think she did not.’

  Two other officers stood beside a large horsebox. One a constable and one, from his stripes, a sergeant who introduced himself as Emory.

  ‘Nasty business, sir. I’m afraid the young woman is deceased. One of the grooms found her, spotted that the door was open and came for a look-see and there she was.’

  Mason nodded his thanks and swung the door aside.

  And then he stopped dead. Shock seizing him, freezing him in place as for a moment or two he could not comprehend what he was seeing.

  ‘Martha!’

  ‘You know the young lady, sir?’

  ‘My wife,’ Mason managed to choke out before his legs gave way beneath him and he came crashing to the floor.

  ONE

  ‘Nora, you’re certain she said nothing else?’

  ‘No!’ Nora was getting impatient with her husband now. ‘I’ve told you. She was standing with us waiting for me to finish fussing over Beth. You’ve no idea how far that child can spread a chocolate bar—’ She broke off, glancing over to where Clive sat, head in hands and shoulders slumped.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just so hard to remember exactly. I wasn’t really paying attention. I expected her to go over and speak to her friend, whoever that was, and then come back to us. But we stood there waiting for a full fifteen minutes.’

  ‘And you’re certain she saw someone she recognized in the crowd?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Nora nodded fierce confirmation. ‘She just said something like, “Oh, I had no idea they’d be here. It’s been an age since I last saw them.” And then something like, “Won’t be a tick”, and then she was gone.’

  ‘They,’ her husband emphasized, ‘not he or she?’

  Nora looked baffled for a moment and then said, ‘Oh, I see what you mean. No, I’m sure she said they. Then she just took off. You know how busy it was this afternoon. I lost sight of her in the crowd and it’s not as if I could have followed her, not with the children in tow. We would have looked like a school croco
dile, wouldn’t we …’

  Sergeant Emory tapped his pen on his notepad. He’d been content to see what the husband could ascertain. In Emory’s view the wife was a flighty, scatty sort of woman who would need strong guidance if anything useful were to be got out of her. So he let the husband give it a try first.

  Now however, he saw it would behove him to regain some semblance of control.

  He had arranged for the adult witnesses (the children having been carted off by a housemaid) to be taken to the Crown Hotel and a small sitting room had been made available. The husband had barely moved or spoken since they had arrived; slumped forward in a winged chair, he had let his tea go cold and hardly seemed to be listening to the proceedings. The other doctor had been doing his best to find out what had happened, but he seemed to have exhausted his wife’s knowledge.

  An unobservant type, Emory decided.

  ‘And how did she seem this afternoon? Not troubled about anything?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ Nora’s tone was exasperated now. ‘I’ve told you several times, Martha seemed very settled, very happy. We’d had a picnic and the children wanted to go on the fairground rides and that’s where we were heading. I just noticed that Beth still had chocolate around her mouth, and in her ears if I’m honest, so I was doing my best to clean her up. The other two were planning what rides they were going to go on and Martha was just chatting to them about the carousel and … and that sort of thing. She’s very good with the children considering she has none of her own.’

  Nora lifted a hand to her mouth and her eyes grew wide as she suddenly realized what she said. ‘Oh dear, I am making such a mess of this. Martha was very good with the children.’ She took a small handkerchief from her bag and dabbed her eyes.

  For the first time Clive, Dr Mason, lifted his head and looked at his friends as though noticing suddenly that they were in the room with him. He blinked rapidly and wiped his own eyes with the back of his hand.

  ‘Sadly Martha and Clive were not blessed with children’ – Nora leaned towards Emory confidentially, but did not bother to lower her voice – ‘but she was wonderful with ours. In fact, she was wonderful with most people.’ She dabbed her eyes again and then wailed, ‘Who would be so cruel as to do this thing. Martha was just so …’

  Nora’s husband reached across and patted her hand. ‘Here, have some more tea. That’s right, plenty of sugar.’ He cast what Emory interpreted as an apologetic look across at his friend and Emory wondered if the subject of children was more touchy than Nora realized.

  ‘And the two of you, sirs. You were on duty as police surgeons. Is it usual that both of you are on call?’

  ‘As you know, Sergeant, we are both on the register and as this is one of the busiest race meets of the year we knew it was in high likelihood that one or other would be called out. As you can see we are all friends, it seemed like a good plan to enjoy the day and to be available should we be required.’

  ‘But it’s rare for your duties to include murder,’ Emory said quietly.

  ‘Indeed so. We expected to be called to cases of drunkenness. Perhaps a fight that led to serious consequences, but that is all. All in all we hoped for an uneventful day.’

  You couldn’t get much more eventful than a murder, Emory thought. ‘Inspector Milligan will no doubt want to speak to you,’ he said. ‘I hope it’s satisfactory, sirs, but I’ve arranged rooms for you all here overnight. Just so it’s convenient.’

  ‘Convenient for whom?’ Ephraim Phillips wanted to know. ‘We have children to deal with, I have a practise to run and a locum to arrange for Clive.’

  ‘I don’t need a locum.’ It was the first full sentence he had managed, Emory thought. ‘I need to be back at work. I couldn’t bear to be in that house alone. Brooding. What good has brooding ever done anyone?’

  Dr Phillips looked about to argue and Nora Phillips looked shocked so Emory stepped in. ‘No need to make any decisions tonight, sir. The rooms have been arranged. It might be more private for you all to stay the night, if you get my meaning. Our friends in the press will be interested in this story and you may well find them camped out on your doorsteps.’

  ‘I see,’ Dr Phillips said. ‘Truthfully, I had not considered that. Very well then, we will remain here tonight.’

  ‘And I’m sure you will be able to administer a sleeping draft for your friend. If you have need of anything, then a constable can be summoned to get it for you. My inspector will want to speak to you all either later today or first thing tomorrow, but chances are he’ll be calling in a murder detective to handle this.’

  ‘A murder detective?’ Nora asked.

  ‘That’s right, Mrs Phillips. Come up from London, they will. They’ve got experience, you see, the capital being what it is. We don’t get so many murders up this way, or not so many mystery murders at any rate.’

  ‘Mystery murders?’ Nora again.

  ‘I think the sergeant means as opposed to one man thumping another too hard in a pub brawl or a man coming home in a drunken rage and attacking his wife.’ Dr Phillips looked embarrassed at the mention of dead wives.

  Emory nodded. ‘Those type of incidents are easily solved,’ he said. ‘But this is a different kettle of fish. This will need the experts. That’s not to say my inspector isn’t capable,’ he added, though something in his tone cast doubt on the assertion, ‘but it makes sense in an important case like this to get the best in to help.’

  ‘I’m sure it does,’ Phillips agreed. He glanced at his watch. ‘We should arrange for some food to be brought in,’ he said. ‘I don’t think any of us wants to brave the dining room.’

  Emory, deciding that he was being dismissed, and also that there really was nothing more he could usefully do, told Phillips that he’d have a word with the staff on his way out.

  This he did, and also stopped off in the manager’s office to call his inspector.

  ‘It’s a funny business,’ he said. ‘The husband is either a fine actor or he’s genuinely distressed. The couple they were with, Dr and Mrs Phillips – the wife’s a bit of a flibbertigibbet if you ask me, and I imagine a full day of her could be a trial. It occurs to me the dead woman might have invented this friend in the crowd, just to give herself a bit of a break. But on the other hand, if she did see someone, it’s possible that someone is who killed her.’

  It was agreed, the doctors being respectable men and, after all, both on the list of police surgeons, that reinforcements should be called and the inspector duly sent his request to the Central Office – otherwise known as the Murder Room – of the Metropolitan Police. He was told to expect officers to arrive the next day in the shape of Detective Chief Inspector Henry Johnstone and his sergeant, Michael – Mickey – Hitchens. They would be on the first available train.

  TWO

  Sergeant Emory was waiting for the detectives to arrive. Standing on the station platform he had a police car and driver on standby but suspected that they would not be required immediately. The station for Southwell, at Rolleston Junction, was on a curve of the line that ran at an oblique angle to the racecourse. The crime scene was within walking distance.

  It not being a race day few passengers alighted at the small station and Emory had no trouble identifying the detectives. It helped that the shorter, squarer one, that Emory immediately guessed was the detective sergeant, carried the now famous murder bag along with his own valise. The taller man must be the inspector. He brought to mind a thoroughbred horse, Emory thought. Lean and strong and somewhat aloof. As he came close Emory caught sight of the intelligence in the grey eyes – and a hardness too that did nothing to belie his thoroughbred analogy. Racehorses could be mean buggers, Emory thought. He too carried a valise and Emory was suddenly glad he had laid on a car and driver. They could be usefully employed in transporting luggage to the hotel.

  ‘Sergeant Emory,’ he said, holding out a hand.

  Mickey Hitchens dumped his bag on the ground and shook his hand with enthusiasm. ‘Se
rgeant Mickey Hitchens. It’s good-looking country round here, isn’t it?’

  Emory smiled broadly. ‘It is indeed. And you, sir, must be Chief Inspector Johnstone.’

  Henry inclined his head and shook the sergeant by the hand but Emory could see that his mind was elsewhere, the keen gaze taking in the lie of the land. Emory sensed that he was just impatient to get on.

  ‘There’s a car and driver outside,’ he said. ‘He will transport your bags to the hotel. The crime scene is only a walk away.’

  He could see from the grin on Mickey’s face that he had guessed right. His boss was not a man who liked to hang around. Minutes later their luggage had been deposited in the police car, the driver given instructions for meeting them in a couple of hours’ time and Emory was leading the way on to the racecourse.

  On non-race days it was possible to view the course unobstructed by the bustle of crowds and of the punters cheering on their bets. Emory noticed that while Mickey Hitchens seemed content to chat, his inspector was more inclined to look, pausing every now and then to take in the view and, presumably, draw some conclusion from his scrutiny. Sergeant Hitchens never paused to wait for his boss – something that surprised Emory at first – but DCI Johnstone’s long stride soon brought him back alongside. Twice he asked questions, briefly interrupting Mickey’s flow.

  ‘How far from the station to the paddock where the woman was found?’

  Emory was glad he had already anticipated that one and told him in both fractions of a mile and in yards.

  ‘And on race days, what would be the most direct route?’

  Emory had thought of that one too. ‘There’s a choice of possibilities,’ he said. ‘If you cut round the back of the stands you’d come out on to Crew Lane and through the space where the wagons and most of the horseboxes are parked up. Take that route and you’d be at the station in about twenty-five minutes even on a race day. If our boyo wanted to lose himself in the crowd then chances are he’d have taken a more direct, but in real terms a slower, route. I’ll indicate when we get there, but you can get out of the paddock by a side gate, cut back through where the fairground was set up – it’s take-down day so most of the showmen are still around. My men have told them you might well have questions.