His Burial Too by Catherine Aird

Author:Catherine Aird
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media

Detective Constable Crosby’s lot had been to interview the Osbornes.

It had not been a happy one.

Bad news—a far fleeter traveller even than Crosby himself—had already reached chez Osborne. It was a neat and tidy dwelling, modestly prosperous, and set in a good residential area of Berebury near the park. Had Crosby been older and wiser he would have recognised one of those childless marriages where one partner doubles as a child. In this case it was the wife. A tearful Mrs Marcia Osborne was prostrate on a sofa. A kindly woman neighbour was in attendance trying to comfort her.

In vain.

“Poor Richard,” Mrs Osborne kept on saying over and over again.

“There, there,” adjured the neighbour ineffectually.

“Poor Richard,” moaned Mrs Osborne.

Crosby stood well back from the sofa. Very well-dressed women frightened him enough even when they weren’t crying: middle-aged women got up to look like girls terrified him at any time.

He wished there wasn’t quite so much of Mrs Osborne’s leg showing.

He wished he was back on the beat.

At least with a razor gang you did know where you were.

“I want George,” cried Marcia Osborne.

Detective Constable Crosby, whose Christian name was William, felt quite relieved.

“Where’s George?” she demanded.

The neighbour said, “I don’t know, dear. It’s the school dinner hour and they don’t think he’s in school.”

“Why isn’t he there?”

“I don’t know, dear. The school secretary didn’t say.”

“He wasn’t there at dinnertime yesterday either,” said Marcia Osborne petulantly. “I want him. Now.”

“Yes, dear.” The neighbour—a resolute woman—having failed to administer psychological comfort or produce George Osborne in person conjured up something in a glass and commanded: “Drink this.”

“Poor Richard,” said Marcia Osborne mechanically, knocking back whatever it was in the glass with surprising swiftness. “He was here only last night. In that very chair.”

Mesmerically all three of them stared at an empty chair next to the sofa.

“Last night …” began Crosby, knowing that he should be taking a proper interest in last night.

“Only last night,” she echoed sorrowfully, turning to Crosby. “It doesn’t seem possible, does it?”

“No, madam,” said Crosby woodenly. “What time did he leave?”

Richard Tindall, it transpired damply, had left the Osbornes’ house at some point before half-past ten. Marcia Osborne was as vague about this as she was about the time he had arrived. About seven, she thought. At ten o’clock someone had rung for Tindall, and had asked to speak to him on the telephone. He had left shortly after that. No, she hadn’t recognised the voice except that it was a man’s. Business, was all Richard had said about it. Nothing more.

“He only had the tiniest drink before supper, too.” She regarded Crosby between her tears. It was a predatory look.

Whatever the neighbour had given Marcia Osborne to drink it hadn’t been tiny. She hiccuped slightly. Crosby noticed that the crow’s-feet round her eyes gave a sympathetic ripple at the same time. It was as far as they could go considering the amount of make-up encasing them.

“And afterwards, madam?” He cleared his throat. “We are enquiring where everyone was last night.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.