| |
The guests were already assembled in the Hardwick Room when I made my belated appearance. I slipped inside where a tall, elegant figure in a sharp suit stood addressing the Guild members.
“Please be assured,” I heard him say in a pleasant, but commanding voice, “that we will make every effort to make the process as painless and as quick as possible.”
I leaned back against the door, listening to his words and admiring his bottom.
“With so many crime writers, I’m sure you’ve all got theories as to who done it,” he paused, as though waiting for a laugh that never came. “I’d prefer it if you please keep those ideas to yourselves. However, if you do know anything salient about your colleague’s death, then by all means inform me or a constable, either now or when you are interviewed. Thank you.”
He turned to leave and I stood away from the door, noticing the way his brown hair curled into his neck and his grey intelligent eyes. Thank goodness, I thought. Let’s hope he has more sense than his sergeant.
“Hello,” he said, taking a notebook from his pocket. “I didn’t see you there. You are?”
“Verity Long.”
“Are you an author, Mrs Long?”
“No, I only work for one. And it’s Miss.”
He nodded. “Duly noted. Thank you. Please join your friends.” He shut the book with a snap and went out.
“Where have you been?” KD demanded, pulling me across to sit beside her.
Keeping my voice low, I told her, giving my report in the clear, concise way she had trained me to do.
“Good Lord. Do you think someone’s having a joke?”
“A joke? Oh, yes, I bet Digby finds it hilarious.” Her eyes rebuked me for my levity. “Why do you think it’s a joke, KD?”
“Well,” she said, interlacing her fingers, “it’s all rather ‘Cluedo’. Isn’t it? You know, in the library with the candlestick, and all that.”
“It’s also a perfect Agatha Christie title.”
She nodded her head, vigorously. “The Body in the Library, yes. From what Simon said when he got here, it’s a locked room mystery, too. Something that Digby himself was renowned for. Another reason for me asking if it was a joke.”
“Hmm. Only to someone with a very warped sense of humour.” I didn’t think it was meant to be funny but I wondered if the murderer were making a point. “Besides,” I went on, “there’s no mystery about the sealed library.”
“You know how it was done?” Her eyes widened with surprise.
“Yes, I think so.”
“What are you two talking about? You look like a pair of conspirators.” Katherine Peartree smiled down at us. She wore a light green dress that fitted the still youthful figure like a glove. I noticed the envious glance KD gave it and smiled to myself. KD had a figure that could best be described as ‘homely’, a fact she was always bemoaning.
“Good morning, Katherine. I didn’t see you earlier. Have you heard what happened?”
“Yes, I’ve just been told. Trust me to be late for breakfast and miss all the fun.” She pulled a face. “Sorry. It’s really quite shocking, isn’t it?”
“It is rather.” I nodded, remembering the sight of Digby’s upper torso sprawled over the desk. Shuddering, I changed the subject. “What did the Inspector have to say?”
“They’re keeping us in here while the constable takes names and addresses. After that we are free to go about our business but not to leave the premises.”
“Are the workshops going ahead, then?”
“It looks like it. By rights we should have been open to the public in, oh...” She pulled back her sleeve and glanced at her watch. “...another twenty minutes. Usborne seems to think the publicity will be good. Once the news gets out, he’s expecting reporters and TV cameras to arrive in droves. Sadly, I think he’s right.”
“I wonder how long this is going to take.” Katherine surveyed the gathering, none of whom seemed eager to move away after giving their details to the handful of constables moving around the room. Rather, they gathered in little groups, gossiping about the grisly manner of Digby’s death. “I’m not sure I can face a welcome meeting after this.”
A police constable approached almost immediately, made a note of our names, addresses, and occupations and then asked if we’d seen or heard anything that might have a bearing on the victim’s death. I saw my two companions wince at this reference to their late colleague, but really, I thought, that’s exactly what Gervaise had become. Surprised at their squeamishness — maybe it’s different when it happens to one of your own — I wondered whether I should mention the row I’d heard from inside the ladies’ room yesterday. In the end I decided not to, and to wait until I had more evidence to give them.
“So, Verity,” said KD when the young policeman had gone, “any ideas who killed him?”
“Oh, yes. There are any number of suspects, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
She gave me a stern look from under her dark fringe.
“Just as I’m sure you’re going to investigate, aren’t you?”
“Me? Why on earth should I do that? That’s the police’s job.”
“Uh huh. Actually, I think you should. Just as long as you’re careful, of course.”
“You really want me to get involved?”
She nodded. “I might as well give my blessing. You’ll poke your inquisitive nose in anyway. So who are you going to ‘interview’ first?”
I grinned. My boss knows me far too well. Not so Katherine, who gasped.
“Oooh, how exciting. Our own investigator.”
Exciting? Deadly might be a better word if past experience was anything to go by.
“Actually, I thought I might start with Dara.”
“She’s in the little conference room setting up for her workshop,” Katherine informed me.
“Is there anything we can do?”
“Yes, there is, actually.”
“All right. That shouldn’t be too difficult,” she said when I told her what I wanted her to do. “But be careful, Verity. Remember what happened last time.”
Despite evidence to the contrary, I do try to take care, something that I kept telling my boss. Is it my fault if she doesn’t believe me?
“Last time?” asked Katherine.
I left KD explaining my involvement in the Star Steps case to her friend and went to the Reception desk. Yes, I intended to speak to Dara, but first I wanted to know if a certain chambermaid was on duty.
“Gladys? Yes, you’ll find her in one of the first floor bedrooms.” I was told and mounted the staircase.
“The window, Miss?” she asked when I found her, a pillow stuck under her chin as she changed its cover. “Yes, it opened all right. I was in there early yesterday helping Betty. She normally does the front range, the Gallery, bar, and library. I could ask her if you want.”
“You didn’t open it yourself?”
“No, Miss. I did the bookcases, Betty cleaned windows, swept the floor, and polished the desk.”
Ah, yes, the desk. That prompted another question.
“Where were the candlesticks kept?”
“On top of the mantelpiece, Miss. There’s a matching pair.”
I nodded.
“Well, thanks, Gladys. Would you check with Betty and let me know, please? You can leave a message at reception for me. I’m Verity Long.”
“Right you are, Miss.” She put the freshly dressed pillow back on the bed and proceeded to shake the quilt. “Will do.”
I was about to leave when a thought struck me.
“Oh, just one more question. Are there any secret passages at Horslea Manor?”
She shook her head. “Not as I’ve heard, Miss, and my mum never mentioned any as I know to, and she worked here for more ’n twenty five years before the arthritis got to her.”
Bugger, I thought. Still, at least it laid that idea to rest. It fitted better in one of the victim’s own novels anyway.
I thanked Gladys and made my way back downstairs, across the courtyard and into the conference centre complex. Dara was likely to prove a far more difficult person to ask questions of than the amiable chambermaid and I pondered how best to approach her. After some deliberation, I decided to take my cue from her and if she gave me any trouble, come down hard on her. I could play the old good cop/bad cop routine all on my own if I had to.
“Hello, Dara. Mind if I ask you a few questions about this morning?”
“Well, I am rather busy just at the moment.”
She got up from the floor where she had been plugging in the extension cord for her laptop and started arranging various cue cards that lay scattered across the table in front of her. She had changed her clothes since earlier this morning when she’d worn a long flowing skirt; now her legs were clad in black leather drainpipe trousers tucked into the same knee-high boots she’d had on yesterday. Her glossy black hair was held at the nape with an ornate clip and draped over her right shoulder, while more beads than you could shake a stick at adorned her neck and hung around it like over-large rosaries.
“It won’t take long,” I said. “I just wanted to know if you’d seen anything when you walked past the library this morning.”
“Me?” Her head shot up from the papers she’d been shuffling on the table. “I wasn’t anywhere near the library.” She gave me a long hard stare as if daring me to contradict her. So I did.
“Yes you were. I saw you. You walked right past it.”
Her gaze slid away. “What if I did? What’s that to you?”
“Nothing at all, but the police would be interested, don’t you think?”
She glared at me. I pressed on.
“So, did you see anything? Did you happen to glance inside?”
“No and no. Now if you don’t mind, Miss er...”
I leaned forward, palms flat on the table. “What were you doing round there, Dara? Did you have an assignation with Alex Magee?”
“No! He’s married. I mean —“
Her artificially pale cheeks flamed scarlet.
“Marriage doesn’t stop them, only encourage them,” I told her. “Did you have an assignation with Damien Haynes, too?”
“Certainly not! Just what do you think I am?”
It was tempting to tell her, but I held my tongue. I’d still more questions to ask.
“Did you see Damien?”
“No, I didn’t. Look, if you must know...” She broke off and checked the room, empty but for the two of us. “I arranged to meet Alex in the walled garden and, before you say anything, it wasn’t what you think.”
“Go on,” I said. What I thought didn’t matter.
“Well, when we came to leave, we realised that people might draw the wrong conclusions, as you did,” she added, loftily, forgetting that she and her companion had been the first to have those same base thoughts. “So, Alex went first and then I followed him about five minutes later.”
Hmm. I wasn’t sure that I bought it; she hadn’t been that far behind him when I’d seen them. Still, if they could alibi each other in the walled garden, then they couldn’t have been committing murder in the library.
“I see,” I said, doing nothing of the sort. “And what about Digby?”
“What about him?”
“Did he make a pass at you? He tried it on me and someone else, so I wondered...”
“Yes, he did, but that was just Digby. No woman was safe with him around, but so what? There are a lot of men like that. I’m used to it.”
For all I knew, Dara spent her life fighting off amorous men and relished the experience. She certainly made it sound that way but I wasn’t so sure she was being honest.
“Did that upset you? Digby coming on to you, I mean.”
Her head shot up, the mouth twisted in a sneer. “Not enough to kill him, if that’s what you’re implying. I can handle sleaze balls like Digby Gervaise well enough without resorting to murder.”
“Had you met him before?”
“Yes, I met him at Harrogate, but this is my first writers’ workshop. I haven’t been a member of the Guild for very long, so this was my first chance to meet all the members.”
She heaved a sigh to show her irritation at being questioned. Tough cheese! She’d have to go through them all again when the police interviewed her. I was doing her a favour and letting her practice.
“Did you see him in the library on your way back from the garden?”
“No, and to be honest, given what I’ve just told you, you’ll understand I wasn’t looking in the window when I passed.”
I wasn’t sure that that followed, but I nodded anyway. Presumably, I was supposed to think her mind was still engaged in sexual frolics, rather than gazing in library windows.
“OK, thanks, Dara. I just hoped you might have seen whoever killed Digby still in the library with him.”
“Thank goodness I didn’t.” She shivered, a long ripple of the elegant shoulders. “Besides, my mind was on other things. This workshop for a start.”
“And you neither saw nor heard anything from the library when you walked right past it?”
“No. I’ve told you I didn’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot to do.”
She turned away and started ticking off items on a list and I wondered who Digby had ticked off enough to make them want to kill him. Smiling grimly to myself, I left her to it. If Alex corroborated her story then it looked as if both of them were in the clear.
I didn’t like Dara and, seeking the reason for that dislike, admitted it had more to do with her ignoring me when KD introduced us yesterday than any reflection on her having it off with a married man she’d only just met, and turning a writers’ workshop into a dirty weekend. In other words, it was personal and I needed to put my animosity toward her aside and concentrate on the motives and opportunity for Gervaise’s murder.
*****
I went in search of Alex Magee and found him sitting alone in the residents’ lounge at the far end of which, in front of a closed library door, a uniformed policeman stood guard.
“Are they still in there?” I asked.
He nodded. “Hello, Verity. Yes they’re still there. Join in me in a cup of coffee? There’s a fresh jug on the bar.”
I helped myself as he went on. “The doctor and the Scene of Crimes team are in there with the Inspector chappie, now.”
“I understand you and Dara were in the Walled Garden this morning.”
“Yes. We were adjusting our chakras.”
What? He came perilously close to being sprayed with the mouthful of hot coffee I’d just taken. Hell’s teeth, but I’ve heard some classic euphemisms in my time, but that was a corker. Adjusting their chakras, indeed.
“Of course, what’s happened since has completely thrown mine out of kilter.”
He nodded towards the library door with such vehemence, I was surprised that it was only his chakra out of alignment. It confirmed Dara’s statement, though, and appeared to alibi them both.
“Did you see or hear anything when you came past the library afterwards?”
He gave this a moment’s thought, “No, I don’t think so. To be honest, I was eager to get inside and have breakfast. Although...”
“Yes?”
“Well, it was probably nothing, but I’m sure I heard raised voices. Whether they came from the library, though, I’m not sure.”
“Men’s or women’s voices, would you say?”
I was too quick with the question and he regarded me suspiciously.
“Shouldn’t you be leaving the investigating to the police? That’s what they’re here for. Or do you see yourself as an amateur sleuth, in the mould of Agnes Merryweather, perhaps?”
I smiled in recognition of KD’s own detective, but she’s a vicar. I’m only a nosy researcher.
“Me? I’m just curious, that’s all.”
He probably thought this a trait inherent in all women and my words seemed to satisfy him for he sat back, crossing his green-trousered legs.
“What is curious,” he said, “is that Gervaise was found in a locked room. That has to be karma, don’t you think?”
“Karma?” It sounded more like a carefully plotted murder to me.
“Well, he did rather make the format his own. Not that he was the best, though he was certainly prolific.”
“You didn’t think much of him did you?”
“I appreciated his skill as a writer. He did win the Golden Gun, after all. Locked In Death is a bloody good book, and by far his best work.”
He echoed almost word for word what Harry Devine had said last night and I was about to ask him if he found that surprising when the door to the library suddenly opened and a man with a doctor’s bag in his hand came out.
“I’ll get the results to you as quickly as I can, but it’s likely to be Tuesday at the earliest,” he said, presumably talking about the post mortem and addressing himself to the Inspector who was still inside the room.
He stood back as two white-coated technicians stretchered out the sheeted remains of the late and apparently unlamented Digby.
Alex turned in his chair as they passed, seemingly unconcerned at our proximity to violent death or the thought that he earned his living from fictionalising the same thing. Maybe setting his stories in Ancient Rome distanced him from the realities of such brutality, but I couldn’t feel so calm about it and repressed a shiver as the men and their burden drew level and went on out towards the main door.
“Well,” said Alex, turning back to face me, “this has really screwed up the weekend.”
“Especially for Digby, of course.”
“Hmm, yes, of course.” He looked shamefaced. “What I meant was—”
“That life goes on?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Have you any idea who killed him, Alex?”
“No, I haven’t. Though I did wonder...”
“Yes?” I leaned forward.
“Well,” He took off his glasses revealing pale blue eyes, and proceeded to polish the lenses with a paper tissue that he took from a little packet in his jacket pocket. “I did wonder about Simon.”
“Usborne? Why would he kill him?”
“Oh, for the publicity of course. Publicity not only for the Guild but also the Award.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “That seems a little extreme, surely.”
“Have you seen outside, Verity?” He waved a hand towards the window. “There’s at least one camera crew, a whole slew of reporters and the public is flocking in, all eager to part with a tenner in order to have the chance of seeing a bunch of bloody crime writers bump each other off. Bah, it makes me sick.”
He stood abruptly and marched out of the lounge, leaving me to make whatever I would of his outburst. Stap me, I thought, what was that all about?
I had read a fair few crime books since I’d started working for KD nine months ago and, over that time, as we had discussed her work, she had educated me, little by little, on the genre. While I was still no expert on its various forms, I’d always been fascinated by locked room mysteries, and the many methods that writers used to explain an otherwise impossible crime; the secret passage, the palmed key, the door that isn’t really locked and so on. In this instance, assuming I was right, the solution was stupidly simple. Did that mean it wasn’t a writer who’d thought of it? I drank some coffee and wished I’d thought to fetch my pad and pen before I’d started talking to people. I like to make notes, lists, anything to help me in working things out. I also use it to remind me of who said what, because sometimes when they’re talking, people give more away than they realise. I went over the conversations I’d just had with Dara and Alex to see if the same thing had happened here.
My musings were interrupted by the sound of the library door opening again.
“All right, Sergeant, you go and do that. I need to speak to Usborne again.” The police inspector followed his minion into the lounge. “I’ll lock up for now and give Stuart here the key.”
I put my head down and turned it to one side, away from the approaching police officers, letting the fall of my hair cover my face as I pretended to fiddle with my shoe. Reminded of Rose Hanning-Barrett’s long, buckled footwear, I waited till they’d walked past without stopping and, as soon as they’d gone, shot upstairs, grabbing my much needed implements before going outside to the broken library window.
The empty space where the glass had been until I’d bowled a yorker at it, was now boarded up with a piece of chipboard. It didn’t matter. I wanted a closer look at that sill. I confirmed what my brief sideways glance and my probing fingers had spotted, made a few notes on my pad and knelt again to that foot mark in the soil, firstly trying to draw the shape of it and secondly to make sense of it.
“Are you all right there, Miss?”
I spun round so fast that I lost my balance and landed on my bottom in the gravel path.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Here, let me help you up.”
I reached up and grasped the calloused, rough hand of an attractive young man.
“Thank you, Mr...?” I said, as he heaved me to my feet as if I weighed no more than a child.
“It’s Wellman, Miss, but most people call me Jonathan.”
I looked at him closely. He wore thick cord trousers with an open-necked shirt under a padded leather sleeveless jacket with lots of pockets from one of which the end of a ball of twine was escaping. A folding knife hung from his belt and the hand that hadn’t grasped mine held a pair of secateurs. With rapier-sharp detective skills I deduced that I was talking to the gardener.
“Was there something in the border?” he said.
“Oh, it’s just a footprint.”
“I’d better get me rake then and tidy it up.”
“No, don’t do that. I don’t know whether the police have seen it yet”
“The police? What’s it got to do with them?”
“Haven’t you heard? There’s been a murder here.”
“Bloody hell! No, I didn’t know that. I’ve been in the Walled Garden most of the morning tying in the honeysuckle.”
Good grief! Aligning chakras, tying in honeysuckle. Were they all at it, I wondered, before remembering he was a gardener and therefore meant what he said.
“Did you see anyone else in the Garden?”
“Oh, arr. Not only saw ’em but heard ’em. Going at it ’ammer and tongs, they were.” He grinned. “Nice place to do it but I reckon that bench is a tad uncomfy.”
I hid a grin of my own. He’d confirmed Dara and Alex’s alibi, though.
“Did you see anyone else there?” I felt it as well to establish that no other writers had been engaged in early morning sex romps. Two was quite enough.
“No, I didn’t and I didn’t interrupt ’em, but I didn’t ’alf giggle.” He grinned again, then became serious. “So what am I to do about this ’ere mark?” He bent down and peered closely at the indentation in the border. “I reckon that’s a size 10.”
“Is it?”
I looked down, too, my head close to his, which is why neither of us saw the constable come around the corner.
“Here, mind yourselves. That’s evidence that is.” He said sternly as we stood upright and stepped back. He held a plastic tray filled with ready made plaster of Paris.
“Yes, we know. Mr Wellman here thinks it’s a size 10.”
“Oh? And what would you know about it, Jonty? ’Sides, it’s only ’alf a footprint. It ain’t got no heel.”
“Oh, come on, Nige. Just look at it, mate.”
These two were clearly old sparring partners, so I left them to it and hurried back inside in search of Shahleen. She reposed, elegantly, on one of the window seats in the otherwise empty Long Gallery, one elbow resting on the sill, a hand to her cheek, gazing soulfully out through the leaded pane.
“Hello, Shahleen. Feeling better?”
“A bit.” She sniffed and dabbed at a red-rimmed eye with an embroidered handkerchief. “Such a shock. I still can’t believe it.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Hmm?” She withdrew her gaze from the Derbyshire countryside and faced me. “About eight o’clock, I suppose. We came down for breakfast but Dig said he needed to sort something first.”
“Sort something? Is that when he went into the library?”
“Yes. He told me to wait for him in Reception and I saw him go into the lounge, you know, where the bar is, and then go into the library.”
“How long was he in there for?”
“Dunno.” She shook her head. “The police asked me that. It seemed ages and I was starving, so I went to fetch him and that’s when I found the bastard had locked the door.”
“Did he speak to anyone when he entered the library? Was someone in there waiting for him?”
“I dunno, he was too far away. They have bloody long rooms here,” she waved an arm at the Gallery,” in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“And you saw nobody follow him in?”
She shook her head again and sniffled. “There was only me and Digby. Everyone else was having breakfast.”
Not everyone, I thought. Somebody had chosen the place and the timing of this crime very carefully. With the library at the far corner of one wing and the lounge and bar area unlikely to be occupied that early in the morning with everyone at breakfast in the dining room, it was the perfect place for a murder. If Shahleen was telling the truth, and someone on the Reception desk should be able to confirm that, then she was out of it. I still needed to be clear on one point, though.
“How had he been this weekend? What sort of mood was he in?”
She shrugged. “He was in good spirits, really, until last night. He’d been funny for a few weeks though.”
“Funny?”
“Yeah, tetchy and irritable. He was like that again last night. And before you ask, I don’t know why. All right?”
I pounced.
“So it had nothing to do with the argument you had yesterday, then?”
“I don’t know what you mean. We didn’t have an argument.”
The shifty look on her face told me she did.
“Yes, you did. I heard you. In fact, you said, ‘theft is a serious crime’, didn’t you?”
She let out a wail and covered her face with her hands.
“Come on, Shahleen. What was it all about?”
Her head shot up. “Who are you? You working for the police or something? You’ve got no right to ask me questions.”
“My name is Verity and believe me, Shahleen, if the police get to hear about that row, they’ll ask you far more probing questions than I’m doing and give you a far harder time while they do so. I know you can’t have killed him but theft is a good enough motive for doing so.”
She turned away and looked out the window again. The light shone on her pale oval-shaped face, highlighting the faint lines at the corner of her eyes and putting golden glints in her hair. I waited, hoping she’d trust me enough to speak. She sighed.
“All right,” she said, eventually. “I wrote a book about my experiences working as a call— in a call centre.” It was a small slip but a telling one.
“And?” I prompted.
“Well, my friends all told me how good it was and I tried to get it published but couldn’t get an agent interested, so I went to a book signing that Digby was doing and...and...asked him if he’d help.”
“Help?” I wondered how on earth she thought that a crime writer could help in getting the revelations of a call girl published, but held my tongue. Stranger things have happened, after all.
“Yes. I thought as he was a well known author he could sponsor me or something. Anyway, he said he’d take it to a commissioning editor he knew at Harridan Press, but in return he wanted...er...”
A dull red colour replaced the pallor of her cheeks. Oh dear, I thought, why am I not surprised?
“Favours?”
She nodded. “I only did it because he promised me. He read my manuscript and said it was good, that it deserved to be published, but he never sent it anywhere or showed it to anyone.” She started to cry. “I only came this weekend for the chance to speak to an agent or publisher myself. And now look what’s happened.”
Poor Shahleen. KD never talked much about the publishing side of things, except to call some of them rude names from time to time, and I knew little about it but, even so, I was surprised Shahleen had found no takers for her tales of call-girl life. Nor, for the moment, could I figure out why Digby would want to steal it. He could hardly pass it off as his own.
I patted her shoulder and she gave me a watery smile.
“How long had you been with him?”
“Nearly six months.” She dabbed at her eyes then, struck by a sudden thought, said, “The police won’t think I did it, will they?”
“No, I shouldn’t think so. If you were in Reception until you went and hammered on the door with the manager and Mr Usborne...”
“Well, I did go in and try the library door on my own, first.” Her brow creased in worry.
“They’ll check things very carefully, Shahleen. If your alibi stands up, you’ve nothing to fret over. I take it that’s not your real name, by the way?”
She shook the blonde locks. “No, ’course it isn’t. but who’d buy a book from someone called Sharon Sidebottom?”
Oh, I could see why she’d changed it, all right. It was hardly a name to top the best-seller charts, any more than her erstwhile lover-come-mentor’s given name of George Dibble had been. I gave her a sympathetic smile.
“Have you had anything to eat yet today? It’s nearly lunchtime. Why don’t you come and get something?”
She shook her head and returned to gazing forlornly out over the countryside. “No, I’ll stay here for a while, thanks.”
I left her alone and went to find lunch and KD but was intercepted by a young constable.
“Are you Verity Long?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“The Inspector would like to speak to you, please.”
Oh dear, I thought, lunch will have to wait. It’s my turn to be grilled.
*****
I followed the officer through to the end of the Peverell Room, close to the bar, where the Inspector and the bumbling sergeant I’d met earlier were seated at a couple of pushed-together tables. At a separate table to one side, a constable sat ready to take notes.
“Please take a seat, Miss Long. I’m Detective Inspector Robinson and this is Sergeant Crabtree.”
He looked relaxed and smiled but he had the eyes of a snake, hooded and hypnotic. I decided there and then I didn’t like him. He asked what I’d done first thing that morning and I told him of my walk in the garden and seeing Dara, Alex, and Damien.”
“And what of your employer?”
“She was still asleep in her room when I went past.”
He darted forward. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. She snores.”
He gave a tight-lipped smile and dropped what he thought was his bombshell. “Was she very annoyed that Gervaise had snatched the Golden Gun from her?”
I threw my head back and laughed at him. Now I really didn’t like him.
“Good heavens, no.”
“But she must have thought it was in the bag.”
It was time to disabuse him of this notion once and for all.
“Look, Inspector, Mrs Davenport cares so little about awards that she keeps them at the back of a drawer in a spare bedroom and the first I knew of the Golden Gun was when somebody else told me only yesterday that she’d been nominated. You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think she had a motive for murder.”
He looked disappointed and changed tack.
“Now, I understand you accompanied Mr. Usborne and Mr. Hewitt, the manager here, when the body was discovered. Will you tell us about it, please?”
“Of course.”
He listened attentively and without interrupting until I reached the part where I’d broken the window, then all he said was, “Yes, we found the stone over by a bookcase. Go on.”
There wasn’t a lot more to add. When I’d finished, I sat back, steeling myself for the interrogation to come.
“Did you know Gervaise?”
“No. I’d never met him before.”
“And you didn’t see him when you came down this morning?”
“No.”
“Did you touch anything when you were in the library?”
“Only the key and the door handle.”
“You didn’t touch anything on the desk?”
“No.” I’d given it a damn close look, mind you, but I’d been very careful not to touch or move anything while I did so.
“All right, we’ll still need to take your fingerprints before you go.”
The constable moved the ink pad forward on his desk and gave me a shy smile and I moved across to his table.
“Well, thank you, Miss Long,” Inspector Robinson said, as I cleaned my fingers on the baby-wipe his officer had handed me. “Sergeant Crabtree will ask you to sign your statement later. In the meantime, if you can shed any light on this mystery, do let us know.”
“What? Like how the locked room was worked?”
“Oh?” His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “And how do you think it was done?”
I told him.
“Yes, well,” —he ran his hand over the top of his head— “you’re quite right of course. We noticed it too and came to the same conclusions. Simple and very neat, but we’d be grateful if you kept that information to yourself, just now.”
“Don’t you think a bunch of crime writers will soon work it out for themselves?”
“Very probably, but I’m more interested in finding out who thought of it first.”
So was I, though at the moment, I was more interested in finding lunch.