Betrayal at Blackcrest by Jennifer Wilde Page B

cousin met a man—married, no doubt—in London, probably a very rich and influential man, and decided to run off with him for a few weeks of holiday. It was important that no one knew his name, so she was extremely secretive about it. I’ve no doubt she’ll turn up in a week or two with a glorious tan, a new mink coat, and a fund of anecdotes about the south of France.”
    â€œThat’s all very well,” I said hastily, “but you don’t know Delia. She’s gone out with dozens of men—she’s full of life and loves to play around—but she’s quite moral. She’s never accepted an expensive gift from any of her escorts, and she’d never run off with a married man. She hates the south of France. We both went there once for a week’s holiday and met the most incredible bores. I blistered and Delia got diarrhea. I’m afraid it wouldn’t hold water!”
    Derek Hawke grinned. I blushed at the unintentional pun.
    â€œTour theory,” I snapped.
    â€œI gathered as much.”
    â€œShe told me about you,” I said. “She described you and described Blackcrest. Explain that, and while you’re at it, explain the telegram I showed you last night.”
    He took a glossy magazine from the sideboard and laid it on the table in front of me. It was an expensive periodical devoted to old homes and antiques. He opened it to an article about Blackcrest, complete with picture of the house and one of himself standing with an old woman holding a frilly parasol that shadowed both their faces.
    â€œMy aunt permitted this article, against my protests. She even dug up those old photographs and gave them to the editor. Your cousin could be vague and mysterious with her friends and co-workers, but she had to have some credible story to present to you. I suggest she saw this article and fabricated the whole thing, using this as a basis for her story to you.”
    â€œMr. Hawke, if you knew my cousin, you would know how incredible it would be for her to so much as glance at a magazine like this. Her taste in reading matter resembles that of your cook.”
    â€œNevertheless, she could have seen it.”
    â€œWhat about the telegram?”
    â€œI’ve no doubt she sent it—perhaps even from Hawkestown—but the telegram was a decoy, sent to back up the story she’d handed you.”
    â€œI can’t believe that,” I replied.
    Derek Hawke folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall, very much at ease. In the dull gold sweater he looked like a ski instructor. He watched me with his black-brown eyes, evidently waiting for further comment. I did not know what to say. I finished my coffee, setting the cup aside. I tried to formulate my thoughts.
    The breakfast room was bright and cheerful and not at all like the rest of the house I had seen. The walls were papered with an off-white. Brown and yellow rag rugs were scattered over the brown parquet floor. A heavy linen tablecloth of dark gold covered the table, a thick white bowl of brown and yellow chrysanthemums placed in the middle. It was not easy to think about a foul crime as I sat in this pleasant room, but that was exactly what I was doing. The tall, casual stranger leaning against the wall looked as though he could murder an infant without blinking a lash.
    â€œYour ‘connections’ in London seem to have found out quite a lot in a very short time,” I said. “I find that remarkable.”
    â€œMy man has several assistants. I told him expediency was vital. He put all his men on it. They can do wonders under pressure.”
    â€œSo it would seem,” I replied.
    â€œYou think I’m lying?”
    â€œI think all this so-called information is, in fact, merely things you already knew, things Delia told you.”
    Derek Hawke frowned. He still leaned against the wall, but he was no longer casual and relaxed. He was tense, like an animal