by Tim Heald
‘Awkward’s the word,’ agreed Sir Canning. ‘If only he could have waited till Monday and done it at home. He spent all his life trying to bugger me up and now he’s continuing after he’s died. It really is tiresome of him.’
‘You English,’ said Miss Johnson, who had a Ph.D. in Contemporary Communications from a little-known university in Idaho, ‘are lacking in sensitivity.’
The two men took united umbrage. ‘Not in the least,’ said Sir Canning. ‘We just conceal our emotions. Certain things are better left unexpressed, and grief is one of them.’
‘Always sounds mawkish,’ said Grithbrice.
Near the door Mr. Green, who was short, swarthy and good-looking in a short, swarthy way, was standing between Lady Abney and Lady McCrum. The two women were arguing over the top of Mr. Green’s head. Mr. Green watched and listened in the disinterested manner of an umpire at Wimbledon.
‘But, darling,’ said Lady Abney, ‘we just have to go on. We can’t possibly cancel every single invitation. There’s the press and the tea’s all ordered. It’s simply not fair on Canning. Besides we can’t afford it.’ She was in her early forties, scrupulously neat in tweed suit from either a select mail order business or one of the smarter London stores. Like Lady McCrum she wore pearls.
‘I still think it’s quite wrong,’ said Lady McCrum, ‘I appreciate that it involves you in a certain amount of inconvenience but it’s the least you can do. I know neither of you cared for Freddie but he’s dead now. I think you owe him a little respect. Don’t you, Mr. Green?’
Mr. Green appeared startled at being addressed. He thought for a moment and then said, ‘I think the Earl would have wanted the show to go on, and anyway I’ve always made it a rule never to let pleasure interfere with business.’
Before either of the women could question him on this curious remark there was a knock at the door and Mercer entered in the discreet and yet totally obtrusive manner of the well-trained servant. He made very little noise and his movements were tidy to the point, almost, of non-existence. And yet within a moment of his arrival conversation had ceased and everyone was looking at him. He went straight to Sir Canning and said softly but distinctly, ‘There’s another person here from the police, sir. Quite senior I should say. He says it’s important.’
Sir Canning frowned. ‘Show him up,’ he said.
A minute later there was another knock and Mercer came in with a weary, grey-haired, grey-suited and almost grey-faced man whom he announced as Inspector Smith.
‘Ah,’ Sir Canning advanced, hand outstretched. At embarrassing or inconvenient moments he was always able to retreat behind an inbred wall of charm and good manners. He introduced Inspector Smith to the assembled guests and offered coffee and a cucumber sandwich. The policeman accepted the coffee and declined the sandwich.
‘Might I have a word with you, sir?’ he inquired as the room murmured with a stilted attempt at normal conversation.
‘If you insist. On the other hand, I suspect that we should all hear whatever it is that you have to say. We were all friends and colleagues of Lord Maidenhead. This has been a very sad and tragic loss for us all. Tragic. Truly tragic.’
‘Of course, sir.’ The Inspector looked at the floor and coughed in an attempt to appear respectful and sympathetic. ‘Very well,’ he paused. ‘All your guests arrived last night, did they, sir?’
‘They did.’
‘Ah. Well. Perhaps it might be as well if I could say a few words to the assembled company.’ He took a large white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped coffee stains from his upper lip. Sir Canning, meanwhile, clapped his hands to attract attention—a superfluous gesture since every moment of their brief conversation had been monitored by everyone present.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ Sir Canning disliked having to address a gathering of intimate colleagues and rivals so formally, but he felt it was what the policeman wanted. Or needed. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. Inspector Smith of the local constabulary would like a few words if you’ll honour him with your attention.’
Everyone turned, cups and saucers held in just such a way as to indicate attentiveness. Inspector Smith regarded them briefly and then said, rapidly and without expression, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I regret having to follow bad news with worse, but I have to tell you that the late Earl of Maidenhead did not die of natural causes but was shot through the head with a .22 rifle, and that in consequence I am compelled to assume that the deceased was murdered by a person or persons yet unknown.’
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1973, 1974, 2002 by Tim Heald
Cover design by Mimi Bark
978-1-4804-6303-5
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