Bertie and the Seven Bodies by Peter Lovesey

Author:Peter Lovesey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime Fiction / Mystery
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2019-01-29T19:34:05+00:00

CHAPTER 13

“Has Bullivant appeared yet?” I asked.

Inspector Sweeney gave me a persecuted look, then told me not only that the search for Bullivant had been unproduc­tive, but that people were becoming agitated.

“Probably he went for a long walk,” I said. “I dare say he’ll appear for luncheon.”

“Might I have a private word with you, sir?” Sweeney asked. Before we had withdrawn to the far end of the room he said, “I wouldn’t describe myself as a detective, sir—”

“I know that,” I said through gritted teeth, “but you don’t have to broadcast it to all and sundry. Keep your voice down.”

“This Lady Holdfast, sir. She’s acting like a guilty per­son, saying over and over that she wants to leave the house as soon as possible. She’s giving her husband the devil of a time, sir.”

“Pure nerves,” I told him.

“I’d be nervous myself if I’d murdered three people, sir. She has a wild look in her eye. I wouldn’t care to meet her with a dagger in a dark room.”

“That may be so, Sweeney, but I need something more to go on than a wild look.”

“I thought I’d mention it.”

“And you have.”

“You could question her next, sir.”

“And give her the excuse to leave? No, she’ll have to wait. Return to your bodyguarding. That’s what you do best. Leave the conduct of the case to me.”

I fingered my watch chain and thought what on earth shall I do next? Interview another suspect. Young Pelham will do. But when I crossed the room, he had gone.

“If you’re looking for Marcus, he went up to see what he could do for Amelia,” Alix informed me without looking up from her needlework. “She was plainly distressed when she came in.”

The notion of Marcus Pelham comforting his sister was so unlikely that it warranted investigating. Instead of sending for him, I went upstairs myself, just as I approached Amelia’s room, the door opened and Pelham emerged. He closed it, hastily, I thought. “How is your sister?” I inquired.

“Resting. She wants to be quiet for a while. She seems wrought up. I promised her she wouldn’t be disturbed before luncheon.”

“How thankful she must be.”

He frowned at me. “Thankful?”

“To have a dear brother to comfort and protect her,” said I with a straight face. “You had better escort me downstairs, had­n’t you, seeing that I was the instrument of her distress? I want to put some questions to you anyway. Let’s see how you stand up to the inquisition.”

He grinned sourly.

I took him through a different part of the garden, past bor­ders where forlorn chrysanthemums lingered into the autumn on stems with shriveled leaves. “Where does this lead?” I asked.

“I couldn’t say.”

Ungracious pup. “Have the good manners to address me properly, would you? Surely you know the garden well?”

He shook his head.

I warned him, “You’re testing my patience, laddie.”

“It’s true,” he said defiantly, and then added tamely as I conveyed my displeasure with a look, “Sir. I’m as much of a stranger here as yourself. This is the first year I’ve been invited to shoot at Desborough.

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