G Malliet - Death of a Cozy Writer

“Upwards of seventeen million pounds. And that’s just the ready cash.”

Off St. Just’s look, he said equably:

“Sir Adrian was a canny investor. Quite a lot of motive to go around, perhaps you’re thinking. Yes, indeed. Except for Ruthven, of course. Not that any of that matters now. To him.”

“No, Ruthven won’t mind any more, will he?”

ST. JUST STOOD ADMIRING Mrs. Romano’s gleaming stainless steel kitchen, which at first glance blinded the eye much like an operating room. Row upon row of pans and kettles; several enormous restaurant-caliber ranges, and a refrigerator large enough to store cadavers, should that become necessary. The way this case was going, he thought, it just might.

He had stopped by the station to see how Sergeant Fear was progressing. Fear handed him a stack of files: coroner’s reports, background checks, and further downloads from Ruthven’s computer, heavily annotated by Fear with exclamation marks and star ratings in the margins. The tracks in the snow had led nowhere, literally.

“The weather was changeable that night,” said Fear. “It mucked the tracks enough they can’t be sure, but the person wearing the wellies may have ‘borrowed’ them from someone with a larger foot. Nothing helpful on the carpet or floor, either. They could say more, they tell me, if the person had helpfully stepped in mud.”

“On the telly, they’re always sure.”

“Real life is more ambiguous-like, don’t you think, Sir?”

“I do. What’s all this?” asked St. Just, peering closely at a sheaf of faxes.

“Ruthven’s research on this Violet Winthrop, as she was, Sir. We’ve done a bit of research of our own. She inherited a bucketful of money from Husband No. 1, since she got off scot free for that.”

“Please, no puns, Sergeant. Even though, as I understand it, scot free has nothing to do with Scotsmen.”

“Sir? Oh, right, the Winthrop murder: Scotland. Sorry, Sir. But she seems to have run through the cash over the years. Sir Adrian came along just in time, in her view, you ask me. This Ruthven had a lot of the old files about the Winthrop murder on that computer. You ask me, there’s plenty of motive there.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. I was just about to ask you.” He flipped through more of the pages. “Get on to this Agnes person, the cook who testified way back when. Assuming she’s alive, still.”

“On it already. This Violet, Sir-she’s in this up to her tiara, I think.”

“You don’t think she’s being a bit… obvious? Killing him so soon, in what is nearly a stunning replay of her first supposed crime? She must have realized she’d be the first person we’d look at. More likely, it seems to me, that someone wanted to put her in the frame. Still, I’ve just come from the solicitor’s. She made a nice income for her brief time with Sir Adrian. Neatly enough, they all did, except Ruthven, who isn’t around to collect, in any event.”

“He was cut out of the will, was he? His lady wife won’t be pleased about that.”

“No. And if she knew about it, it certainly would remove one of her motives-the profit motive. But not all of them. There’s revenge, for a start. As to Ruthven’s death-Could anyone be as indifferent to a husband’s affairs as she pretends? But there’s no sign any of them had a clue what was going on with that will.”

“‘Who profits?’”

“All of them, except Lillian. We’re back to square one.”

“Not quite, Sir. Here’s the background on that Paulo fellow. I took his statement and all, after both the killings. No better than he should be, was my impression.”

St. Just flipped through the report, again bleeding red in the margins with Fear’s commentary.

“He’s been involved in the usual town-and-gown fracas. Broke a bloke’s nose once in a fight over a woman. Mostly seems to specialize in receiving stolen goods, with a little small-time drug dealing thrown in for good measure. Clean the last few years. Still…”

“Yes, I rather thought we might find something there,” said St. Just. “I think it’s time I had a chat with the staff, don’t you? Meet me over at Waverley Court when you’ve done here. My apologies to Emma, but we’ll be working late.”

Mrs. Romano and Watters were seated at what appeared to be customary positions at a large wooden table in the center of the kitchen.

Murder in the manor house seemed to have had a rejuvenating effect on Watters. His rheumy eyes strained to twinkle, like stars behind a cloudbank, as he sat bolt upright, hands folded expectantly. He looked like a wizened schoolboy awaiting a question to which he might have the correct answer.

Mrs. Romano, on the other hand, seemed less delighted to see St. Just: perhaps wanting to be of use in catching whoever was responsible, but fearing-or so St. Just interpreted her nervousness- her son’s involvement. Had she or he any idea of the kind of money they would enjoy with Sir Adrian out of the way? Was it enough for Mrs. Romano herself to do the old man in?

Looking at her handsome, still-youthful face, he somehow didn’t feel money would be an overriding motive. Passion, yes. Killing to defend her young. That type of crime. Cold-blooded killing for money was a different crime, and a different type of murderer. Still, three hundred thousand pounds-a total of six, for both her and Paulo…

She looked at him warily. It was Watters who seemed to have something he wanted to get off his chest.

“Them boots,” he said. “I told that young copper, someone else used them boots of mine. Put them back wrong, too. He took ’em away. You want to see?”

More out of politeness than anything, for he had seen Sergeant Fear’s meticulous report on them boots, he followed Watters into a utilitarian mud-cum-storage room between the kitchen and the kitchen garden. Here among the raincoats, scarves, and assorted outdoor gear stood several well-worn pairs of green, black, and bright yellow wellies.

“I left them just here,” he said, pointing to an empty spot in the row of shoes, evidently a collection of paired sizes and colors that had gathered in no particular order over the years. “When I came to use them the next day, after Sir Adrian was killed, they was mixed in-tossed in, like-with the others. I would never of done that. Mrs. Romano is most particular. I put them boots away careful like and then the next day they was all tossed about.”

Watters peered up at him to make sure he was taking all of this in. St. Just nodded.

“Right there, they was.”

“Yes, Mr. Watters. That was really most helpful of you to notice that. It would seem whoever killed Sir Adrian borrowed your boots, to obscure his or her own tracks. The ice makes it impossible to say for certain who might have borrowed the boots, and there were no prints on them, but forensics are still running tests.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Watters, pleased at the acknowledgement of how he, single-handedly, was helping solve the case, but at the same time deeply affronted. “Pure evil, ’tis, whoever done that. Trying to make it look as if I had sommat to do wit’ it.”

“Or just finding the boots handy to cover their own shoeprints. You, yourself, heard or saw nothing on the night of either murder- leading up to either murder-that would help us?”

“I was snug at home, thank the Lord. Mrs. Romano didn’t hear nothing either, did you?” He turned to her. “Not until she found him, Sir Adrian. She ain’t been right since, have you, Mrs. R.?”

“For the love of God, Watters. Do be quiet.”

“Yes, well, thank you so much, Mr. Watters. I can’t tell you what it means to us to have the active cooperation of the public. If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll have a word with Mrs. Romano alone.”