A SIX-LETTER WORD FOR DEATH by Patricia Moyes

Author:Patricia Moyes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Felony & Mayhem Press
Published: 2019-10-05T00:00:00+00:00

The Chimneys turned out to be a small but exquisite Elizabethan farmhouse on the outskirts of the little town. It had been restored with expert and loving care, and the garden was immaculately tended. As the taxi drove in through the open wrought-iron gates, Henry was doing a little mental calculation. A small-town bank manager, while a respected and by no means indigent citizen, could hardly afford to live in a place like this, unless he had some source of income beyond his salary. It could be a private fortune, but if so, why soldier on as a bank manager? The source must surely be Myrtle, or rather Jack Harvey.

The front door was opened by a maid, who ushered the Tibbetts into a comfortable drawing room with a huge fireplace, unlit but piled with logs.

“Madam will be down in a moment,” said the maid, and withdrew.

Emmy looked at Henry, eyebrows just slightly raised. He grinned back, guessing correctly that they had both had the same thought. Jack Harvey was doing well.

Then the door opened and Myrtle came in—the Lady of the Manor, country-wholesome in a striped cotton dress and cashmere cardigan. Neat gray hair, strong hands, sensible shoes. As unlike the world of Jack Harvey and Tex Lawrie as could be imagined.

She said, “Mr. and Mrs. Tibbett! This is a delightful surprise. May I offer you a cup of coffee?”

Emmy said, “Not for me, thanks. We’ve just had a magnificent meal.”

“Yes. The Tabard has a very fine cook, I am told. Of course, Gerald and I hardly ever eat there. Rather like living in London and never visiting St. Paul’s.”

Henry and Emmy smiled politely, and then Henry said, “The inquest this morning was interesting, I thought.”

“Really?” Myrtle sounded bored, a shade too bored, perhaps. “I should have thought it would be a mere formality.”

“That’s what was interesting,” said Henry.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand…”

Henry said, “There were people with important evidence to give who were not called.”

“Such as?”

“Myself, for one,” Henry said.

There was an awkward pause, and then Myrtle said, “Would you care to see the garden? The roses are at their best just now.”

“I’m afraid we haven’t the time, Mrs. Waterford,” said Henry. “I have to get back to London. I only called to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Me?” Myrtle’s manner became glacial. “Questions? What about?”

“About how well you knew Peter Turnberry.”

Again, a pause. Then, “You’re not trying to tell me that you are here in your official capacity, I hope, Chief Superintendent?”

Henry smiled. “Of course not. I’m just…curious, that’s all. Force of habit, I suppose. I’d be very grateful if you’d help me fill in a few blanks.”

“In what?”

“Oh, just an idea I have. Had you met Peter Turnberry before the Carnworth week?”

“No, I had not.” No hesitation whatever.

“But during the week, before Emmy and I arrived, you got to know him quite well?”

“I really don’t see where this is leading, Mr. Tibbett. Of course, people at a small house party like that are bound to get to know each other.

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