Angel of Death by Charlotte Lamb Page A

look well, and that wasn’t simply because of her injuries. Dorothy had noticed a deep-seated malaise in her daughter’s eyes. But the misery had been there for a long time, ever since Tom died.
    They had been so happy together. Dorothy had rarely seen a couple who were so perfectly suited. His death had blighted Miranda’s life. She had always been a very affectionate child. She was not one of those cool, self-contained people who do not appear to need people. Miranda was open and loving with her family and friends.
    On her wedding day she had been a radiant bride; her happiness visible, even in the photos Dorothy kept on her mantelpiece at home. It had been a wonderful occasion; everyone who had been there had been uplifted by seeing such a joyful bride and groom.
    The tragedy of losing Tom in such a terrifying way had shadowed the child’s life ever since, though. Dorothy sensed that her daughter had not recovered even now.
    She needed to spend some time somewhere very quiet and peaceful, especially now, after this accident. Dorothy was determined to take her back to the country; force-feed her, if necessary, see that she went to bed early, make her take walks in God’s good air, spend time in the garden, let nature work its miracle. She believed in nature’s power to heal.
    In her capacious shopping bag, Dorthy had packed some of her own produce; a box of freshly laid eggs, a bag of mixed, washed vegetables; tomatoes, courgettes, onions, cauliflower, potatoes. Another bag of fruit; gooseberries, raspberries. But she would need other items; staples like rice, spaghetti, salt and pepper, flour and olive oil.
    She was heavily laden by the time she put the key into the front door of Miranda’s flat. Putting down her bags she pushed the door shut behind her then groped for the light switch.
    Stupid woman, you should have put that on first, she thought. Now, where is it? While she was feeling along the wall with one hand, she was taken aback by a sound, and then the faint rustle of a movement.
    She realised with a gulp of shock that there was somebody else in here, in the dark, with her. Somebody trying to breathe quietly.
    ‘Who’s that?’ she cried, trying to see in the shadows, but only glimpsing a solid bulk in front of her.
    It ran at her a second later. Dorothy shrank back with a gasp, but could not get out of the way. Blows began to shower on to her head.

Chapter Four

    Miranda was sipping milky coffee during the mid-morning break next day when Sergeant Maddrell arrived, marching without hesitation along the ward under the close scrutiny of the other women, who stirred and began to whisper, recognising him from yesterday.
    ‘Your young man’s back,’ Joan Patterson whispered to her. ‘He looks like a policeman – is he?’
    Was she a witch, wondered Miranda, or had she asked Nurse Embry? Gossip went round the ward like wildfire; everyone seemed to know what was wrong with everyone else, all about their marital status and relationships, their jobs and personal problems.
    ‘Good morning, Miranda,’ Neil said, apparently oblivious to the stares and murmurs, drawing the curtains round her bed before he pulled out her chair and sat down. ‘How are you today?’
    ‘Fine,’ she said, although she was in some discomfort all the time, with her arm and her leg, not to mention the dull ache in her head. There was no real pain involved, but at the same time she never felt really well and the drugs she was being given to keep her pain under control made her feel vaguely depressed and lethargic.
    He hesitated, studying her, and she tensed, watching his face, certain suddenly that he was going to give her bad news.
    ‘What is it? Something’s wrong, I can feel it. What’s happened?’
    ‘Now, don’t get upset, this isn’t anything terrible,’ he quickly said. ‘Be calm, please.’
    ‘Tell me, just tell me!’ Easy for him to ask her to be calm, when his very expression made her heart beat fiercely, and made