The Long Divorce (A Gervase Fen Mystery) by Crispin Edmund

Author:Crispin, Edmund [Crispin, Edmund]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Ipso Books
Published: 2017-11-22T05:00:00+00:00

12

THE Chief Constable's study was slightly shabby – as a room initially well-furnished can be allowed without offensiveness to become: the chintz a little faded; the ceiling smoky; the rugs, though still serviceable, frayed. Long lattice windows looked towards the front gate, and opposite to them were double doors which led into the drawing-room. The chairs and sofa were Edwardian, with a frail look: Edwardian, too, the massive roll-top desk. The only decisively modern things there were the green metal filing-cabinet and the telephone, and these, you felt, were interlopers, suffered there for their utility alone. The mantelpiece had photographs on it, many photographs; the decanters on the side-table wore necklace labels, shallow-incised lettering on rectangles of thin silver; the books were behind glass. At wood and fabric, brass and paint, the years had picked with delicate, untiring fingers, and the felts tacked on to eliminate draughts were like patches on an old ship.

It was half past five. Inspector Edward Casby, his face so white with fatigue that the scar hardly showed, sat in an armchair by the fireplace, and Colonel Babington, fidgeting with his clipped moustache, was pacing the carpet. The heat was less now: westering, the sun had gained definition and no longer hurt your eyes.

The Colonel glanced surreptitiously at Casby, halted.

'My dear chap, you're overdoing it,' he said abruptly. 'Get some food and some sleep, that's my advice. There's nothing that won't keep till to-morrow.'

'I'm afraid I can't be sure of that, sir.' Casby remained quietly dogged. 'And that's why I feel I must make some sort of interim report. There'll be' – he hesitated – 'there may be action you'll want to take.'

'Action?' the Colonel stared. 'What sort of action, for God's sake?'

'About me, sir.'

'About you?'

'You'll understand what I mean, sir, when I've told you the results I've got so far.'

'Oh, very well, then.' The Colonel shrugged. 'If you must, you must. But you'd better have a drink first.' He went to the decanters, poured whisky for both of them, carried it back to the fireplace. 'Now,' he said, 'what is all this?'

'As you know, sir, there are three separate problems.' Casby spoke with deliberation – with too much deliberation, Colonel Babington felt; what he was going to say plainly had an interest for him above and beyond his professional concern with it, and he was using logic to shut that interest out. 'Three problems: the letters in general, the letter sent to Miss Keats-Madderly in particular, and the murder of Rubi.

'It may be that those three problems are quite separate and distinct; or it may be that two of them are connected, and the third is separate; or it may be that there's a nexus involving them all.'

The Colonel looked at the ceiling. 'Yes,' he murmured. 'Yes, I see.'

'I beg your pardon, sir.' Casby smiled faintly. 'Perhaps I am overdoing it rather, I didn't intend to imply . . .'

'No, no, go on – my dear man. It's your report, after all.' Colonel Babington returned the smile.

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