Embarrassment of Corpses, An by Alan Beechey Page A

the deceased,” Mallard replied huffily. “Anyway, I meant what I said before. Officially, Harry drowned accidentally unless the inquest says otherwise.”
    â€œSo why are you here? You didn’t know the family that well. A sympathetic greeting card would have sufficed.”
    â€œI called your office and Mr. Woodcock said you’d come here.” Mallard fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out his notebook, turning to the page on which he’d copied the two zigzag lines. He thrust it under Oliver’s nose.
    â€œMean anything?”
    Oliver stared at the paper. “Some sort of trademark?” he ventured.
    â€œThat’s what Effie Strongitharm said, but I don’t think so,” Mallard replied, noticing Oliver’s unconscious flinch with curiosity. “Effie also found out, by the way, that the fountains in Trafalgar Square had been on all Sunday night, although I probably shouldn’t tell you that since it ruins my theory of Harry’s death.”
    â€œGood old Effie,” muttered Oliver, trying to determine Mallard’s mood. “So what’s the story with the squiggly lines?”
    â€œThey’re a clue to a real murder. Some poor woman, so far unidentified, who was clubbed to death at Sloane Square tube station this morning. This symbol was on a card, attached to the murder weapon. A rather prosaic length of lead piping.”
    â€œSounds like a board game. You know, ‘Colonel Mustard, in the Ballroom, with the lead pipe.’” Oliver grinned. “I take it you thought this symbol might have some connection with the symbol drawn on Sir Harry Random’s chest?” he ventured.
    â€œNot officially,” said Mallard guardedly.
    â€œThen officially, I can’t think of any connection.”
    â€œAnd unofficially?”
    â€œUnofficially, I still can’t think of any connection,” Oliver confessed. “Although they do seem somewhat familiar. I’ll think about it.” He grinned again, for no apparent reason. The cat sneezed.
    â€œFunny thing about Sloane Square station,” Mallard continued in an airy tone, idly stroking his white moustache. His nephew’s self-satisfaction was beginning to wear on him. “It’s got a river running through it.”
    â€œOh yes, the Westbourne. Goes through in a big pipe, doesn’t it? The station took a direct hit from a Nazi bomb in 1940, but the pipe didn’t break. Ah, now there’s a connection,” Oliver exclaimed, unaware of his uncle’s growing exasperation. “A bomb once went off in Trafalgar Square, too. Sometime in the 1880s, planted by the Irish Nationalists. Nearly destroyed Nelson’s Column.”
    â€œI asked you if you recognized a symbol, I didn’t want a bloody history lesson,” Mallard growled. He reflected for a moment. “I suppose Harry’s views on Ireland weren’t noticeably controversial?” he added, with insufficient nonchalance.
    â€œHe thought the Irish Question was rhetorical.”
    Mallard snapped his notebook shut. “Well, I doubt there’s much connection between his death and a century-old Fenian outrage. Just as I truly doubt there’s any connection between Harry and this morning’s victim.”
    â€œPerhaps the two symbols will turn out to be the start of a coded message,” Oliver persisted. “Like the ‘dancing men’ in the Sherlock Homes story.”
    â€œOh, enough with the Sherlock Holmes, already,” Mallard protested.
    â€œSherlock Holmes?” echoed Lorina from the doorway. She had changed into a simple dark dress—navy, not black, both men noticed—and was carrying a loaded tea-tray. Mallard stepped over to take it from her. “Did you know that Oliver adores Sherlock Holmes?” she continued brightly, with a smile at her former boyfriend. “He likes anything to do with detection. You’ve been quite a role