Wherever Lynn Goes by Jennifer Wilde Page B

plaster walls were adorned with sundry official notices, clipboards hanging on nails, and two homemade posters, one announcing the jumble sale to be held in the basement of the church in two days, the other proclaiming an amateur-theater production of She Stoops to Conquer opening May first at the school auditorium. A tarnished silver coffeepot perched on a marble-topped table, a bag of doughnuts beside it, and there were two desks littered with papers and telephones and wire baskets. A huge, dusty green shortwave radio stood behind one of them. A door opened onto a hall leading to the back rooms and cells. The place seemed empty. Through the open windows we could hear bees buzzing. The dog snored loudly.
    â€œOverwhelming activity,” Mandy remarked, “but then, I don’t suppose a village like this has much crime, the murder notwithstanding.”
    â€œThey have the usual trouble with teen-agers, I imagine, and Saturday-night brawls. The mill hands sometimes get restless, if I recall, and of course there are feuds.”
    â€œCharming place,” Mandy said. “Not at all what I expected. Look at that divine calendar. I adore kittens who play with yarn.”
    â€œDon’t be bitchy.”
    â€œBut I do , I assure you.”
    There was a rattling noise from the back of the building, then heavy footsteps sounded in the hall. Mandy and I looked up as a plump, middle-aged man stepped into the office. He wore baggy brown trousers and a rumpled brown-and-tan checked sportcoat, his green tie askew. His plump cheeks were rosy, his blue eyes amiable, and his short sandy hair was liberally sprinkled with gray. He undoubtedly loved dogs and children, I thought, and probably spent a great deal of time puttering about in his garden.
    â€œThought I heard someone out here,” he said. “Miss Morgan?”
    â€œI’m Miss Morgan. This is my friend Amanda Hunt.”
    â€œPleased to meet you both, though I’m sorry it had to be under these unhappy circumstances. I’m Constable Plimpton, out of uniform, I’m afraid, but it’s being let out. Doughnuts are my downfall. Sergeant Duncan’s just popped out to fetch a fresh bag. These are stale. I was in back, taking Old Mike his tobacco. He’s our only lodger at present. Likeable old chap, but he will go setting his traps in Lord Cooper’s woodland. Been a poacher all his life.” Constable Plimpton shook his head. “I ’spect you’ll want to know all the details of the case, Miss Morgan. Dreadful thing, dreadful, first murder we’ve had in Cooper’s Green since 1948. Old Colonel March seemed such a harmless fellow—eccentric, of course, but then, most oldsters are. Bred Pekineses, he did, won several prizes. Collected old china. Who would have thought he’d go off his rocker like that …” A deep frown furrowed his brow. “Reggie March was the last person I’d nominate as likely to murder someone, but facts are facts.”
    â€œAre you quite sure he did it?” Mandy inquired casually.
    â€œOh, no question about it. He was seen tearing out of the house that night—young Cooper saw him. Cooper found your aunt’s body, Miss Morgan, told us over the phone he’d seen the Colonel running away, and by the time we reached his cottage Reggie March had already shot himself. Put a bullet through his head, he did, not a pleasant sight to behold. Sprawled out in front of the fireplace, his gun on one side, the knife he’d used to stab Miss Daphne on the other.”
    â€œDid he leave a note?” I asked.
    â€œNo need for one, miss, not hardly. The facts spoke for themselves. They’d been quarreling, you see, him and Miss Daphne. Had a big feud going for weeks. He was … uh … more or less courting her, took her to all the church socials and so on. They’d had a falling out because she wanted to go to an auction and he insisted on staying home to