horses. I can come over if there’s a problem in the night. My daughter Caroline lives in the cottage by the gate.’
‘Caroline works for you, does she?’
‘Yes. She’s my yard manager. Good girl. Does all my paperwork and still rides out three times a day. She’s never caused me a day’s worry.’ There is a slight emphasis on the ‘she’.
They enter through a back door into a gleaming red and white kitchen.
‘Coffee?’ asks Smith.
‘Please.’ Nelson had not expected Lord Smith to be making him coffee. Surely there’s an elderly retainer around somewhere? He asks.
‘No,’ says Smith. ‘There’s a housekeeper but she’s not here today. My wife’s out at work. Most of the time it’s just me and Randolph.’
‘Randolph?’
‘My son. Would you like biscuits? I’m diabetic so I’ve got some ghastly sugar-free rusks. But there are some Hobnobs somewhere.’
Nelson thinks he would like a Hobnob very much indeed. He is just wondering about the mysterious son(maybe he’s locked in a turret room somewhere) when the door opens and a handsome, dark-haired man bursts into the room.
‘Morning all.’
Smith does not turn round but plunges the cafetière with unnecessary violence.
‘What time do you call this?’ he says.
‘I don’t know,’ says the man pleasantly. ‘What time do you call it?’
‘You’ve been out all night. Your mother was worried sick.’
‘I doubt that,’ says the man who must, surely, be the errant Randolph. ‘Ma never worries about anything. Ah, coffee. Superb. I could murder a cup.’ He turns and seems to register Nelson for the first time.
‘Hallo there,’ he says. ‘I’m Randolph Smith.’
‘DCI Nelson.’
‘DCI Nelson’s come to talk to me about Neil’s death,’ says Danforth, speaking loudly and clearly as if to someone deaf or deficient in understanding. It’s almost as if he wants to convey a message. Or a warning. Nelson watches Randolph with interest. For a second he looks wary – almost scared – then the cheerful unconcern is back in place.
‘Oh, the mysterious death at the museum. Does the detective suspect foul play?’
‘It’s not a laughing matter’ says Danforth Smith reprovingly.
‘No.’ Randolph rearranges his handsome features. ‘Desperately sad. Poor Neil.’
‘Yes indeed,’ says Smith, putting cafetière and dark green cups on a tray. ‘I’ve written to his parents of course. And we should all attend the funeral.’
‘Will it be here or in Wales?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ says Smith. ‘We’ll take our coffee into the study, Detective Inspector.’
Nelson follows Lord Smith out of the room, wondering how Randolph Smith knows that Neil Topham’s family comes from Wales.
Smith ushers Nelson into a luxurious study with sofa, drinks cabinet and vast mahogany desk. The walls are lined with shelves containing leatherbound volumes and plastic files. In the occasional clear space, there are photos of horses, some standing in fields, some sweaty and magnificent after winning a race. A glass cabinet is crammed full of trophies.
‘Do you have children, Detective Chief Inspector?’ asks Smith, seating himself behind the desk.
‘Two daughters,’ says Nelson, sitting in the proffered visitor’s chair, which swivels rather alarmingly. He hates saying this; it feels as if he is denying Katie. At least he sent her a birthday present, he thinks. He couldn’t bear to let the day go completely unnoticed.
‘Daughters are easier. My two girls have never given me a day’s trouble. Caroline you saw. She’s a real hard worker. Tamsin’s a lawyer, lives in London, husband, two children. But Randolph! He hasn’t done a day’s work since leaving university. Caroline’s travelled all over, seen the world. All Randolph seems to see is the inside of nightclubs. And he drinks with the most dreadful people …’ He stops himself with an effort. ‘Still, you don’t want to hear about my domestic problems.’
‘It must be
‘Caroline works for you, does she?’
‘Yes. She’s my yard manager. Good girl. Does all my paperwork and still rides out three times a day. She’s never caused me a day’s worry.’ There is a slight emphasis on the ‘she’.
They enter through a back door into a gleaming red and white kitchen.
‘Coffee?’ asks Smith.
‘Please.’ Nelson had not expected Lord Smith to be making him coffee. Surely there’s an elderly retainer around somewhere? He asks.
‘No,’ says Smith. ‘There’s a housekeeper but she’s not here today. My wife’s out at work. Most of the time it’s just me and Randolph.’
‘Randolph?’
‘My son. Would you like biscuits? I’m diabetic so I’ve got some ghastly sugar-free rusks. But there are some Hobnobs somewhere.’
Nelson thinks he would like a Hobnob very much indeed. He is just wondering about the mysterious son(maybe he’s locked in a turret room somewhere) when the door opens and a handsome, dark-haired man bursts into the room.
‘Morning all.’
Smith does not turn round but plunges the cafetière with unnecessary violence.
‘What time do you call this?’ he says.
‘I don’t know,’ says the man pleasantly. ‘What time do you call it?’
‘You’ve been out all night. Your mother was worried sick.’
‘I doubt that,’ says the man who must, surely, be the errant Randolph. ‘Ma never worries about anything. Ah, coffee. Superb. I could murder a cup.’ He turns and seems to register Nelson for the first time.
‘Hallo there,’ he says. ‘I’m Randolph Smith.’
‘DCI Nelson.’
‘DCI Nelson’s come to talk to me about Neil’s death,’ says Danforth, speaking loudly and clearly as if to someone deaf or deficient in understanding. It’s almost as if he wants to convey a message. Or a warning. Nelson watches Randolph with interest. For a second he looks wary – almost scared – then the cheerful unconcern is back in place.
‘Oh, the mysterious death at the museum. Does the detective suspect foul play?’
‘It’s not a laughing matter’ says Danforth Smith reprovingly.
‘No.’ Randolph rearranges his handsome features. ‘Desperately sad. Poor Neil.’
‘Yes indeed,’ says Smith, putting cafetière and dark green cups on a tray. ‘I’ve written to his parents of course. And we should all attend the funeral.’
‘Will it be here or in Wales?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ says Smith. ‘We’ll take our coffee into the study, Detective Inspector.’
Nelson follows Lord Smith out of the room, wondering how Randolph Smith knows that Neil Topham’s family comes from Wales.
Smith ushers Nelson into a luxurious study with sofa, drinks cabinet and vast mahogany desk. The walls are lined with shelves containing leatherbound volumes and plastic files. In the occasional clear space, there are photos of horses, some standing in fields, some sweaty and magnificent after winning a race. A glass cabinet is crammed full of trophies.
‘Do you have children, Detective Chief Inspector?’ asks Smith, seating himself behind the desk.
‘Two daughters,’ says Nelson, sitting in the proffered visitor’s chair, which swivels rather alarmingly. He hates saying this; it feels as if he is denying Katie. At least he sent her a birthday present, he thinks. He couldn’t bear to let the day go completely unnoticed.
‘Daughters are easier. My two girls have never given me a day’s trouble. Caroline you saw. She’s a real hard worker. Tamsin’s a lawyer, lives in London, husband, two children. But Randolph! He hasn’t done a day’s work since leaving university. Caroline’s travelled all over, seen the world. All Randolph seems to see is the inside of nightclubs. And he drinks with the most dreadful people …’ He stops himself with an effort. ‘Still, you don’t want to hear about my domestic problems.’
‘It must be
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