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I awoke early, showered and dressed leisurely and ambled back to the corner diner for a light breakfast, a large black coffee and a long slow look at the newspapers. In stark contrast to yesterday's spreads, reports of Lady Strowan's death now filled the front pages and many column-inches inside. There were formal obituaries, personal reminiscences from supposed friends and articles telling the story of her life, all illustrated with many pictures from her acting days and from the later times when she was queen among the society hostesses. All the stories were silent on how she died. A naive reader might have inferred that it was simply old age - the number of her birthdays was reported consistently and presumably correctly in the newspaper pages. But there was no suggestion that she had been murdered, nor confirmation that she had actually died from natural causes, nor, for that matter, whether an autopsy was or was not undertaken. My reading done, I sat staring into space for an indeterminate time, a creased pile of newspapers on the table to one side and a much-refilled mug of coffee on the other. David, the avuncular and apron-clad patron who had run this place since immemorial, approached softly clutching the coffee pot. He waved the pot questioningly in my line of sight which the desired effect of returning my focus to the here-and-now. I shook my head to deflect the delivery of yet more caffeine. "Reading about Strowan Westwood's death?" David said gently. "Yes," I replied, "It may be tangentially related to a case I'm working on." I am a great respecter of client confidentiality, hence the white lie. "I used to enjoy her performances," the patron said, his eyes faintly misty with distant memory, "I was a great fan. It was a sad day when she left the stage." I had to agree and muttered something to that effect. "It was all very sudden," David went on, "And highly unexpected. Performances cancelled, understudies yanked into leading roles at short notice, that kind of thing. Very unusual, even unprofessional, in a profession she loved so very much." I looked up at David sharply. "Why did she do that?" I asked. David shrugged and spread his hands wide, an expressive gesture for a Goblin. "Nobody knows," he said sadly, "But I do remember that speculation was discouraged at the time. Quite vigorously, on occasion." This was very interesting. Very interesting indeed. This was before my time and David's astute observation was new news to me. "Thank you, David," I said politely, getting up to leave and making sure I left a more than usually generous tip. "My pleasure, Mister Gask," he replied gravely, sweeping up the banknotes in one smooth movement and concealing them in his apron pocket. I made my way to my office. I wasn't followed. I made sure of that. Whoever it was tailed me earlier had evidently given up. It was mid-morning by the time I got to the office. It was quiet and undisturbed, the only change being a few more flakes of dust on the tops of the filing cabinets. It's not that I not a good housekeeper, by the way; it's just that you can tell a lot about who's been in your office in your absence from the movement of the dust. As is my habit, I collected my mail from the box downstairs as I came in through the street entrance. I was sorting through the junk - uniformly uninteresting - and the bills - nothing too threatening - when the door burst open and Mayfield stomped in. Well, that was certainly going to save me the effort tracking her down. She was clothed in a very demure black dress which covered her from neck to ankle and a bonnet, also black, with a ribbon and a piece of gauze which could have been mistaken for a veil. She wore sensible-looking black shoes with quite a low heel - which was just as well given the stamping around she was indulging in. Her face displayed a curious mixture of barely-contained fury and a desperate inner sadness. I stood up as she came in, partially out of politeness, but mainly because anybody bursting through my door is likely to make me just a little bit jumpy. I waved a hand to offer her a seat, but she ignored me, pacing across the office to the row of filing cabinets and glaring at them enough to melt a hole through the cheap painted steel. "I've just come from my Grandmother's funeral," she said through clenched teeth, "And that degenerate creep of a brother of mine was there." She rounded on me angrily. "How did he know?" she demanded. She strode over to my desk and focussed her glare on me. "Was it you?" she hissed, "Did you tell him?"
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Part 33