Who Saw Her Die? by Patricia Moyes

Author:Patricia Moyes
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781631941740
Publisher: Felony & Mayhem Press
Published: 2018-09-11T16:00:00+00:00

Henry arrived back at Foxes’ Trot just before eleven. He found Emmy alone in the drawing-room, drinking coffee and looking glum. She looked up when he came in, and said, “Well?” in a flat voice.

“Well what?”

“How did you get on?”

“Famously. I really think we’re getting somewhere.” But Henry was aware of the glow of his enthusiasm dimming. “Sarah thinks—”

“Sarah?”

“Dr Massingham. She thinks—in fact, she’s sure—that Lady Balaclava died of anaphylactic shock.”

“Oh, yes?”

“It resulted from an allergic reaction to some foreign substance to which she’d previously been sensitized, like horse serum—”

Emmy eyed her husband coldly. “I think,” she said, “that you had better go to bed.”

“I need a doctor in my corner, you see,” Henry explained. “I shall compile a list of foreign substances and Lady Balaclava’s previous history. Sarah will combine them—”

“Henry,” said Emmy, severely, “how many drinks have you had?”

“Drinks? Oh, one or two. Dr Griffiths is in Calabria, you see, which is a great nuisance.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“How’s Dolly?”

“She’s…” Emmy hesitated. “She’s asleep.”

“Never mind. I’ll talk to her in the morning.”

“It would be better,” said Emmy, “if you reserved all your talking for the morning.” Henry, who had begun making notes on the back page of his pocket diary, looked up in surprise. Emmy went on. “Personally, I am going to bed.” A little pause. “As a matter of fact, I’m worried about Dolly, and I was hoping to talk it over with you and ask your advice—but it’s obvious you’re in no condition to talk anything over. Good night.”

Henry’s sense of outraged innocence robbed him of speech for the few seconds that it took Emmy to reach the drawing-room door. Then he found his tongue. “You’re making a very silly spectacle of yourself,” he said with dignity. The fact that he had had three large whiskies, and knew it, made him choose his words with especial care. “I had the foolish impression that you cared about my work, and wanted to help me. However, if you’re going to fly into a jealous tantrum, just because Sarah Massingham happens to be an extremely attractive woman as well as a brilliant doctor—” He paused, partly for breath, and partly because he had become slightly confused as to the ultimate destination of his sentence.

“Oh, horse serum to you,” said Emmy. She went out, slamming the door.

Henry at least had the rudimentary good sense not to follow too quickly upon her heels. He returned to his notebook, and wrote down a list of names. Primrose and Edouard Duval. Violet and Piet van der Hoven. Daffodil and Chuck Swasheimer. Dolly Underwood-Threep. Anthony Griffiths. Then he considered them, one by one. First he drew a line through Primrose’s name—a faint line which might possibly be erased later. Against Edouard Duval’s name went a question mark. The doctor himself gained nothing directly from Crystal’s death. Or did he? Henry pencilled in the words “Swiss law?”

Piet van der Hoven was also crossed out, although “Dutch law?” was marked against his name. Violet—a query. The arguments against Primrose’s guilt went for her, too.

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