Night Ferry to Death by Patricia Moyes

Author:Patricia Moyes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Felony & Mayhem Press
Published: 2020-07-09T00:00:00+00:00

Before he left for Denburgh, Henry went to see Chief Superintendent Williamson to tell him the latest developments, and also about the information he had gleaned from the cabin passenger files.

‘A knitting needle, Williamson,’ said Henry, ‘could be sharpened into a most effective stiletto. Exactly the sort of weapon that killed Smith.’

‘I think we’d better have a word with Harris about this,’ said Williamson, and sent for the Inspector, who was immediately hostile.

‘Of course it occurred to me, sir,’ he said. ‘I carefully tested all the needles, but there wasn’t one that could have made a hole in anything but a piece of paper. Plastic, they were.’

‘There could have been another one—a sharpened steel one,’ said Henry.

‘There could have been, sir, but there wasn’t.’

‘And none were missing?’

‘No, sir. One lady was knitting something green, and there were just the two needles, the stitches on one and the other bare. The other lady was doing one of those circular things on three needles, and they were all there, too.’ Harris was determined to show that he had acted with all possible zeal. ‘In any case, sir,’ he added, ‘both ladies were in cabins. They couldn’t have committed the murder, neither of them.’

‘You’re perfectly right, Inspector,’ said Henry, with a smile. ‘Sorry to have bothered you. It was just an idea.’

At just about the same time that Henry set out for Denburgh Manor, Inspector Reynolds was bowling along in a black police car through the western suburbs of London, heading for Bedbury. It was quite a long drive, but the new motorways cut the journey time, and by a quarter to twelve Reynolds had parked the car outside The White Hart. Despite its name, and the fact that it had a small bar, The White Hart was clearly a hotel rather than a pub. In fact, it still looked like the small country manor house it had been since the eighteenth century, standing in a pretty, old-fashioned garden, well back from the main street of the village.

The owner, a gentle, flustered lady in a drooping cardigan, was obviously anxious to be helpful, but could give little information.

‘Mrs Watson? Oh yes, Inspector, she came to us just a little while ago...let me see...yes, here it is. April 15th. She booked a room on a monthly basis—we give a reduction for long-term residents, you see—and she seemed very happy here.’

‘I understand,’ said Reynolds, ‘that she had just got a job in the neighbourhood.’

‘A job? I really don’t know about that. She was out a lot of the time, it’s true, but she seemed...well, she told me she was a widow, and well-off and not very young... I never thought of her having a job.’

‘Is she here now?’ asked Reynolds.

‘Oh no. Not just at the moment. But she’ll be back, that’s for sure.’

‘Do you know where she is?’ Reynolds asked.

‘Somewhere in Scotland, Inspector. I can’t tell you more than that. It was just a few days ago, she told me she’d had a letter from her daughter in Scotland, and she was going up there for a few weeks.

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