|
|
It seemed that Tibbermore was entirely serious. He must have been; after all, a hundred bucks was quite a lot for somebody in his position. I spent some time asking him questions, but there was little enough he could tell me. He explained how he had brought up breakfast on a tray for her Ladyship; tea and toast, as always. He had knocked, waited politely, knocked again, then entered with a minimum of noise. It was not unusual for Lady Strowan to sleep late, he said, particularly when she had not slept well overnight. One glance at the blood-drenched sheets had shown him that something was wrong. Lady Strowan had not put up much of a fight, perhaps not surprising for a frail old lady. Tibbermore had dropped the tray in shock and rushed to her aid - fruitlessly, as it turned out, she had been dead for several hours - then dashed back downstairs to raise the alarm and call the police. Nobody in the house had heard anything; there was no evidence of anybody having forced their way inside the building which was always kept tightly secure, on her Ladyship's explicit instructions. There was nothing stolen, nothing missing, no sign of an intruder at all. What Tibbermore had understood from the police was partial and contradictory. They had no clues, little evidence; little to go on at all. Just the recent visitors: myself, Mayfield, and Almon Methven, Lady Strowan's theatrical agent. After that, he simply reprised what I already knew. It seemed there was nothing more he could give. "Will that be all, sir?" he enquired politely, once my stream of questions had dried up, still somehow managing to be unperturbed. "Yes, that's it for now," I demurred. Tibbermore bowed formally, then turned and opened the door. As he moved, a thought occurred to me. "Tibbermore, one more thing," I said quickly. The old butler stopped in the doorway and turned to face me. "Who recommended me to Lady Strowan?" I asked, "Why did she send you to get me, specifically?" "Her Ladyship took advice, sir," Tibbermore said, frowning slightly, "From an old friend." "Ah. But who?" The old butler paused, apparently unsure as to whether he should answer. "It might be important," I pressed. "It was Sergeant Tewel, sir," Tibbermore said slowly, still sounding uncertain. "Tewel recommended me?" I exploded, "Lady Strowan Westwood knew Mergie Tewel?" "Yes, sir," he replied, "I understand her Ladyship met him a long time ago. Before she married his Lordship. I remember he was a guest of her Ladyship a few times, but not very recently." He paused, then added, "I'm afraid that's all I know, sir." I guess that would explain why Tewel was so uncharacteristically emotional. I'd have to ask him about it sometime. "Okay," I said, still deep in thought, "I'll get on with the investigation immediately. Let me know if anything turned up." "Yes, sir. Of course, sir." Tibbermore let himself out silently while I cogitated. I must have stared at the nondescript plasterwork of the opposite wall for ten minutes, lost in a deep funk. Murder investigations are almost always bad news for the hardworking Private Detective: the cops think you're treading on their toes - or worse, concealing things from them - and they understandably feel professionally embarrassed if you do turn up something they've missed. And with Sergeant Tewel already engaged, and apparently disinclined to believe anything I had to say, I would have to tread very carefully indeed. My train of thought was interrupted by a flurry of furious rapping on the glass panel in the door. For a moment I thought it was Tibbermore returning for some reason, but a few seconds thought convinced me otherwise: the sound of the knocking was quite unlike that of the imperturbable butler. Before I could collect my thoughts even enough to speak, the door flew open anyway. It was Mayfield Westwood. She stumbled over the threshold, looking as if she expected the door to be locked and found it otherwise. She stopped and looked around at the unprepossessing space I use for my business: the worn dragon-hide desk - that's just a trade name, by the way - the mismatched chairs and the row of battered filing cabinets mostly filled with fresh cavern climate. "You don't put on much of a front, do you, Mister Gask?" "It suits my humble needs," I replied with faux modesty. I don't think she was convinced. Mayfield threw herself into one of the client-side chairs without waiting to be asked, the ancient furniture creaking slightly under the strain. She seemed focussed, intense: very different from the faintly nervous, jumpy and confused Goblin I had encountered earlier. She regarded me thoughtfully with those lovely eyes for a long moment before speaking. "I though I hired you, yesterday," she said eventually, looking at me levelly over the desk. I snorted. "I wasn't terribly effective," I said apologetically, "The cops seemed to have everything in hand, and they were operating exactly according to their brief." This was true. Worryingly true. The police procedure and processes were exactly by-the-book, punctilious in the extreme. This was unusual, in my view. Experienced coppers have a high degree of respect for due process, but mainly so that they can work their way around it when it gets in the way. There was something more going on here, something that even the most jaded of policeman could sense, if only at a subconscious level. Mayfield frowned. "Well, maybe not," she replied, suddenly thoughtful, or maybe just guardedly, "But your presence in the precinct station seemed to calm thing down." Or at least distract the police from Mayfield herself. Maybe. "So, Miss Westwood," I said formally, "What can I do for you this morning?" "I want to hire you, to engage your professional services" she answered promptly, "Properly, this time." "Okay," I said levelly, "I can see that. So what do you want me to do?" Mayfield frowned more deeply, angry wrinkles patterning her lovely forehead. "I want you to find my Grandmother's murderer," she said through clenched teeth, "Isn't it obvious?"
|
Part 22