She turned to face the detectives and leaned back against the worktop. “I should make some tea. I come in every day and the first thing I do is make tea.” She poured water from the tap into the metal kettle and placed it on the hob. “Two lumps and no more than two lumps, he would say to me. Every day he would tell me when the kettle started whistling even though I’ve been working here four months. Every day.”

“Do you know how Mr. Tipring lost his leg?” asked Theo.

“At first he wouldn’t tell me. Said I should mind my own business. However, in time, he explained he received a wound in the war, and because of an infection his leg had to be amputated. Apparently, it’s why he received the medal in the drawing room.”

“Okay, Ms. Perkins,” Dorland said, “do you have any idea what happened today? Any idea why someone would murder Mr. Tipring?”

“What do you mean? Should I know what happened?”

“Did your boss have any enemies. Anyone who would want to kill him. Did he get on with his neighbors? Did he owe someone money? Maybe he owned something valuable and someone killed him for it?”

“No,” she cried out. “That’s horrible. No, he never had any enemies. He was just an old man who couldn’t even walk very far. He rarely left the house. I think he must have been the most boring person on the street. I can think of five other people just on this crescent who would be more likely targets than Mr. Tipring.”

“Why was he outside this morning? Was it to get his morning newspaper?” Theo asked her, motioning the nurse to sit in the reclining chair.

“He retrieved his paper every morning and left it on the kitchen table until his tea was prepared. I told him when I started working for him that I could bring the paper in when I arrived but he told me it was something he liked to do for himself.”

“And he never even started reading the paper until you arrived anyway?”

“No. He always waited to read the paper until I had prepared his tea and toast. A creature of habit that man was. But, many older people become like that. I worked for an older man before Mr. Tipring who had to have his bath at ten twenty-five in the morning. Every day. On the dot. One day, there was not any hot water for his bath. When I told him to wait while I boiled the water, he didn’t. He climbed into the freezing-cold water. I found him shivering and blue trying to find the soap he had lost under the water. The silly old man nearly froze to death; he ended up in the hospital with pneumonia. Some older people are just like that, I hope if I become like that someone will just shoot me and put me out of my misery.” She stopped. The kettle let out a loud whistle and she shut the burner off. “Would you like a cup?”

Theo nodded.

She retrieved three white cups from the cupboards and placed them on the table with matching sugar container.

“I really need to ask about the gallery,” said Theo. “It really is very unusual. Tiles pushed into pink mortar. Did he consider it artwork?”

“He was very attached to those creations. He considered it art. In fact, the previous full-time nurse told me that when he does leave the house, it often is only to an art gallery where some of that artwork was displayed. He never asked me to take him there so I don’t know how much art he has sold or has on display.”

“Does it mean something?” asked Theo. “Most art contains or portrays a message, something the artist is trying to express.”

“I don’t know, I never asked. He never told me. When he . . . I don’t know, some nights he would go in there and sit down and just stare at them. Lost in contemplation. I thought that he liked the art because they are orderly, each tile the same size, in rows, orderly, maybe looking at them calmed his mind.”

“Is there a chance that whoever killed Mr. Tipring did so because he wanted to have access to the art?”

“Are you asking me if someone wanted to steal those pieces of art? Why? Why would they want to? I doubt anyone knew he had art here. In the four months I have worked here, he had never had a single visitor. Not one. Besides me, no one has entered this house, until today.”

“And nothing, none of his art has been stolen?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. None are missing, as far as I can tell.”

“And he never had art anywhere else in the house?”

“Just there.”

Theo pointed to the roof. “This is a two story house. Does Mr. Tipring own both flats?”

“He only uses the downstairs.”

“Who lives upstairs?”

“No one, it’s empty. He keeps . . . kept both the upstairs and the downstairs but no one lives up there. Mr. Tipring liked the quiet; it would have been too noisy for him if someone were upstairs trampling on the floor all day. I believe he keeps . . . kept it empty, but I have never been upstairs. He could have used it for storage, but I doubt it because he would have such a difficult time climbing the stairs to fetch anything.”

“Do you have a key for upstairs?”

“No. He must have one, but I don’t know where he would have kept it.”

“That’s all right. We may find it around here. Do you know of any family Mr. Tipring had that we should notify?”

“He kept all his correspondence and bills in there. I think if he had any letters from his family, it would be with them.” She opened the pantry and pulled out a wheeled three-drawer plastic container. Inside were neatly labelled files and other correspondence.

“We would like to take these. Dorland, try and find a way to contact his nearest relative. Also, I would like you to find the key to the upstairs flat. In the meantime, I’m going to re-visit your uncle.”

Chapter Eight

The body was hoisted into the bus by ten. Theo stood in the drive as the workers wrapped up their various assignments. The pathologist sang a chipper tune. For them, the case was well underway, but for him, it was only the beginning.

“What do you have for me?” Theo asked. “Please tell me everything I need to know to solve this case.”

“Oh, and ruin your fun? I think not.” Dr. Waynton leaned in, almost touching Theo’s cheek with his nose. “However, I will be happy to tell you what I know. First of all: our man has one leg. That, my friends, did not happen this morning. Also, he was stabbed once in the chest. That did happen this morning, and it was fatal. I would imagine he died almost instantly. I see no other marks or wounds other than a small one on the back of the head, which he most likely received when he fell backwards. As far as I can tell, he was not beat up or anything. That is my point.”

“Time of death?” Theo asked.

“Around seven this morning give or take a half hour or so. For now, that’s all I have for you. However, after the postmortem is complete, I should be able to tell you more.” Waynton made his way to his car, but stopped. “Uh, Blackwell, I forgot. There is something else. Talk to SOCO. I bagged a note found in our victim’s robe pocket. We couldn’t understand what it meant but it might be key to the case.”

“Thank you.”

Immediately, Theo headed off in the direction of the SOCO van. Four or five men were loading totes of supplies and evidence. A young man in a blue jumpsuit, clearly SOCO, turned and gave Theo a nod.

“You’re here about the note,” the man said and held out his hand. “Woolsey, Ryan Woolsey.” He removed his latex glove and grabbed Theo’s hand to shake it heartily. From a box in the bus, he retrieved a clear bag. Inside was a small nicely cut and laminated square piece of paper.

Theo looked down at the note: Why Run Backward You’ll Vomit.

“That’s it?” Theo asked. He turned the note over a few times as if the movement might reveal more words. “What does it mean?”

“I’ve asked everyone on the scene if they’ve heard this expression and it’s a no. Sorry. Perhaps we’ll find a key to the note in the papers we took from his house.”