Crackpot by Philip Loraine

Author:Philip Loraine
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2017-03-23T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

Since I received that anonymous message Luck seemed to have been on my side, and looking back over the years I have to conclude that she usually is; but the chance she threw my way on this particular Monday morning was as unexpected as it was fortuitous.

The media had at last put in an appearance. I’ve no idea who tipped them the wink, but I did happen to witness their first encounter with Chief Inspector Pennard: no bucolic charm on this occasion, only a very sharp policeman indeed—I had an idea that’s what he really is—and am therefore a little wary of his wish to have a talk with me this afternoon. In the meantime, because proper work is really not possible under existing circumstances, even though I pretend it is, I decided to go for a walk, not knowing that Luck had now taken me by the hand and was leading me towards my special surprise.

It was another splendid day; the series of nightly frosts, none of them too severe, have brought to the woods above Crestcote the most colourful autumn I can remember in these parts. I took a path down to the lake, wanting to see it all reflected there; and I was just thinking how much I prefer autumn to spring, with its virulent greens and often enervating days, when I came upon Rosamund Turner. She was sitting on a fallen bough under a beech-tree, and her yellow hair and brown coat against the October woods, camouflaged her almost completely. She hadn’t heard me, and I was able to take good stock of her unusual pallor and her unhappy expression.

I moved again, more obviously, and her head snapped around, aware of an interloper; the blue eyes were cold until, seeing who it was, she gave a wan smile. She has always liked me and has said more than once that I’m the only person at Crackpot Castle, apart from Johnny, she can talk to with ease.

I said, ‘Horrible situation, isn’t it? Even if we were none of us that fond of Edvard.’

‘Horrible.’ Her voice was flat; we were both of us paying lip-service to convention.

‘I don’t suppose Johnny can work either.’

‘No. He’s taken a couple of canvases over to Pettigrew’s for framing.’ She shuddered and looked at her pale hands.

I said, ‘It’s too cold for sitting about. Want to walk a little?’

She agreed almost eagerly, and for the first time I realized that she was genuinely glad of company: that perhaps she needed to talk to someone. Therefore while we walked, I kept quiet and allowed her to sort out her thoughts.

She glanced at me once or twice, clearly on the very brink of speaking; then thought better of it. I kept my eyes on the trees and the lake. Eventually, after about five minutes, she said, ‘We … We’re in a terrible mess, I really … would like some advice.’

‘Of course, if I can give it.’

With difficulty she added, ‘It’s Johnny. He … lied to the police.

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