A Spider on the Stairs

A Spider on the Stairs by Cassandra Chan Page A

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Authors: Cassandra Chan
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for this weather.”
    He led the way up the garden, fishing in his jacket pocket for the keys.
    â€œIt’s good of you to ask me to stay,” said Gibbons, slinging his duffel over one shoulder. “That place they had me staying in was positively depressing.”
    â€œAre the rest of the Scotland Yard team still there?” asked Bethancourt. “Damn this lock—oh, wait, I’ve got the wrong key.”
    â€œNo,” answered Gibbons. “Mine was the last room open at that B and B, and besides, they had to come up with something better than that for a detective superintendent. Someone high up pulled strings and got him a suite at the Best Western. They didn’t have anything else open, so I understand the rest of the team is camping out in the sitting room.”
    â€œI’d really rather not invite them here unless you think it necessary,” said Bethancourt, finally succeeding with the door.
    â€œWhy the devil should you?” said Gibbons ruthlessly. “You’re my friend, not theirs.”
    â€œThank God,” said Bethancourt mildly. “I don’t know what my mother would have said if I had turned the place into a police headquarters. Here we are then—doesn’t look like it flooded.”
    â€œCarpet’s dry,” agreed Gibbons, maneuvering with his duffel a little awkwardly in the narrow hallway in order to close the door. “Does it flood often?”
    â€œYou have no idea,” said Bethancourt darkly. “Here, let’s leave the luggage till later and search out a drink. It’s Christmas—you’d think my father would have the bar fully stocked, just in case. Let me get a light on. . . . There we go.”
    â€œCan I put the electric fire on?” asked Gibbons as they entered the drawing room. “It’s chilly.”
    â€œBy all means,” replied Bethancourt, making for the drinkscabinet standing in one corner. “As I thought,” he said, opening the doors, “the pater stocked up. What will you have?”
    â€œIs there scotch?” asked Gibbons, who from previous experience knew that the Bethancourts’ taste in whisky ran to expensive single malts.
    â€œThere’s a twenty-five-year-old bottle of Bowmore,” said Bethancourt. “Will that do?”
    Gibbons sighed in pleasure. “Very nicely,” he said, sinking into a very comfortable armchair and stretching his feet toward the glow of the electric fire. The drawing room was very elegant, meant for entertaining, but it was comfortable, too, and infinitely preferable to the B&B he had come from, which had smelled like cabbage.
    â€œI think I’ll join you,” said Bethancourt, pulling out a couple of crystal glasses. “So how’s this new murder shaping?”
    â€œI haven’t got very far yet,” answered Gibbons. “There was no identification on the body, so we’re not even sure who the victim was. The medical examiner confirms that she was strangled and puts the time of death at sometime after seven on Christmas Eve.”
    â€œQuite a nasty Christmas present,” remarked Bethancourt, handing him a glass and collapsing into a second armchair. “Cheers.”
    â€œCheers. Ah, that’s good,” said Gibbons, savoring the taste of the liquor on his tongue. “Where was I?”
    â€œThe medical examiner,” prompted Bethancourt.
    â€œRight,” said Gibbons. “Well, he puts her age at about twenty-five, and she was apparently in perfect health before she was murdered. She struggled with her attacker, so we’re looking for a reasonably strong specimen—our victim was a tall woman. She took a couple of punches to the head before she was killed, so it’s possible she was unconscious when she was strangled. Anyway, the murderer used something—possibly a scarf or a cloth belt, the doctor said.”
    â€œIt sounds fairly

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