May could smell spirits on him and as she approached, he staggered, reaching out to steady himself against a rusty tractor as Jack grasped his arm.
Jack glanced up at her, his gaze somber.
"May, Owen, this is George Hopeford, the husband of the victim, Alicia Hopeford."
Hesitantly, feeling her heart breaking for this bereaved husband, May stepped forward. He lifted his red-rimmed eyes to look at her, and May could see he was distraught.
"I'm so very sorry for what has happened," May said.
“I think we need to take George somewhere and sit him down,” Jack suggested. May knew this was a way of getting him away from the distressing scene, but it would also be a chance to speak to him and find out what he knew.
"Come this way," Owen invited the man, taking his arm and leading him out of the barn. It was slow going, with Sheriff Jack holding his other arm and May lighting the way to make sure he didn’t fall over anything. The man seemed dizzy and almost unable to walk, and May guessed it was a combination of drink, shock, and grief.
"I think Mr. Hopeford needs a hot drink," she said quietly to Owen when they reached the barn door. Some strong, sugary tea might be what he needed. At least it was something they could do for him.
Owen nodded. "I'll get him sitting down in the farmhouse kitchen, and make him some tea," he agreed quietly.
In the meantime, May took a deep breath, knowing that she needed to view the corpse, to see if this scene offered any clues or pointers to the killer's identity.
She turned away from George and headed inside.
Beyond him, near the back of the barn, the two officers were setting up more lights, and it was here that May saw the sprawled body of the victim.
The victim, a woman with graying hair, wearing a faded housecoat, was lying on her back. Her blue eyes stared sightlessly up. The small but clearly deep wound in her chest indicated a swift, accurate blow from the weapon which May was sure must be a scythe.
Were there any other clues? Determinedly, she looked around, taking in the scene. What else could she see that would tell her something?
She looked down at the dusty ground nearby, in the shadow of a tarpaulin, wondering if the killer might have left a footprint.
She caught her breath. There was something, on the ground, visible in the dust.
"There's a print here," she called to one of the officers. There might be others near here. Let's keep this area clear. It might be the killer's. It seems likely, given where it is relative to the victim."
She stared down at the clear, large footprint which had the distinctive tread of a boot sole, so it had not been made by George in his slippers. They could measure this. They might even be able to find the make of shoe it was from. This was the first time that there had been a footprint at a scene. The killer was slipping up. He was killing in a frenzy, with kills closer and closer together, and he was making mistakes. May hoped fervently that this mistake would be useful in catching him.
"That was well spotted," one of the police officers said, hurrying over. "We didn't pick any up near the door and thought he'd covered his tracks, as all there were in the dust were smears. He must have missed this one."
Was there anything else that could point the way?
May took her flashlight off her belt and shone it into the dark corners where the spotlight didn't reach but couldn't find anything else in the junk-filled, cluttered barn that the killer had used as his lair.
It was time to go and speak to George Hopeford, and although May was not looking forward to this heart-wrenching job, she knew that George might know something important.
She turned and headed out of the barn, across the paved courtyard with grass sprouting from between the bricks andmade for the kitchen door. She glimpsed Sheriff Jack, striding out of the courtyard to meet the coroner who had just arrived.
In the kitchen, she could see Owen supporting George as he sat, swaying, on a wooden kitchen chair. Owen was trying to feed him tea, which George, in his drunken grief, kept spilling. Quickly, May grabbed a cloth from the sink and brought it over.
"She used to go collect the eggs at this time. Every evening, she'd do it. She didn't come back, so I went to look for her. And found her, dead!" he sobbed.
"Do you remember if anyone was hanging around the farm, if there were any problems with any workers? Any problems with anyone in Alicia's life?" May probed gently.
"There were no problems," George slurred. "I didn't notice anything. We haven't hired anyone recently. Been doing the work ourselves. We had to, you see, because of the medical bills."
Owen nodded sympathetically.
"What medical bills?" May asked curiously.
"The bills from Alicia's accident last year. She was in a bad accident. She fell off the tractor and landed on a steel fence post. It pierced her stomach. She almost died. Got sepsis. Almost died. They had her on life support for a week. It cost me a fortune. It was paid off a month ago. We were just getting on our feet again. And now, she's gone."