Murder in Act Three: a 1930s 'Reverend Shaw' Golden Age-style mystery thriller by Hugh Morrison

Author:Hugh Morrison [Morrison, Hugh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Montpelier Publishing
Published: 2023-05-03T00:00:00+00:00

McPherson had no difficulty finding Kenilworth Lodge, Havering’s rambling family home; he did, however, have some difficulty gaining entry. He at first had to leap back as a baby Austin motor car shot past him on the drive, tootling its horn and filling the detective’s trouser-turnups with a spray of gravel.

As he walked up the little carriage-turn he shook his head in disbelief at how the other half lived. This old Tudor house with its various wings and extensions could contain at least a dozen flats of the size he and his new wife were living in.

Immediately after he had rung the old-fashioned bell-pull in the little gabled porch, the heavy studded door flew open and a red-headed maid rushed at him with a besom.

‘I’ve already told you, you can clear off, the pair of yous! The master’s not speaking to any reporters- didn’t your mate in his motor car just now tell you that? You’re the tird one this mornin’!’

‘Look you, I’m no’ a reporter,’ said McPherson gruffly. ‘And put that broom down,’ he added, looking at the bristles which were positioned perilously close to his nose, ‘or I’ll break the thing in half and beat your backside with it.’

‘And who the devil are you if you’re not a reporter?’ asked the maid suspiciously, lowering the broom slightly.

McPherson sighed and raised his warrant card. ‘I’m a police officer. Is Mr Havering senior at home?’

‘What’s this about?’ demanded a stern voice from inside the house. A man in late middle age with a fine head of grey hair and an aristocratic bearing, wearing ancient but well-cut tweeds, appeared behind the Irish maid.

‘Mr Havering?’ asked McPherson. ‘Detective Sergeant McPherson. Can I talk to you in private?’

‘Go inside Maeve,’ said the man in a tone that indicated he was used to giving orders. ‘Madam wants you in the kitchen.’

‘Very good sir,’ said the maid, glowering at McPherson as she disappeared into the house.

‘I was just about to telephone the local constable,’ said Mr Havering. ‘I hear my son’s got himself into a spot of bother. ’

‘A wee bit more than that, sir,’ said McPherson. ‘May I come in?’

Mr Havering showed McPherson in to a small book- lined study off the main hall of the house.

‘That hack that came round earlier was spouting a lot of nonsense about my son stabbing some woman in the village hall,’ said Mr Havering. ‘It’s obviously all a lot of nonsense or some sort of rag- he was in trouble for that sort of thing at Oxford, I recall once I…’

‘It’s no a “rag” as you call it sir,’ interrupted McPherson. ‘He’s being held on suspicion of murder.’

‘Held, where?’

‘The village police house, for the time being.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

Mr Havering slumped into a leather armchair.

‘He’d been out all night of course,’ he continued, ‘but he often does that, young chap like that in the prime of life. Wild oats and all that. I was the same at his age. I’ve warned him about it of course, but what more can one do? It’s bound to be a mistake.

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