Mistress Murder by Bernard Knight Page A

Holy Grail. They adjourned into the inspector’s office and sat around the table.
    Benbow removed his Moscow-type fedora and folded his hands on the stained wood before him. He was well aware of the stock joke about his resemblance to the Soviet ex-leader and did all he could to perpetuate the gimmick. His belted raincoats and large hats were all part of the act, but this harmless farce took nothing away from his ability as a first-class detective.
    He started the ball rolling. ‘Now then … what’s been done so far?’
    The Oldfield inspector went on the defensive at once.
    â€˜Well, very little so far; we didn’t know there was anything fishy about it until this morning.’
    Benbow puffed out his podgy cheeks. ‘OK … now, do we all agree that the bit of stick jammed under the throttle means a deliberate attempt to crash the car?’
    He glared around as if defying anyone to deny it.
    â€˜So who could have done it?’
    No one spoke and he went on. ‘Couldn’t be the deceased … if she wanted to knock herself off, she’d go it a darned sight easier by keeping her foot on the pedal. So that means someone else did it for her – and that means murder!’
    This was the first time that day that the word had actually been used and there was a thoughtful silence. Everyone had been skirting around it for the past few hours, but now the Admiral’s blunt words had broken the ice and there was confused murmuring of suggestions and comments.
    Benbow held up his head in best United Nations manner. ‘All right, all right, let’s get the facts straight.’
    His sergeant, the angelic-looking Bray, cut in with an objection, voiced with a nervous determination.
    â€˜But no one would risk murder this way – she might not have been killed – we’ve all seen far worse crashes than this where the driver has got up and walked away.’
    Benbow gave him a sorrowful look.
    â€˜And how do you know the crash killed her? She might have been shot, stabbed, strangled, poisoned …’ He left the sentence in mid-air.
    â€˜The post-mortem …’ Bray’s voice trailed off weakly. Benbow looked at the inspector and then at the local sergeant. They both shook their heads slowly and sadly the Admiral slapped his hands on the table sharply.
    â€˜See, Bray, keep your trap shut then you can’t put your foot in it.’ He smiled suddenly and disarmingly at his sergeant, taking all the sting out of his words. ‘Well, we can soon fix a post-mortem, can’t we?’
    Benbow looked brightly at the local policemen and their sheepish faces made his jaw drop.
    â€˜Oh God … no … not that!’
    The Oldfield inspector nodded sheepishly.
    â€˜Buried the day before yesterday,’ he admitted. ‘Sorry, but our local coroner’s not too keen on holding post-mortems, especially on what he calls obvious road accidents.’
    Archie Benbow sighed. ‘Still, it could have been worse,’ he said. ‘She could have been cremated.’ He stiffened suddenly. ‘Christ, she wasn’t was she?’
    â€˜No, she was buried … here in the local cemetery.’
    The Admiral relaxed.
    â€˜Well, we can fix that. As far as I remember, the coroner has power to order an exhumation on one of his own cases, hasn’t he?’
    Bray shook his head sadly at Benbow.
    â€˜No, sir, sorry. If he’s held an inquest – even opened one as in this instance – only the Home Secretary can give permission.’
    Archie Benbow scowled at his erudite assistant.
    â€˜Proper bloody genius, aren’t you? Do you read a chapter from Jarvis’s text book every night before you go to sleep?’
    Bray grinned good-humouredly. ‘Do you want me to get it organised, sir?’
    Benbow grunted his assent. ‘And get hold of one of the forensic chaps from Town to come out and do a post-mortem.’
    I think