A Fête Worse Than Death by Dolores Gordon-Smith Page A

had risen and was riding low in the sky, drenching the lawns in silver light. A breeze ruffled the top of the grass, sending little dancing shadows flickering across the lawns. Moonlight was odd, Haldean thought. It was as if the shadows were real and the things they were shadows of were themselves unsubstantial tricks of the light. A bit like Boscombe. The real man, the living man with a body, organs, a brain and, he presumed, a soul, was gone, an unsubstantial memory. But his death – an event of minute importance compared to his life – was the part that cast the shadow. And as for him? He had to chase that shadow, seeing whom it would darken. Better than chasing rainbows, he thought, with a touch of humour, and put another match to his pipe.
    â€˜I’ve been thinking,’ said Rivers eventually. ‘About Boscombe, I mean. Damn funny business altogether. What was he doing at the fair in the first place, Jack? And why did he go in that tent to be killed?’
    Haldean turned the question over. ‘He must have come to the fair to meet someone,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m assuming that was Colonel Whitfield.’
    â€˜You could be right, Jack, but I think he saw someone else as well. Someone he knew, I mean. Don’t you remember? He was rattling on about his book in the beer tent, and I was wishing he was very much elsewhere, when he looked up and sort of jumped. We were sitting by the tent flap, if you remember, and I thought he’d seen someone in the crowd. Then Colonel Whitfield came in and Boscombe latched on to him.’
    â€˜And that somebody else might be the murderer? You could have something there. In which case it’s a chance meeting . . .’ Haldean shook himself. ‘What else did you ask? Why did he go in the tent to be killed? That’s a good question, Greg, and pretty rum, when you come to think of it. I mean, once he’s in the tent he’s out of sight. No one could know he was in there apart from those of us who saw him go in. And that’s you, me, Mrs Griffin and Colonel Whitfield.’
    â€˜And anyone else who happened to be watching.’
    â€˜Was anyone else watching?’
    Rivers shrugged. ‘Blessed if I know. We weren’t keeping it a secret, were we? And although it all seemed innocent enough at the time, if someone wanted to murder the chap, then it doesn’t seem very far-fetched to say that same someone would be keeping a fairly close eye on where he had got to.’
    Haldean sucked his pipe regretfully. ‘No, damn it, you’re right. I’ll tell you something that’s occurred to me, though. It can’t have been a planned murder. Someone just saw their chance and took it on the spur of the moment. Hang on a mo. They’d have to have a gun on them, and that’s odd, too. You don’t go armed to a village fête unless you’re expecting trouble.’
    â€˜And that knocks your idea of it being an impulsive murder on the head.’
    Haldean half-laughed. ‘If I go on worrying at it I’ll end up thinking he wasn’t murdered at all. I’m going to forget it until tomorrow.’ He stretched his arms out lazily ‘I love staying here. I always sleep like a top.’ He glanced at his cousin. ‘Is something bothering you, Greg?’
    Rivers leaned over the balustrade. ‘Yes, it is. Murder, you know? I know I pulled your leg earlier about it being fun, but it’s not fun, is it? There’s someone out there who thinks it’s up to them if another person lives or dies. I’ve got to go back to Town soon and I don’t like the thought of leaving you all. You didn’t like Boscombe. Lord knows, neither did I, but that’s where it stops. But someone else . . . They’ve killed once and if you start stirring things up they might try again. It’s a dangerous game, Jack. I’m not happy about you being mixed up in it.’
    Haldean