by Joan Lock
‘I dunno what you’re talking about.’
Halfway there.
‘You’re talking rubbish.’
‘I’ve got to admit that you were impressive. Nearly fooled us. Took some clever planning that.’
Was he mistaken. Did the man sit up a bit straighter, prouder?
‘Want to know what gave you away?’
The man refused to meet his eyes.
‘No? All right then.’
The tension had built up, Best allowed it to simmer a little longer, then he jumped in. ‘It was those boots. We got the imprint.’
The man breathed out and sneered, ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. I wasn’t wearing these boots that night. You got it all wrong.’
‘Put me right then,’ said Best quietly.
‘He was anxious I should know that he didn’t poison Minchin. Didn’t need to, he is stronger than he looks, he said. Thought we made it seem as if he took an unfair advantage.’
Even the wily Cheadle shook his head at this. Smith looked amazed. But …’
‘He just waited in the bushes knowing that at some time Minchin would come in to pass water. All the men do somewhere there.’
‘So he put Mary Elizabeth’s body on the Tilbury?’ asked Smith.
‘Right. Did it in a panic just after he killed her. Thought that once it had got right to Braunston and was unloaded along with the other stuff it would be so much harder to prove where it had come from. The row at the lock and the writing on the wall were all part of a diversion.’
Smith held up a finger. ‘’Course, it was him that told us about the row. But why did he attack Helen?’
‘He overheard her shouting to Grealey about having some evidence and he panicked again. The man was right out of his depth, you know.’
Cheadle leaned forward, hands on knees. He was still wreathed in the uncharacteristic amiability which disconcerted Best. ‘What we needs to do,’ he said earnestly, ‘is try to keep all that about Minchin’s other woman out of it. No sense in upsetting Betsy.’
‘There wasn’t another woman,’ said Smith.
Both men turned to look at him.
‘She did the scratches,’ said the young man, ‘Betsy did.’ He blushed but carried on, ‘They had a row about his gambling.’
It was Best’s turn to be at a loss. ‘But Grealey said …’
‘They made it up about a girl friend so she wouldn’t be embarrassed.’ He too grew earnest. ‘What we have to do is keep from Betsy that it was the scratches what made us suspicious and so caused his death.’
Best looked from one to another. A grizzled old Chief Inspector of many hard years’ service and a youngster with promotion to lose – both willing to risk their careers by concealing evidence for the sake of little Mrs Minchin. But he knew they were fooling themselves: it would come out anyway. Mrs Minchin would be comforted – by whom? He thought he knew and this made him harbour a feeling he would not have previously credited: sympathy for Cheadle. But did the smitten young Smith realize what he might be doing to his chances of becoming a Scotland Yard detective?
In the event, Smith took this intelligence remarkably cheerfully. Due to his good work on the case, he had already been made Sergeant in charge of his division’s local detectives, so felt able to bide his time. He was young enough and Cheadle would be retiring soon.
Helen’s anger returned with a vengeance when she realized that Best already knew that the body in the canal was not that of her sister.
‘You could have saved me some anguish – and that terrible time down at the wharf. It was all your fault!’
‘I was going to tell you as soon as I got to London. Anyway,’ he regrouped, ‘if you hadn’t been so difficult, concealing things and behaving so wilfully, I would never have been suspicious of you!’ Although now besotted, Best had already grasped that the only way he could succeed with this lady was by fighting back.
‘You believed I might have murdered my own sister!’ she exclaimed. ‘How could you?’
‘It’s been done,’ he answered blithely. He couldn’t stop smiling. ‘Our first lovers’ quarrel,’ he grinned.
‘Are you mad!’ Helen yelled, then held her head and groaned, ‘Oh, it hurts.’
‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry.’ He stroked her head gently which, she had to admit, was a soothing and very pleasant feeling. ‘You know how I feel about you,’ he said more softly, adding simply, ‘I love you.’
She looked at him sadly and shook her head. ‘It’s no use, you know.’
‘Why, for heaven’s sake!’
‘For the reasons I gave you on that walk to Bertrand’s all that time ago.’
‘But I wouldn’t stop you painting, I’d love it.’
She shook her head again. ‘And what if we had children?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘No,’ she sighed, gazing at him with a certain longing, but speaking with a gathering determination. ‘I would like to, but I just can’t. Please don’t persist.’
Best contemplated her sadly, then, to her apparent surprise and possibly some disappointment, he sat back and said quite amiably, ‘Very well, I can’t force you.’
‘No.’
‘But we can still be friends?’
‘Of course.’
‘And,’ he hesitated, ‘will you teach me how to paint?’
She looked at his handsome, eager face, laughed out loud and patted his hand. ‘Of course I will, of course. I’d love to.’
That was all right then, he thought to himself. First stage of his strategy accomplished. Once on the scent, Ernest Best was relentless in pursuit.
Copyright
First published by Robert Hale 2000
This paperback edition first published by The Mystery Press 2012, an imprint of
The History Press
The Mill, Brimscombe Port
Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG
www.thehistorypress.co.uk
This ebook edition first published in 2012
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© Joan Lock 2000, 2012
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EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 7723 7
MOBI ISBN 978 0 7524 7722 0
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