Murder of a Snob by Roy Vickers Page A

table and made notes on the back of a typewritten letter. “I remember trying to go to sleep after lunch, but it was too hot. I went out alone and wandered by the river. I lay down under that oak near the lock until I began to bore myself. Then I came on here, apparently arriving at the right time.”
    â€œPerhaps someone saw you during that time who could identify you?” suggested Crisp.
    â€œUndoubtedly! People tend to point me out to each other. But I myself don’t know a soul in these parts. We might advertise in the local paper, asking all those who stared at me to come forward. Otherwise, I warn you, I can’t prove a word of my story.”
    â€œIn your case, I don’t think we need worry you about proof.” Crisp surprised an unguarded look of relief on the other’s face. “If you find you can remember anything for us to check, you might ring me at headquarters, will you? Goodnight!”
    â€œI wonder,” said Fenchurch as he rose to go, “why people think the police subject them to third degree or whatever it is. I’ve enjoyed our chat immensely.”
    â€œSo have I. Would you mind returning that pencil which you have pocketted?”
    â€œOh, sorry! I’m so glad you told me! People generally hate to mention it. My studio is littered with other people’s pencils and fountain pens—mostly belonging to autograph hunters.”
    When Fenchurch had left the room, Crisp summoned Benscombe, gave him the list of guests.
    â€œBefore Fenchurch can reach home, ask Mrs. Fenchurch—that’s what she’s called—what time he left their flat this afternoon, and where he was going. She may not know that Watlington is dead. She may not know that you are in the Force. Her name is Glenda, in case she mistakes you for a cocktail party boy friend.”
    Benscombe made for the telephone. Crisp called an orderly.
    â€œTell Mr. Cornboise I’d be obliged if he would come to the morning-room.”
    Before Cornboise appeared, Crisp put the envelope containing the Will on the mantelpiece, seal downwards.

Chapter Five
    Ralph Cornboise seemed to Crisp to be no more nervy than any young man might be in the circumstances. He made a graceful response to condolences on the death of his uncle. As the hard light from the Victorian chandelier fell full on his face, Crisp spotted signs of a sedative drug, and suspected the hand of Claudia.
    A playboy, Crisp decided, but of the kind that takes itself seriously—floating through life with highfalutin’ intentions but never actually breaking free from a routine of trivial amusements, which might include the amusement of playing at work. Strange that a woman like Claudia Lofting could be attracted to such a man—and to the extent of asking other men to be gentle with him.
    Rather impertinent of her, now he came to think of it.
    â€œAs you probably know,” said Crisp, putting it as gently as Claudia could wish, “we have to tick off everybody’s movements.”
    â€œWhere d’you want me to begin, Colonel?”
    â€œBegin at the point where you last saw your uncle alive, and work backwards.”
    Ralph Cornboise nodded, while he weighed his words.
    â€œI last saw him alive at a quarter past five this afternoon. In the library.”
    Crisp was surprised. That was the time given by the old lady in the garden. Ralph Cornboise had made a good beginning.
    â€œGive the full circumstances, please—how and why you went to the library, and so on.”
    â€œThat will be difficult without dragging in family matters.” He spoke as if Crisp’s convenience were his sole concern. “After lunch, Miss Lofting, Querk and myself went with my uncle into the library, where we were occupied with family affairs for half an hour or so, after which Miss Lofting and I drifted into the garden.
    â€œAs a matter of fact, Miss Lofting and I were discussing a rather offensive remark of