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I looked at Mayfield levelly across the desk. "I have had no communication with Mister Cairnie Westwood, ever," I said earnestly, "In fact, I only learned of his existence yesterday afternoon." I carefully omitted to mention exactly who had brought his existence to my attention. "Later, I did a little research in the library, so I've got some idea of the history. He's been out of circulation for a long time." "Yeah. But if you didn't tell him, how did he know about the funeral?" Mayfield demanded. "Accounts of Lady Strowan's death have been reported in every newspaper this morning," I explained reasonably, "As well as most of last night's late editions." She looked mollified, at least a little. "Okay," she responded more calmly, then her eyes narrowed, "But how did he know exactly where and when it was to take place?" This was a much better question. I hadn't been invited to Lady Strowan's Westwood's funeral and, frankly, I hadn't expected to be. All the reports I had seen in the newspapers had described it as a private affair - Family and Close Friends only. No flowers - and it seemed like the detailed arrangements for the event had not been given to the press. "I didn't know when the funeral was going to be either," I answered, "Nobody told me." Mayfield stared at me for a long moment, then slumped deflated into one of the guest chairs. "So it must have been somebody who did know," I went on, projecting the voice of reason, "Who else was at the funeral?" "Just me, and Tibbermore, of course," she said sadly, "And Almon Methven. And that policemen, Detective Tewel I think his name is." "Detective Sergeant Tewel," I corrected absently. "Yes. Do you know him?" "I do." "Oh." Mayfield looked confused, then added, "I didn't realise he knew my Grandmother that well." I shrugged. But it was another good observation. Sergeant Tewel obviously was close to Lady Strowan or at least had been at some point. I was curious enough to make a mental note to find out more sometime soon. "So what happened at the funeral?" I asked. "Cairnie turned up just as the service was starting, looking as if he had visited Grandmother only last week. A casual wave and friendly nod to those others present. He stood quietly, ignoring everybody, with his eyes on the ground. Once the final rites had been said and I had dried my eyes, I looked around for him, intending to give him a piece of my mind. But he had disappeared. I never saw him leave, or arrive either." "So you've no idea where he went?" She shook her head. "No idea at all." "And you're sure it was him?" I pressed, "I thought he ran away before you were born." Mayfield looked at me strangely for a moment. "You have done your homework," she said slowly, sounding sad, "You're right. But I've seen plenty of pictures. My mother used to sit me down and talk me through the family photo albums. Sometimes she'd cry. Sometimes she'd speculate about what Cairnie would be doing now. But mostly she'd get angry at the terrible way he treated her." She stared over my shoulder deep in thought for a second, then her attention returned to me. "I've seen those pictures often enough to be quite sure," she said, the steel returning to her voice, "I tell you, Mister Gask, if that brother of mine had anything to do with Grandmother's death, then I want him strung up."
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Part 34