The Dead of Winter by Jane A. Adams Page B

had kept a roof over their heads at no rent and given them the promised pension – more than most employers would have done, Elizabeth well knew.
    â€˜ He said it, ma’am, he told them. Oh Mrs Southam, forgive me, but I can’t get out of my head that he was killed and that the man who killed him is still out there. ’
    â€˜ Did he name someone? ’
    Mrs Creedy nodded emphatically. She leaned forward and whispered a name that at the time meant nothing to Elizabeth. Spinelli.
    â€˜ I will look into this, Mrs Creedy,’ Elizabeth had promised. If nothing else it would add a little excitement, she thought, to a life which had proved dull since their return from Europe.
    Later, she had summoned those employees who had been there on the day of Creedy’s death and asked them to confirm what his widow had said.
    â€˜ And what do you think?’ she had asked both the estate manager and the head gardener who had been first on the scene and watched the gamekeeper die.
    The gardener shuffled his feet, twisting his cap between his hands. He shook his head. ‘I saw nothing, Mrs Southam, nor heard nothing either. ’
    â€˜ You can go, Michael,’ George Weston, the manager of her husband’s estate, told the man.
    Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but a slight shake of Weston’s head caused her to hesitate and keep silent until the man had scurried away.
    â€˜ Mr Weston? ’
    â€˜ Please understand, Mrs Southam, that you cannot expect those who are vulnerable to the wrath of their superiors to speak freely. I will confirm Creedy’s words, but I do ask that you leave the servants out of the matter. For their sake. ’
    Elizabeth frowned. ‘Very well, Mr Weston, and what will you tell me? ’
    Weston hesitated for a moment, and then he said, ‘Creedy’s weapon was un-loaded when I took it from his hand. It had not been fired. ’
    â€˜ You lied to the police? ’
    â€˜ I lied to the police. I perjured myself at the inquest. Creedy asked me to do so. I did not see fit to deny the wishes of a dying man, especially as I fully understood his reasoning. ’
    Elizabeth rang the bell and ordered the maid to bring them both tea.
    â€˜ Sit down, Mr Weston,’ Elizabeth commanded. ‘And you will explain your reasoning to me. ’
    It was after nine by the time Rina headed back to her room. She had decided she would call Mac and ask him to look some things up for her on his computer. She had become used to having Internet access this past year and really missed it now. She supposed she could have asked Melissa if there was a terminal she could use, but really didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that she was checking up on her fellow guests and doing a bit of her own research to supplement Viv’s very able appraisal. It didn’t seem very polite, apart from anything else. She’d been relieved to have been seated at dinner with Joy and Tim, and their other table companions, Rav and Terry, had proved to be amiable and easy. Much to her surprise, Terry Beal, internationally acclaimed action hero, more famous for his muscles than his brain, was a bright, intelligent soul who had been far more interested in finding out about his fellow diners than talking about his acting career. Best of all, he knew of Rina. Her lead role in the TV series Lydia Marchant Investigates was familiar to him and affectionately recalled.
    â€˜I used to watch it with my mother, and now I catch it on reruns when I’m travelling. You’d be amazed at how many languages it’s been dubbed into or subtitled for.’
    Actually, Rina thought, she knew precisely how many – and picked up a nice little royalty cheque on a regular basis. Lydia Marchant had paid for Peverill Lodge in the first place; now she did her bit to help with the running of it, and Rina was profoundly grateful to her alter ego.
    â€˜It must have been hard to give it