More Deaths Than One by Marjorie Eccles Page B

page. Some were Arthur Rackham trees, wild and witching, others mere abstracts in their spareness and quickness of line. On one page there was a plane tree with big, maple-like leaves, the light shining on its flaking, moss-encrusted bark, making on it a diamond pattern of ruby and green. Flanking it on the next page was a group of slender silver birches with daffodils blowing beneath, under the pendulous branches. The last drawing in the book was of the crippled tree by the side of the house – Cedrus Atlantica , its ribbed corky bark and its one living branch investing it with a threatening air, like some ogreish wood demon.
    â€œWish I could draw like that!” Kite exclaimed, obviously impressed. Although he didn’t know anything more about art than knowing what he didn’t like, he was willing to give anyone who could hold a pencil the benefit of the doubt. “Culver, d’you think?”
    â€œI don’t know about that, but it looks like a man’s work, to me.”
    Mayo, not much more knowledgeable than Kite, didn’t know why he thought so, except that there was some strength of line about the drawings that suggested an indubitably masculine hand. But if they were Culver’s, they had a sensitivity that didn’t square with the hard man conjured up by that conversation with the Salisburys. Perhaps they were in for a surprise.
    At that moment, they heard the man and the dog approach the house and enter by the back door. Mayo turned the pages back to where they had been left open. Not that he had too many scruples about intruding, even into something that was obviously intensely private. Scruples were something neither he nor his suspects could afford to have. But he didn’t want Culver to know they’d been looking at his work.
    The man’s voice could be heard, evidently speaking to the housekeeper. “Still here, Molly? Whose is the car? All right, leave it ready and then you must get off.” And then he was in the room with them, a tall, heavy-shouldered old man. Coarser-featured than his daughter, with a deep-clefted chin, lively dark eyes and strong bones, yet within that leathery countenance was contained a strong resemblance to Georgina Fleming. The similarity of feature was indeed quite striking, and when he spoke there was something of the same abruptness, though he was civilly polite, offering tea and, when it was refused, asking them shortly what they wanted.
    The sergeant, with whom Mayo had arranged to start the questioning, began without preamble. “Do you own a double-barrelled twelve-bore shotgun, Mr. Culver?”
    â€œI own several shotguns.”
    â€œHave you checked recently that they’re all there?”
    â€œOn Sunday. Why d’you want to know?”
    Kite countered with another question. “Did you know that your son-in-law, Rupert Fleming, has been found dead?”
    â€œYes. They said on the news he’d committed suicide.” Strength and power emanated from him as he stood with his back to the fire, his dog curled at his feet. He was a harshly-spoken man, economical with words and smiles, but decisive and to the point, forceful and used to the upper hand. “Doesn’t surprise me. Typical cowardly way out.”
    â€œI have to tell you the gun found by his side was traced to you.” The old man’s eyes flickered, the hand holding his tobacco pouch paused. “ My gun? How’s that possible? I haven’t seen him for at least seven years, nor wanted to.”
    â€œIs that so? Would you care to tell us what exactly was the trouble between you?”
    Culver smiled grimly. “I’ve no objection. The answer is I just didn’t like him. Oil and water, probably, but I also felt he wasn’t good enough for my daughter – most fathers’ initial reaction, I suppose. Only in his case events proved me right. As I predicted, he went from bad to worse, never amounted to anything,