Death At Bishop's Keep by Robin Paige

Author:Robin Paige [Paige, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub

28

"Find me some material, though it is no bigger than a fly's root, give me but a clew no thicker than a spider's web, and I'll follow it through the whole labyrinth."

—Willie Collins "Foul Play"

Charles spent the next day following the two clues he had—the peacock feather and the dead man's photograph. Buttoned up in a mackintosh and wearing a hat against the drizzling mist, he rode into Colchester, where he stabled his horse and walked to Queen Street. At the fourth house, his portfolio under his arm, he pulled the brass bell. It was answered this time by a pert little maid with red cheeks and a ready smile who gave Charles a demure look under her eyelashes when he asked to see the master. He handed over his card, on which he had written, ' 'A matter of paramount importance."

"I'll tell Mr. Murdstone yer here, sir," the maid said, leaving him standing in the narrow hall. He passed the time by examining a series of gilt-framed etchings of the Charge of the Light Brigade, hung against the rose-patterned wallpaper. Precious was nowhere to be seen but could be heard, yapping briskly but faintly in a distant room, and the rich perfume of cooked onions arose from the back of the house. A moment later the maid returned to take his coat and lead him to the parlor.

Frank Murdstone was roasting his feet on the small fender in the lace-curtained parlor immediately off the hall, comfortable in a soft jacket and loose tie, reading a newspaper by the light of a hissing gas lamp. He was a man with a horsey nose, a high forehead, and tufted eyebrows.

"Oh, it's you," he said, removing his boots from the fender. He put down his newspaper, his ears reddening. He obviously remembered yesterday's encounter with some embarrassment. "What can I do for you, Sir Charles? What's this business of 'paramount importance'?"

"As I said yesterday," Charles said, taking the photograph out of his portfolio, "I am attempting to identify this man."

Murdstone stood up, glanced briefly at the photograph Charles handed him, and shrugged. "Can't help you, I'm afraid."

"Do you mind taking one more look?" Charles prodded, watching Murdstone's face. The fire cast flickering shadows across his cheeks, highlighting the dome of his forehead.

Murdstone took a pair of gold-rimmed glasses out of his pocket, hooked them over his ears, and peered through them at the photograph. His eyes widened slightly. "Dead man, is he?"

"Murdered."

Murdstone shook his head firmly. "Never saw the chap." He handed the photo back and took off his glasses. "If you don't mind my asking, why are you inquiring, and not the police?"

"It is a matter of interest to me," Charles said vaguely. At this point he was not entirely sure why he was pursuing the matter. The police had given it up as a bad job and offered absolutely no encouragement. Perhaps he was led by his feeling that the dead ought to inspire at least some interest among the living; perhaps it was merely his enjoyment of the laby-rinthian process of puzzle solving.

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