Dead In The Morning by Margaret Yorke

on his knee. The Sergeant retreated into a corner by the wall; it would not do for either of them to sink into the recesses of the leather armchair in the presence of this formidable person.
    “I apologise, madam, if I have caused offence,” the Inspector managed to remark.
    Mrs Ludlow inclined her head. She sat composed.
    “Well?” she said.
    Inspector Foster cleared his throat.
    “On Saturday night, madam, you were alone in the house with Mrs Mackenzie, as Mrs Medhurst and Miss Ludlow had gone down to the Stable House,” he said.
    “That is correct.”
    “According to Mrs Medhurst, you had dinner in your room. When she and the young lady left you had not finished your meal?”
    “Quite right. They rushed out. Asking for digestive trouble,” Mrs Ludlow said.
    “Mrs Mackenzie removed your tray? When was that?”
    “At half-past eight precisely,” Mrs Ludlow said. “I know, because I had just turned on my wireless to listen to the play. Saturday night theatre, you know.”
    “Ah yes. What did you have for your meal, madam? Can you remember?”
    “Of course I can remember. I’m not in my dotage, young man,” snapped Mrs Ludlow. “I had cold cucumber soup, chicken fricassee with rice and runner beans - from the garden, the only way. We eat none of your processed foodstuffs here.”
    “Quite so. And for sweet?”
    “The pudding was lemon meringue pie. I did not eat it,” Mrs Ludlow said.
    “Why was that? Don’t you care for it?”
    “I would not be served with a pudding I do not care for in my own house,” said Mrs Ludlow repressively. “But I was not as well as usual, that evening. I had had a tiring time the night before, greeting my new daughter-in-law.”
    “I’m sorry you should have this shock to face now,” said the Inspector.
    “So am I,” said Mrs Ludlow. “But nevertheless I shall manage to do it. My generation has more mettle than yours,” she added, regarding the Inspector with disfavour.
    “How did Mrs Mackenzie seem when she removed your tray?”
    “Perfectly well. We did not converse, as I was listening to the wireless.”
    “And was that the last time you saw her?”
    “No. She brought me a glass of hot milk - I always have one at night - and assisted me to prepare finally for bed at the conclusion of the play,” said Mrs Ludlow.
    “Her manner was in no way strange?”
    Mrs Ludlow frowned.
    “She had been drinking,” she said. “I could smell the whisky on her breath. But there was nothing amiss with her deportment.”
    “Did these final preparations of yours take long?”
    “Five minutes or so,” said Mrs Ludlow, primping her lips. No policeman of whatever rank would extract more details from her.
    “And did Mrs Mackenzie retire to bed after that?”
    “I presume so.”
    “What about yourself, madam?”
    “I listened to the wireless for some time. I heard my daughter and my granddaughter return. My daughter saw that my light was on and she came in to make sure that I was comfortable,” said Mrs Ludlow.
    “And you had a good night’s sleep?”
    “As good as I can hope for nowadays.”
    “I see. In fact, the routine that evening was quite normal?”
    “Perfectly. My daughter seldom goes out, she knows her duty to her mother, but if she does, Mrs Mackenzie has always been a satisfactory substitute.”
    “You’ll miss her,” stated the Inspector.
    Mrs Ludlow bowed her head again.
    “And yesterday morning? Was that normal too?”
    “You must already be aware, young man, that it was not,” said Mrs Ludlow frostily. “My breakfast was late. My granddaughter and I concluded that Mrs Mackenzie must have overslept.”
    “You knew that Mrs Medhurst had gone to church?”
    “She mentioned it the night before.” Mrs Ludlow had forgotten this by morning, but there was no point in revealing her small failure to the policeman.
    “So your granddaughter went to rouse Mrs Mackenzie?”
    “Phyllis should have gone herself. I told her to.”
    “Mrs Ludlow, forgive