old dear is so sentimental about her possessions, given they all belonged to her late, beloved husband, it’s like trying to pick barnacles off a ship’s hull. Do you know what I had to give for a limited edition of Ulysses she’d got squirreled away —” Trueblood wheeled around. “My God, the books? Where are they, and where is it? ”
“Never mind them for a moment —”
“Never mind? You must be out of yours if you think a book by Joyce with etchings by Matisse —”
“And a body by Trueblood,” Melrose said, with a gracious smile. “I’d forget James Joyce for the moment.”
“And get back to your visit,” said Jury.
“There’s nothing more. We had tea on her balcony and chatted, mostly about the past. Hers, not mine. And after she’d knocked up the price by a thousand, I fixed up about having the removal men fetch it this morning.” Trueblood’s glance fastened on the body in the secrétaire and he shivered. “And so it was. Let’s send it back.” He smiled weakly.
“Nothing else?” asked Jury, who was examining the wound. It was a stab wound, but it did not have the appearance of one made by an ordinary knife. “Who else knew it was to be collected this morning?”
“Possibly the old butler. The granddaughter, perhaps, though I doubt it. She doesn’t seem to be around much.”
“But the removal men had to call in at the house.”
“No. There’s a sort of lay-by and a short road that leads to within a hundred yards of the summerhouse. They’d have taken it from there.”
“It borders my property,” said Melrose. “I mean the Watermeadows acres more or less join up with mine. There’s no dividing line except for that dirt road. Then there’s the footpath.”
“In other words, public access.”
They both nodded.
Jury turned from his inspection of the wound. “Okay. That means anyone could conceivably have got into this summerhouse fairly easily, if Marshall here simply walked in. Why, if there were valuable pieces, wouldn’t it have been locked?”
“This isn’t London, old sweat. People don’t bother things much about here.”
“Really?” Jury nodded toward the corpse. “You could have fooled me.”
Trueblood went on: “Lady S. isn’t an especially acquisitive person. Except for certain things that belonged to her late husband, I don’t think she cares much about possessions.”
Jury nodded to Melrose. “Call the constable.”
“About time,” said Melrose. “You’re holding up a murder investigation, you know, whilst we get our stories straight,” he added with a grim smile.
“Have you got hold of yourself enough by now to tell your story, Marshall? Where’s the bill of sale?”
Trueblood went to a handsomely carved kneehole deskand started jerking open drawers. Melrose, in the meantime, had sat down on a rose velvet settee and was trying to find a comfortable position in the cramped space.
“Be careful!” said Trueblood, “or you’ll break the Spode.” Then to Jury, “Wait a moment. You seem to be taking the tack that I, I am going to be looked upon as a suspect .”
“It would be a little careless of you, wouldn’t it,” asked Melrose, “to have the corpse delivered to yourself like a parcel?”
• • •
Superintendent Charles Pratt stood staring at the body of Simon Lean, waiting for his medical examiner to finish. To no one in particular, he said, “I must admit I haven’t seen a corpse in such an unwieldy position as this since the last time I was called to Long Piddleton.” It was as if Long Piddletonians were particularly adept at arranging bodies.
The Scene-of-Crimes officer had been no less surprised as he had gone about adjusting and readjusting his camera to get shots of the body from every angle. The medical examiner, a sprightly man named Simpson, had completed a cursory examination of the wound and now asked the Scene-of-Crimes man if they could set about dismantling the desk so that the body could be
“Never mind them for a moment —”
“Never mind? You must be out of yours if you think a book by Joyce with etchings by Matisse —”
“And a body by Trueblood,” Melrose said, with a gracious smile. “I’d forget James Joyce for the moment.”
“And get back to your visit,” said Jury.
“There’s nothing more. We had tea on her balcony and chatted, mostly about the past. Hers, not mine. And after she’d knocked up the price by a thousand, I fixed up about having the removal men fetch it this morning.” Trueblood’s glance fastened on the body in the secrétaire and he shivered. “And so it was. Let’s send it back.” He smiled weakly.
“Nothing else?” asked Jury, who was examining the wound. It was a stab wound, but it did not have the appearance of one made by an ordinary knife. “Who else knew it was to be collected this morning?”
“Possibly the old butler. The granddaughter, perhaps, though I doubt it. She doesn’t seem to be around much.”
“But the removal men had to call in at the house.”
“No. There’s a sort of lay-by and a short road that leads to within a hundred yards of the summerhouse. They’d have taken it from there.”
“It borders my property,” said Melrose. “I mean the Watermeadows acres more or less join up with mine. There’s no dividing line except for that dirt road. Then there’s the footpath.”
“In other words, public access.”
They both nodded.
Jury turned from his inspection of the wound. “Okay. That means anyone could conceivably have got into this summerhouse fairly easily, if Marshall here simply walked in. Why, if there were valuable pieces, wouldn’t it have been locked?”
“This isn’t London, old sweat. People don’t bother things much about here.”
“Really?” Jury nodded toward the corpse. “You could have fooled me.”
Trueblood went on: “Lady S. isn’t an especially acquisitive person. Except for certain things that belonged to her late husband, I don’t think she cares much about possessions.”
Jury nodded to Melrose. “Call the constable.”
“About time,” said Melrose. “You’re holding up a murder investigation, you know, whilst we get our stories straight,” he added with a grim smile.
“Have you got hold of yourself enough by now to tell your story, Marshall? Where’s the bill of sale?”
Trueblood went to a handsomely carved kneehole deskand started jerking open drawers. Melrose, in the meantime, had sat down on a rose velvet settee and was trying to find a comfortable position in the cramped space.
“Be careful!” said Trueblood, “or you’ll break the Spode.” Then to Jury, “Wait a moment. You seem to be taking the tack that I, I am going to be looked upon as a suspect .”
“It would be a little careless of you, wouldn’t it,” asked Melrose, “to have the corpse delivered to yourself like a parcel?”
• • •
Superintendent Charles Pratt stood staring at the body of Simon Lean, waiting for his medical examiner to finish. To no one in particular, he said, “I must admit I haven’t seen a corpse in such an unwieldy position as this since the last time I was called to Long Piddleton.” It was as if Long Piddletonians were particularly adept at arranging bodies.
The Scene-of-Crimes officer had been no less surprised as he had gone about adjusting and readjusting his camera to get shots of the body from every angle. The medical examiner, a sprightly man named Simpson, had completed a cursory examination of the wound and now asked the Scene-of-Crimes man if they could set about dismantling the desk so that the body could be
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