TWENTY-THREE
Even before Frances Sexton entered his house, he knew that there was something wrong. It was instinct rather than evidence at first. As he walked up the path, he experienced a strange, irrational sensation as though a shadow had fallen over him and he shivered. When he discovered the front door was unlocked, it was no longer instinct. His heart constricted and a desperate inner panic took hold of him. Flinging down his case in the hall he raced to the cellar, his terror growing with every step. Before he got there, he knew what he would find – the unlocked front door had told him that much. Nevertheless, when he entered the gloomy chamber and saw the empty bed, and the blood-smeared handcuff, his legs grew weak and his body shook with horror. Within seconds of entering the ce
