by Nic Saint
“God,” he groaned as he raked a hand through his dark mane. Just what he needed right now. Some gung-ho small-town cop to add to his problems.
He quickly rose again and swept from his office. Before her uncle started throwing his weight about, he was going to make Henrietta McCabre talk, and he was going to do it now. He didn’t care that she was an orphan, she was going to tell him exactly what had happened under that underpass.
Chapter Five
Ten minutes later, he was chauffeuring his car through London morning traffic, en route to Valentine Street, where Henrietta McCabre was apparently housed. When he arrived, and finally managed to find a parking space, he strode up to the house and pressed his finger on the bell. He hadn’t told her he was coming, lest she made up some excuse. When he heard her melodious voice inquire about his identity, he barked, “Inspector Watley, Miss McCabre. I have a few more questions for you if you don’t mind.”
Whitehouse might call this hounding. He called it proper police work.
After a brief pause, she buzzed him in, and he found himself in the narrow hallway of a clean-looking house. She called from upstairs, “Second floor, Inspector!” and he grunted and started to make his way up the stairs.
When he arrived on the landing, he saw that she’d changed into something less sodding wet than the day before. A pair of pink linen pants and bright yellow linen shirt. It became her. She was an attractive young woman, he had to admit, but then he’d noticed that already when he’d interviewed her before.
With her short bob of blond hair, fair complexion and lithe frame she looked anywhere between eighteen and twenty-five, though he knew from her file she was, in fact, twenty-three. Her nose tilted up at the tip, and her eyes were large and of a remarkable golden hue. All in all, she looked entirely too pretty to be a suspect, and he really couldn’t imagine she was involved in anything as nasty as murder. But then if his years in the Yard had taught him anything it was that looks could be deceiving. For all he knew here stood a cold-blooded accomplice to murder.
“Pancake, Mr. Watley?”
“Inspector Watley. No, thank you, Miss McCabre. I never eat when I’m on duty.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, inviting him in. “I just baked up an entire batch. Didn’t know what else to do, to be honest. Being out of a job and all.”
The smell of freshly baked pancakes did indeed waft invitingly from the small space. Small but cozy, he thought as he briefly inspected the living room with TV nook and kitchen nook. It was airy and light, and the color scheme was the same as her clothes: lots of bright pinks and yellows.
“I just got a call from your uncle,” he said, opening the proceedings.
She halted in her tracks. “My uncle?”
“Chief Whitehouse of the Happy Bays Police Department. He seems to be under the impression you need protecting from the big bad policeman.” He grimaced and pointed at himself. “From me, in fact.”
Her face reddened slightly. It became her well, he thought, before instantly stomping on this thought. She was a suspect. Nothing more.
“Oh, I’m so sorry about that,” she murmured, looking mortified.
“I can’t imagine that you are. I mean, you must have told him, right? You must have called him last night and asked him to put in a word on your behalf.”
She frowned. “No, I didn’t. Well, not directly. I mean, I called my cousin. But all I asked her was if her dad knew someone at Scotland Yard.”
“And now he does know someone at Scotland Yard. And you do, too.”
“I meant someone I could talk to about…” she gestured ineffectually. “…stuff.”
He pulled out a chair in the kitchen nook and took a seat. “Let’s cut to the chase, Miss McCabre.”
“Harry, please.”
“Where are you on your alibi, Miss McCabre?”
She gulped slightly. “My… alibi?”
“Yes. Remember I asked you where you were yesterday between three and four and you failed to inform me? Now perhaps, after mulling it over, you might be able to elucidate me? Or did your uncle advise you not to disclose this information?”
A blush mantled her cheeks. “My uncle said no such thing. I haven’t spoken to him in ages.”
“Oh, that’s right. You spoke to your cousin,” he said skeptically.
“Look, I could tell you where I was,” she said with a shake of the head as she flipped another pancake onto a plate, “but I’d rather not, you see?”
“No, I don’t see. This is very serious matter, Miss McCabre.”
She smiled. “Why don’t you just call me Harry? All my friends do.”
“I’m not your friend, Miss McCabre. I’m a Scotland Yard inspector investigating a murder,” he insisted. “And what I’m most interested in right now is ascertaining where you were yesterday between three and four. In other words, around the time your employer was brutally murdered.”
She sighed. “Look, you’ll probably think this is all very silly, but if I tell you where I was… There’re other people involved, see? I mean, if it were just me, I’d tell you where I was in a heartbeat, but it’s not just me, is it?”
“Who else is involved?” he asked, following her movements with an interested eye. Those pancakes really did smell quite delicious.
“I can’t tell you! That’s just the point! Look,” she said, taking a seat at the table across from him, “Mr. Buckley did some of his deals, erm, well, under the table. I mean, they weren’t exactly shady deals or anything like that, it’s just that his clients preferred… discretion, I guess you could say.”
“I’m well aware that Buckley was one of the more prominent fences in the world of antiques, Miss McCabre,” he said, eliciting a gasp of surprise from her. “Which is probably the reason he was murdered. In those circles, a life is often worth a great deal less than some nice painting or fancy old cupboard.”
She deftly picked up a pancake and started slathering it with butter and jam. “Well, if you know about Buckley’s business, then you must know that he used me to, well, deliver some of his packages to some of his clients.”
“So what package were you delivering to which client yesterday?”
She threw up her hands, then licked some jam from her wrist. “I can’t tell you, can I? Otherwise I’d be implicating my client, see?”
He gave her a slight smile, like a cat about to devour a mouse. “If you don’t tell me it implicates you. It turns you into one of our prime suspects in this murder, and I may very well have to take you in for further questioning.”
Her eyes went wide, and he was surprised to find how expressive they were. Her every emotion was very clearly reflected in those golden orbs.
“You mean arrest me? What would you go and do a silly thing like that for?!”
“Because you’re refusing to tell me what I need to know!” he shot back, his smile gone. “Look, I don’t know what your uncle advised you, but—”
“My uncle didn’t advise me anything! Like I said, I talked to my cousin.”
“Is she also a cop? Is she the one who told you to keep secrets from the police? Is that how they do things in the States?”
She eyed him huffily. “My cousin, if you must know, works as a mortician’s assistant, gun store clerk and tea room waitress. Though at one time she did want to become a cop and even went to police academy. But that’s neither here nor there. What matters is—”
“What matters is that you tell me what I want to know,” he cut in, “or I’m going to have to arrest you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder.”
There was a momentary silence as they gazed at each other, the tension palpable. Then she simply said, “Very well. I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t much, mind you.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Miss McCabre.”
“Harry,” she corrected him.
“Just tell me already, will you?!” he yelled.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, all right! But if he’s cross with
me I’ll tell him you made me tell on him! And if he tells me I’m a tattletale I’ll tell him it’s all your fault!”
“Miss McCabre!”
“Harry!”
“Talk!”
She stared at him, biting her lip. “Actually… I don’t know his name.”
Start Reading Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place Now
About Nic
Nic Saint is the pen name for writing couple Nick and Nicole Saint. They’ve penned 40+ novels in the romance, cat sleuth, middle grade, suspense, comedy and cozy mystery genres. Nicole has a background in accounting and Nick in political science and before being struck by the writing bug the Saints worked odd jobs around the world (including massage therapist in Mexico, gardener in Italy, restaurant manager in India, and Berlitz teacher in Belgium).
When they’re not writing they enjoy Christmas-themed Hallmark movies (whether it’s Christmas or not), all manner of pastry, comic books, a daily dose of yoga (to limber up those limbs), and spoiling their big red tomcat Tommy.
@nicsaintauthor
nicsaintauthor
www.nicsaint.com
Also by Nic Saint
The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse
One Spoonful of Trouble
Two Scoops of Murder
Three Shots of Disaster
Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)
A Twist of Wraith
A Touch of Ghost
A Clash of Spooks
Box Set 2 (Books 4-6)
The Stuffing of Nightmares
A Breath of Dead Air
An Act of Hodd
Ghosts of London
Between a Ghost and a Spooky Place
Witchy Fingers
Witchy Trouble
Tate-à-Tate
Enemy of the Tates
Ghosts vs. Spies
The Ghost Who Came in from the Cold
Standalone Novels
When in Bruges
Once Upon a Spy
The Whiskered Spy
Copyright © 2016 by Nic Saint. All rights reserved.
Published by Puss in Print Publications.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Editor: Chereese Graves.