What Will Burn by James Oswald (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

half-burned rafters and crumbled plaster blocked the way on to what might once have been a landing.

‘From what I’m told, she didn’t use the upstairs, sir.’ Harrison correctly read his gaze and pointed to a couple of doors on the opposite side of the hall to the kitchen. ‘There’s a bedroom to the front there, and the bathroom’s next door.’

McLean looked in both of them, but it was obvious the forensics team had been there before him. He caught sight of fingerprint dusting powder here and there, and all the toiletries and brushes had been moved to one end of the dressing table in the bedroom. He stood for a while, trying to imagine a ninety-year-old lady living here on her own, searching for an idea of who Cecily Slater had been, but there was nothing of her in the place. Or at least nothing he could sense.

It was only as he stepped out of the bedroom back into the hall that he noticed the cupboard under the stairs. It was locked, but the keyhole was much the same size as the key he’d found in the kitchen drawer, and when he slotted it in and turned it, the lock clicked and the door swung open. Too dark to see much, but he pulled out a pen torch and clicked it on, scanning the light over the interior.

A mop and bucket, an elderly vacuum cleaner, its flex that brittle fabric material he remembered from his childhood, two dustpans and brushes hanging from hooks on the back of the door; the little cupboard contained exactly what McLean would have expected it to. There was even a shelf with little pots of shoe polish, Brasso and a neat pile of folded polishing cloths. Wedged in under the stair, he saw an old hazel broom, handmade, its handle shiny with decades of use. He reached in and picked it up, feeling a substantial weight to the thing. A good balance, too.

‘Wow, that’s a proper witches’ broom, right enough. Reckon you could play Quidditch with that.’ Harrison stared at the broom, her mouth slightly open as if it were something far less mundane than a tool for sweeping floors.

‘Quidditch?’ McLean asked, even though he knew what she was talking about.

‘You know, sir. Harry Potter?’

‘Here you go then, Hermione. Take it outside for a spin.’ He thrust the broom at her. Startled, Harrison took it in one hand. He thought she would underestimate its weight, let it fall to the floor. He had, after all. But the moment she touched it, her hand jerked upwards a little, then steadied. She swung the handle around until she held it in both hands, but drew the line at straddling it, which was just as well. He might have tolerated that from a constable, but never a sergeant.

Turning back to the cupboard, McLean saw what looked like an old shoebox lying on the ground under the lowest stair tread. It had been hidden behind the broom, no doubt forgotten many years before. He crouched, leaned in and fetched it out, seeing as he did so that it was tied up with the same red ribbon as the key. The top of the box was thick with dust, but he could make out handwriting underneath it. He carried the box to the porch, blowing away the dust as best he could. Outside, the rain had strengthened, coming down in stair rods. What was it the Welsh said? Old ladies and sticks? He looked back at Harrison holding her broomstick, then past her to the room where the old lady had died.

‘What is it?’ the detective sergeant asked, although whether she meant the box or his sudden change in expression he had no idea. He wiped away the last of the dust from the box and peered at the writing on the top again. A single word, written in neat ink that had faded over time.

‘Burntwoods?’ Harrison asked as she leaned over his shoulder for a look. ‘What’s Burntwoods?’

‘I have no idea,’ McLean said. Outside the falling rain had begun to roar as it hit the ground and the surrounding trees. ‘But it looks like we’re stuck here for a while, so we might as well have a look.’

13

They took the box back to the kitchen, the only place in the house that had a couple of chairs. Judging by the state of the table, the forensic team had been making use of the facilities while they were here, although McLean wasn’t sure how they’d managed to boil a kettle. The range had a cold, dead feel to it, and the electricity had been cut off when the collapsing back wall had snapped the overhead cable bringing power to the house.

‘Could really do with a little more light,’ McLean said as he carefully untied the red ribbon and took the lid off the box. Rain clattered against the window, and the sky had turned almost black. Harrison dug into her pocket and pulled out her phone, tapping at the screen until the flash on the back lit up. The pale yellow light wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

‘There you go, sir. Hope it doesn’t kill the battery.’

McLean grunted his thanks, then turned his attention once more to the box. Inside lay a collection of papers, photographs, letters written in neat copperplate handwriting, a few ancient invoices and some yellowing newspaper cuttings. He picked up a postcard showing a sepia print image of the seafront at Carnoustie, at least that was what it said it was. Flipping it over, he saw that it had been addressed to C. Slater, the address not Bairnfather Estate, but Burntwoods in Angus. No post code, and the stamp would have excited many a collector – this card had been sent sometime before the Second World War, when Cecily Slater would have been a young girl.

‘Can you read that? My eyes can’t cope.’ McLean held the card up for Harrison to see, relieved that