surrounded the terrible death of the former curator. Opinion on Mark Bennett seemed unanimous. He was well liked by everyone, it appeared, although some hinted that the ladies had found him more attractive than was perhaps proper. Few seemed in doubt that Bennett had been murdered by either a jealous rival or a rejected partner, and one or two hinted that despite his release, the police didn’t need to look much further than David Kershaw as the culprit.
To our surprise, one of those making that assertion was a member of the official party: the solicitor recently maligned by Johnny Pickersgill.
Scott Martin introduced himself, and when I attempted to reciprocate waved that aside. ‘I know who you are, Mr Bailey. I used to watch your TV dispatches assiduously. I admired your accurate and unbiased summaries of difficult situations and the politics surrounding them. Assessment of the facts and the ability to remain impartial are two qualities vital to lawyers.’
Martin smiled slightly before including Eve in his next comments. ‘More recently I’ve been fascinated and impressed by you and your wife’s careers, if you can categorise them as such. It seems that your combined talents have created a pair of super-sleuths in our midst.’
He invested the words with heavy irony before continuing, ‘However, I don’t think your detective talents will be stretched to the extreme to solve our most recent violent event. I’m referring of course to the demise of the former curator of this establishment. Sadly, that seems to be an open-and-shut case. It seems that Bennett was a victim of his own predilection for dalliance, shall we say. My only hope is that David Kershaw doesn’t call upon me to represent him. Defending Kershaw would probably be the most challenging case I’ve ever handled.’
‘It does seem to be the general opinion that Kershaw is guilty,’ I responded, without going as far as to agree Martin’s point, ‘but there must be an element of doubt, surely, otherwise the police wouldn’t have released him from custody?’
‘There is a vast difference between being released on bail and being innocent,’ the lawyer replied. ‘I believe a shortage of evidence is the prime reason they haven’t yet laid charges against him.’
Martin’s theory, and that of several others in the throng, was severely tested within minutes of him having uttered it. We had finished our conversation and moved into the foyer, where I was eyeing a particularly tasty-looking gateau when the new curator of the museum called on the crowd to be silent, and asked the distinguished historian to cut the ribbon signalling the opening of the art gallery.
Many people pressed forward, keen to be among the first to view the new building. This, for most of those present, would be the most interesting part of the proceedings. Nobody could have guessed that their interest would be superseded by high drama.
I had no great wish to be among them. For my part, the building would be as exciting in half an hour as it was right then. The gateau was still occupying my complete attention when we heard a piercing scream that emanated from the art gallery. The predominantly glass structure helped magnify and echo the sound, which, with the double doors open, reverberated through the foyer to the museum part of the building.
Almost simultaneously, we saw the gallery disgorge several art lovers who emerged in what I could only describe as a disorganised rabble, their faces registering shock, fear and horror in equal measure. Among the leaders of the pack was the owner of a café in the town whom I knew slightly. I managed to detain him by grasping his arm to ask him what was wrong.
‘There’s a body,’ he gasped. ‘A dead body. In the fountain. There’s blood everywhere.’ Having imparted this dreadful news, he set off to join the others.
In the shocked silence that followed I heard the voice of David Kershaw nearby. ‘Time to go, I think.
To our surprise, one of those making that assertion was a member of the official party: the solicitor recently maligned by Johnny Pickersgill.
Scott Martin introduced himself, and when I attempted to reciprocate waved that aside. ‘I know who you are, Mr Bailey. I used to watch your TV dispatches assiduously. I admired your accurate and unbiased summaries of difficult situations and the politics surrounding them. Assessment of the facts and the ability to remain impartial are two qualities vital to lawyers.’
Martin smiled slightly before including Eve in his next comments. ‘More recently I’ve been fascinated and impressed by you and your wife’s careers, if you can categorise them as such. It seems that your combined talents have created a pair of super-sleuths in our midst.’
He invested the words with heavy irony before continuing, ‘However, I don’t think your detective talents will be stretched to the extreme to solve our most recent violent event. I’m referring of course to the demise of the former curator of this establishment. Sadly, that seems to be an open-and-shut case. It seems that Bennett was a victim of his own predilection for dalliance, shall we say. My only hope is that David Kershaw doesn’t call upon me to represent him. Defending Kershaw would probably be the most challenging case I’ve ever handled.’
‘It does seem to be the general opinion that Kershaw is guilty,’ I responded, without going as far as to agree Martin’s point, ‘but there must be an element of doubt, surely, otherwise the police wouldn’t have released him from custody?’
‘There is a vast difference between being released on bail and being innocent,’ the lawyer replied. ‘I believe a shortage of evidence is the prime reason they haven’t yet laid charges against him.’
Martin’s theory, and that of several others in the throng, was severely tested within minutes of him having uttered it. We had finished our conversation and moved into the foyer, where I was eyeing a particularly tasty-looking gateau when the new curator of the museum called on the crowd to be silent, and asked the distinguished historian to cut the ribbon signalling the opening of the art gallery.
Many people pressed forward, keen to be among the first to view the new building. This, for most of those present, would be the most interesting part of the proceedings. Nobody could have guessed that their interest would be superseded by high drama.
I had no great wish to be among them. For my part, the building would be as exciting in half an hour as it was right then. The gateau was still occupying my complete attention when we heard a piercing scream that emanated from the art gallery. The predominantly glass structure helped magnify and echo the sound, which, with the double doors open, reverberated through the foyer to the museum part of the building.
Almost simultaneously, we saw the gallery disgorge several art lovers who emerged in what I could only describe as a disorganised rabble, their faces registering shock, fear and horror in equal measure. Among the leaders of the pack was the owner of a café in the town whom I knew slightly. I managed to detain him by grasping his arm to ask him what was wrong.
‘There’s a body,’ he gasped. ‘A dead body. In the fountain. There’s blood everywhere.’ Having imparted this dreadful news, he set off to join the others.
In the shocked silence that followed I heard the voice of David Kershaw nearby. ‘Time to go, I think.
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