weekend?”
“That’s right,” Mason told him, looking relieved to be going back into the house. “Would you like to see his room?”
“In a moment, sir. First off, I have to ask if there was anyone in particular who would benefit from Mr. Lincoln’s death. Or anyone with a grudge?”
“Of course not,” Mason said, his expression bland. “Not that I know of anyway.”
Applegate looked at Mason narrowly, and Drew could tell what he was thinking. The rumors about Constance and Lincoln were well known in the village. Applegate couldn’t have missed hearing them.
“I see, sir.” Applegate made a few more notes. “Now, as it’s rather late, if I can just have a list of your guests, as well as everyone living at Farthering Place, including staff, we’ll let you get to bed. Of course, we’ll have to lock up the room Mr. Lincoln was using. And leave your gardener out here to keep watch. P. C. Benson will be on duty at six. He can take over for your man then.”
“Naturally. Naturally.”
Mason led the constable out of the greenhouse, but Drew stayed behind, staring down at the body. Thinking.
After a moment, Nick nudged his arm. “I say, Drew, hadn’t we best get back to the house? I mean, I’m sure old Birdsong won’t much like it if we’re out here mucking things up worse than they already are.”
“Evidence, man, evidence.” Drew grinned. “Wasn’t that what you said?”
Nick glanced at the stained mackintosh and grimaced. “Couldn’t we look for evidence in the house?”
“I was just wondering about that ring of his,” Drew said.
“You mean why the killer didn’t take it?”
“No. Look at his hand.” Drew held the lantern close to the body. The right arm wasn’t completely covered up, and the third finger of the right hand had a band of flesh clearly lighter than the rest. The ruby ring glimmered just above the knuckle. “What would make it move up like that?”
“Gentlemen, if you please.”
Drew and Nick turned to see Applegate at the greenhouse door, looking disapprovingly at them.
“Sorry, Jimmy,” Drew said.
“We haven’t touched anything,” Nick added. “Just looking for evidence. Can’t solve the case without evidence.”
“I’m sure we’ll thank you to leave the evidence to the proper authorities,” Applegate said, drawing himself up to his full, very official height. “I need to dust for fingerprints and take photographs before they come round for the body, so if you’ll kindly excuse me . . .”
“But, Jimmy,” Drew said, “did you notice—?”
“I am a highly trained observer, Mr. Drew.”
“As you say,” Drew said with a sigh. “Come on, Nick. Let’s see what else there is to be seen.”
The festive atmosphere inside the house had turned somber. The band were packing up their instruments, and the guests huddled in murmuring groups, most with a cigarette or a drink to soothe the nerves. Per Constable Applegate’s instructions, Dennison was dutifully taking the name of each of the guests, and Mason was at the back of the room talking to Rushford.
“It’s horrible,” the old man said as Drew and Nick came up to them. He removed his spectacles and wiped them with his handkerchief. “My word. Lincoln. I mean, the man was a bit of a cad, but you know what young people are nowadays. We never had such things happen in the old days.”
“Certainly not,” Mason soothed. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”
“Just some bicarbonate, if you don’t mind too much.”
“Seems everyone’s at sixes and sevens right now, Mr. Rushford,” Drew said. “Nick, old man, would you mind . . . ?”
“Not at all,” Nick replied. “Just don’t start without me.”
“Start?” Rushford asked once Nick had darted off to the kitchen.
“Oh, nothing,” Drew told him. “This thing with Lincoln has everyone a bit rattled.”
“Terrible business,” Rushford agreed. “What have the police said?”
“Apparently they don’t
“That’s right,” Mason told him, looking relieved to be going back into the house. “Would you like to see his room?”
“In a moment, sir. First off, I have to ask if there was anyone in particular who would benefit from Mr. Lincoln’s death. Or anyone with a grudge?”
“Of course not,” Mason said, his expression bland. “Not that I know of anyway.”
Applegate looked at Mason narrowly, and Drew could tell what he was thinking. The rumors about Constance and Lincoln were well known in the village. Applegate couldn’t have missed hearing them.
“I see, sir.” Applegate made a few more notes. “Now, as it’s rather late, if I can just have a list of your guests, as well as everyone living at Farthering Place, including staff, we’ll let you get to bed. Of course, we’ll have to lock up the room Mr. Lincoln was using. And leave your gardener out here to keep watch. P. C. Benson will be on duty at six. He can take over for your man then.”
“Naturally. Naturally.”
Mason led the constable out of the greenhouse, but Drew stayed behind, staring down at the body. Thinking.
After a moment, Nick nudged his arm. “I say, Drew, hadn’t we best get back to the house? I mean, I’m sure old Birdsong won’t much like it if we’re out here mucking things up worse than they already are.”
“Evidence, man, evidence.” Drew grinned. “Wasn’t that what you said?”
Nick glanced at the stained mackintosh and grimaced. “Couldn’t we look for evidence in the house?”
“I was just wondering about that ring of his,” Drew said.
“You mean why the killer didn’t take it?”
“No. Look at his hand.” Drew held the lantern close to the body. The right arm wasn’t completely covered up, and the third finger of the right hand had a band of flesh clearly lighter than the rest. The ruby ring glimmered just above the knuckle. “What would make it move up like that?”
“Gentlemen, if you please.”
Drew and Nick turned to see Applegate at the greenhouse door, looking disapprovingly at them.
“Sorry, Jimmy,” Drew said.
“We haven’t touched anything,” Nick added. “Just looking for evidence. Can’t solve the case without evidence.”
“I’m sure we’ll thank you to leave the evidence to the proper authorities,” Applegate said, drawing himself up to his full, very official height. “I need to dust for fingerprints and take photographs before they come round for the body, so if you’ll kindly excuse me . . .”
“But, Jimmy,” Drew said, “did you notice—?”
“I am a highly trained observer, Mr. Drew.”
“As you say,” Drew said with a sigh. “Come on, Nick. Let’s see what else there is to be seen.”
The festive atmosphere inside the house had turned somber. The band were packing up their instruments, and the guests huddled in murmuring groups, most with a cigarette or a drink to soothe the nerves. Per Constable Applegate’s instructions, Dennison was dutifully taking the name of each of the guests, and Mason was at the back of the room talking to Rushford.
“It’s horrible,” the old man said as Drew and Nick came up to them. He removed his spectacles and wiped them with his handkerchief. “My word. Lincoln. I mean, the man was a bit of a cad, but you know what young people are nowadays. We never had such things happen in the old days.”
“Certainly not,” Mason soothed. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”
“Just some bicarbonate, if you don’t mind too much.”
“Seems everyone’s at sixes and sevens right now, Mr. Rushford,” Drew said. “Nick, old man, would you mind . . . ?”
“Not at all,” Nick replied. “Just don’t start without me.”
“Start?” Rushford asked once Nick had darted off to the kitchen.
“Oh, nothing,” Drew told him. “This thing with Lincoln has everyone a bit rattled.”
“Terrible business,” Rushford agreed. “What have the police said?”
“Apparently they don’t
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