Джорджетт Хейер - Death in the Stocks

“Quite right. Not our case at all. Still, you should certainly go to this cottage you speak of and see what you can pick up. Does he keep any servants there?”

“No, sir. There's a woman by the name of Beaton who keeps the place tidy, by what I understand, but she lives out. I'll see her of course, but I don't expect to find anyone at the Cottage. It isn't likely. But I might get a line on it.”

The Inspector was wrong. Half an hour later, when he and Constable Dickenson got out of the police car at Riverside Cottage, there were unmistakable signs that the cottage was occupied.

It was a small house of stuccoed brick and jade green shutters, standing in wooded grounds that ran down to the river. The position was what house-agents would describe as picturesque and secluded, no other house being visible in summer from any of its windows.

As the car drew up a dog started barking inside the house, and the Constable said at once: “That's funny. Mr Vereker never had a dog down here to my knowledge.”

The Inspector set his finger on the electric bell, remarking as he did so: “Might be the charwoman's. Who looks after the garden, and the electric light plant?”

“Young Beaton, sir. He comes in a couple of days a week. But he wouldn't bring his dog with him, not into the house. There's someone here all right. I can hear him moving about.”

The Inspector pressed the bell again, and was about to press it a third time when the door was opened to them by a girl with a head of burnished copper curls, and very large and brilliant dark eyes. She was wearing a man's dressing-gown of expensive-looking brocade, which was several sizes too large for her, and was chiefly occupied in keeping back a powerful bull-terrier who did not seem to view the visitors with much favour.

“Shut up you fool!” commanded the girl. “Heel! - What on earth do you want?” This last remark was addressed in a tone of considerable surprise to the Inspector.

“Inspector Jerrold, miss, from Hanborough,” said the Inspector, introducing himself. “If convenient, I should like to have a word with you.”

She looked at him frowningly. “I don't know what you want to have a word with me about, but you can come in if you like. Get back, Bill!”

The two men followed her into a square hall, decorated in a modernist style, with curtains and a carpet of cubist design, a number of tubular steel chairs, and a squat table of limed oak. The girl saw Constable Dickenson blink at it and said with a flickering smile: “You needn't think I did it.” The Constable looked at her rather quickly, involuntarily startled. “You'd better come into the kitchen. I haven't finished breakfast. The scenery's better too.” She strolled ahead of them through a door at the end of the hall into a pleasant kitchen with a tiled floor, a homely-looking dresser, and a breakfast of eggs and coffee and toast spread at one end of the large table. An electric cooker stood at one end of the room, and a small electric brazier had been attached by a long flex to the light fixture, and was switched on for the purpose of drying a linen skirt which was hung over a chair-back in front of it. The Inspector, pausing on the threshold, cast a swift, trained glance round the room. His gaze rested for a moment on the damp skirt, and travelled to the girl. She walked round the table, picking up a slice of half-eaten toast and butter from her plate in a casual way as she passed, and pulled a chair forward. “Sit down, won't you? I warn you, I shan't make any statement till I've seen my solicitor.” She looked up as she spoke, and raised her brows. “Joke,” she explained.

The Inspector smiled politely. “Yes, miss, naturally. Might I ask if you are staying here?”

“God, no!”

The Inspector glanced at the brocade dressing-gown, and looked inquiring.

“Quite right, I spent the night here,” said the girl coolly. “Anything else you'd like to know?”

“Did you come down with Mr Vereker, miss?”

“No, I didn't. I haven't seen Mr Vereker.”

“Indeed, miss? Was he not expecting you?”

A rather hard glint crept into the girl's fine eyes. “Well, everything was very nicely prepared, but I don't fancy it was on my account. But what the hell it has to do with -” She broke off, and laughed suddenly. “Oh, I see! Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not a burglar - though I did get in through a window. The dressing-gown is merely borrowed till my skirt's dry.”

The Inspector directed his gaze towards the skirt. “I quite understand, miss. Must have been a bad stain, if I may say so.”

“Blood,” said the girl between sips of coffee.

Constable Dickenson gave a slight gasp. “Blood?” said the Inspector evenly.

The girl set down her cup, and met his look with a belligerent gleam in her eyes. “Just what do you want with me?” she demanded.

“I'd like to know how you came to get blood on your skirt, miss,” said the Inspector.

“Yes? Well, I should like to know what right you have to ask me that - or anything else for that matter. Get on with it! What is it you're after?”

The Inspector drew out his note-book. “There's no need to take offence, miss. We've had a little upset in these parts last night, and I have to find out one or two details. May I have your name and address, please?”

“Why?” asked the girl.

A shade of severity crept into the Inspector's voice. “You'll pardon me, miss, but you're behaving in a silly way. There's been an accident connected with this house, and it's my duty to get what information I can about it.”

“Well, you aren't likely to get much out of me,” observed the girl. “Don't know anything, My name's Antonia Vereker. Address, 3 Grayling Street, Chelsea. What the devil's the matter now?”

The Inspector had looked up quickly from his notebook. “A relation of Mr Arnold Vereker?” he said.

“Half-sister.”

The Inspector lowered his gaze to the book again, and carefully wrote down the name and address. “And you say you have not seen Mr Vereker since you came here?”

“Haven't seen him for months.”

“How long have you been here, miss?”

“Since last night. Sevenish.”

“Did you come especially to see your brother?”

“Half-brother. Of course I did. But I haven't seen him. He never turned up.”

“You were expecting him, then?”

“Look here!” said Antonia strongly. “Do you think I should have motored thirty-five miles to this place if I hadn't expected to see him?”

“No, miss. But you said a minute or two back that Mr Vereker was not expecting you. I was merely wondering how it was that with him not expecting you, and you not having seen him for months, you were sure enough of finding him here to come all that way?”

“I wasn't sure. But I know his habits. Coming here over the week-end is one of them.”

“I take it you wanted to see him urgently, miss?”

“I wanted to see him, and I still want to see him,” said Antonia.

“I'm afraid, miss, that won't be possible,” said the Inspector, getting up from his chair.

She stared at him in a smouldering way. “Oh, won't it?” she said.

“No, miss. I'm sorry to have to tell you that Mr Vereker has met with an accident.”

Her brows drew together. “Are you breaking it to me gently? You needn't bother. Is he dead, or what?”

The Inspector's manner became a shade sterner. “Yes, miss. He is dead,” he answered.

“Good lord!” said the girl. The fierce look had left her face; she glanced from one to the other of the two men. To the Constable's shocked amazement, a twinkle appeared in her eye. “I thought you were trying to run the dog in,” she remarked. “Sorry I was a trifle brusque. He had a bit of a fight last night, and a dam' fool of a woman who owned the other dog swore all sorts of vengeance on him. Is my half-brother really dead? What happened to him? Car smash?”