Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017

Murder at the Mongoose by R. T. Raichev

R.T. Raichev is the author of nine novels featuring mystery-writer sleuth Antonia Darcy. In an early review of the series, Booklist said: “Antonia Darcy is a terrific sleuth, and Raichev is a very clever writer, indeed.” The series has appeared at book length from Constable & Robinson in the U.K. and Soho Constable in the U.S. Its two most recent entries were EQMM stories!

“Ah, Payne! Just the man I wanted to see,” Captain Jenner said as he entered the smoking room at the Military Club in St James’s, London SW1Y. “Hope you aren’t frightfully busy?”

“No, not frightfully,” Major Payne said in amiable tones.

“Care to hear a rather curious story?”

“Depends on how curious.” Major Payne was sitting in a winged armchair by the fireplace, smoking his pipe, sipping a whisky and soda and leafing through the Times. Jenner — who was the club secretary — had spoken breezily enough, but Payne thought he had had a pinched look about him.

“I believe it’s up your street.”

“In that case, I’ll definitely want to hear it.”

Jenner cast a glance round and seemed reassured that there was no one else in the room. “Um. I had a rather unnerving kind of experience the other day. Feels like a bad dream now. Left me feeling physically cold. Couldn’t sleep a wink last night, actually, thinking about it. You see, I suspect murder. Only murder would fit the bill.”

“Murder?”

Captain Jenner nodded as he saw Payne lower the newspaper. “Knew you’d be interested. Murder, yes. Can’t think of any other explanation. I am not endowed with the kind of powerful and strange imagination you and your wife are reputed to possess. In fact it was Dulcie — my wife — who urged me to consult you. She’s been reading about the Harrogate Hydro Strangler — about your role in the affair — she’s been terribly impressed!”

“Kind of her, but the papers do tend to exaggerate,” Major Payne murmured. “Murder, eh? Shouldn’t you have reported it to the police?”

Jenner’s pale cheeks coloured a little. “I know I should, but I need to be absolutely sure. I need a second opinion. The circumstances, you see, are extremely peculiar.”

“Well, I never say no to murder. Let’s have it.”

Jenner took the chair opposite Payne’s. “I must warn you I am a rotten storyteller. Now, where do I begin?”

“Begin at the beginning.”

“You make it sound so easy. Um. Did you, by any chance, watch a TV programme called Where Are They Now? They showed it a week ago on BBC4.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t. We watch very little telly these days... Was it something about former killers, perhaps?”

“No, it was about former child stars.”

“Oh. Acting stars?”

“Singing stars. From the sixties and seventies...”

“Do go on.”

Jenner’s eyes had fastened on the portrait of Wellington that graced one of the walls. He seemed lost in thought.

“I have nothing but pity for child stars,” Major Payne said. “They never seem to find happiness in later life. They often come to some sort of sticky end.” If he was surprised the turn the conversation had taken, he did not show it. “Either in rehab or in a mental institution — or they take an overdose.” Jenner remained silent. “Then the world shakes its collective head and says, used to be such a sweet little darling, wonder what went wrong? Child stars never get the chance to develop inner fortitude. Lives of early celebrity and privilege tend to implode in the most spectacular way—”

“D’you by any chance remember a ten-year-old girl called Eden Swann?” Captain Jenner suddenly asked. “She was big in the early sixties — tremendously popular in the U.K. and, for a while, in the U.S.A.”

“Eden Swann?”

“Yes. The first two songs she performed were called ‘Bad Bugs Bite’ and ‘Never Play With Trolls.’ These she followed with ‘Naughty Monkey,’ ‘Naughty Nursie,’ and ‘Naughty Daddy.’ Apparently ‘Naughty Nursie’ alone sold half a million records.”

“Good lord, did it indeed? And they say naughtiness should never be rewarded!” Payne stroked his chin. “Wait a second. Eden Swann... Eden Swann... Actually, I do seem to remember Eden Swann... Yes... Or do I? Champagne-coloured curls tinged with orange? Pink cheeks? Chubby? The perky-porky type?”

“Yes, that’s her.”

“Brought to mind a cherub on an old-fashioned Christmas card. I believe she wore short frilly dresses that shouldn’t perhaps have been so short? Didn’t Mary Whitehouse have something to say about it?”

“She did. The fact was mentioned on the programme, to general mirth.” Jenner nodded grimly.

“Eden Swann was being interviewed, I take it?”

“She was asked to reminisce about her days of success.”

“She must be — what? In her sixties?”

“She is sixty-three. She was wearing a champagne-coloured wig. And a short frilly dress. She’s got very fat. She looked ghastly. She spoke in a little-girl voice. Brought to mind Baby Jane. Remember Baby Jane?”

“I remember Baby Jane.”

“She pronounced ‘rose’ as ‘wose’ and ‘ribbon’ as ‘wibbon.’ All too grotesque for words.”

“Was she the only one interviewed?”

“No. There were two others — Claudia Carly — Phil Limber — some such names. Phil Limber said he attempted suicide twice after his voice broke, but he has now found fulfillment as a member of the Church of Scientology. Claudia Carly sobbed uncontrollably while watching a clip of her young self singing an insufferable piece of whimsy called ‘I’ll Lasso Santa Claus.’ But Eden Swann was the craziest of the lot. She spouted an incredible number of idiocies and irrelevancies. I believe she was tipsy. An ardent fan had managed to get into their house dressed as a monkey. She kept forgetting to lock the garden-wall door and the kitchen door. She doesn’t get up till midday. Her husband wears a tartan dressing gown. In nineteen sixty-three she had appeared on the covers of Pop Weekly and Fabulous.”

“I remember Fabulous,” Payne said.

“She then launched into ‘Naughty Monkey,’ or, rather, mimed to a playback version of her ten-year-old self singing it.”

Payne frowned. “How does Eden Swann come into your story?”

“She is my aunt.”

“Your aunt? Really?”

“Yes. I am serious. She is my uncle’s second wife. My late father’s brother. When they got married Eden Swann was eighteen, my uncle was thirty-three. Her singing career was all but over, though she had managed to make an awful lot of money. My impossible uncle certainly knew what he was doing. He had been married to someone else but it ended in divorce — his first wife had a miscarriage — he’d treated her rather shabbily — she had one of those old-fashioned jewel names — Ruby? Sorry, Payne, don’t know why I’m telling you all this!” Jenner waved his hand. “I warned you I was a rotten storyteller! I remember my parents saying they felt sorry for Eden. They learnt about the wedding from one of the papers.”

“Am I right in assuming your father didn’t get on with his brother?”

“You are. My father loathed my uncle. My uncle was irresponsible, reckless, deceitful, criminally inclined, and a showoff. He listed ‘causing pain’ as one of his hobbies. He forged cheques in my grandfather’s name — sold family heirlooms without permission — pictures and objets d’art, some of tremendous value. Some of my grandmother’s jewellery as well... A thoroughly bad egg, as they used to say... No, none of his transgressions was ever reported to the police, as it would have exposed my family to shame and contumely. My grandfather set great store by such things as family pride and public opinion. Ours is one of those ancient families that see themselves as paragons of duty, honour, and stability, even when that’s not exactly the case.”

“Your uncle was the proverbial black sheep...” Payne wondered where all this was leading.

“He revelled in evil and delighted in badness. At one time it was even whispered that he’d got involved with some gang or other — drugs or art forgeries or importing hookers from the Far East — maybe all three.” Jenner’s expression remained blank. “My uncle also killed a child while playing golf. He drove a golf ball onto the public path and it hit a child — little girl called Pinkie who’d been walking with her mother and brother. The ball cracked her skull and she died on the spot. It happened about five or six years ago at Sunningdale golf course. I read about it in one of the papers. An anonymous onlooker was quoted as saying that my uncle had been hitting the ball in the most reckless manner and laughing each time he saw people cower. But he wasn’t charged! Not even with manslaughter. Perfect example of the devil looking after his own, you might say. The verdict was accidental death. On that programme Eden Swann described her husband as ‘a trifle diffy’ — which I thought the understatement of the century.”

“Was she talking about your uncle? Couldn’t she have divorced him and remarried? Or couldn’t he have died — and she remarried?”

“That,” Jenner said slowly, “is where the mystery starts.”

“She referred to her husband as ‘Bent,’ which was Uncle Benjamin’s nickname — given to him by my father when they were young — but then she immediately corrected herself and said, ‘No, not Bent, I meant Stewart.’ For a moment she looked, well, scared. I don’t think I imagined it. She then mentioned the fact that she lived at a house called ‘The Mongoose,’ which, as it happens, used to be one of my uncle’s Franglais jokes when he was a boy. Apparently, when he was asked by his tutor the French for ‘my goose’ he said, ‘mongoose.’ He thought it so hilarious and witty that it became a word he often used, without rhyme or reason. For example, he would address my father as ‘you moronic mongoose’ and he would also refer to his new hat as ‘my marvellous new mongoose.’ ”

“So you got the idea that Eden was still married to your uncle, but that there was something peculiar about it? That your uncle was leading some sort of double life?”

“Yes. Yes. The long and the short of it is that I became very curious and decided to track my uncle down.”

Captain Jenner produced a silver cigaret case and lit a cigaret. Handmade, Turkish, Payne noted automatically. “Did I say I’d never met my uncle? At the time I was growing up he was no longer around — but he’d always exercised a morbid fascination over me. I saw him as the wicked uncle of fiction. Uncle Silas — Nicholas Nickleby’s Uncle Ralph — Edwin Drood’s Uncle Jasper — Uncle Charlie in Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt. And not only of fiction. I remember having a horrible nightmare in which he became the most wicked uncle of them all, Richard III, and I was one of the princes in the Tower — I was in bed and he was bending over me, trying to smother me with a pillow!”

Payne smiled. “And you said you lacked imagination! I am struck by the fact that practically all the uncles you listed are murderers... You said you suspected murder... Your uncle killed a little girl... The verdict was ‘accidental death’ — but I wonder now — could that be the murder you suspect?”

“Oh no, no — that’s got nothing to do with it. That’s not the murder. Sorry, Payne, I did warn you I was a rotten storyteller. Good grief, no! I seem to have misled you. The murder I suspect is that of my uncle.” Captain Jenner held up his hand. “No, no please, don’t interrupt — or I’ll never get to the end of it!”

“I worked out The Mongoose was in Highgate when Eden Swann was asked about her politics and she said she’d always voted Tory — she said it rather coquettishly for some reason — even though she lived within a bowshot of the place where the Father of Communism was buried. Karl Marx’s tomb, I knew, was in Highgate Cemetery. Of course I couldn’t be sure she lived in a house near the cemetery — she’d spouted so much nonsense already — but I thought it was worth giving it a try. I drove to Highgate and started searching. I kept drawing blanks, but in the end I found it. It turned out The Mongoose wasn’t part of the ‘neighbourhood.’ It was rather isolated, shrouded in ivy, with trees on either side — rowans, Spanish chestnuts, and lime trees weeping a sticky tarlike juice. Authentic Victorian Gothic complete with turrets and narrow windows shaped like inverted shields.”

“Sounds sinister.”

“Damned sinister, yes! I rang the front doorbell. All I wanted was to take a look at my uncle. I wanted to see the man who’d haunted my imagination. Exorcise the demon, in a manner of speaking. Silly, but there you are... I heard muffled voices. I rang the bell again. Eventually the door opened a crack and Eden Swann appeared.”

“You had a story ready?”

“Certainly. I told her I was a music producer who was keen on putting together all her old songs on a new CD. She seemed nervous as a cat — kept glancing back over her shoulder. She whispered that she was delighted but couldn’t talk now — could she call me back? Would I give her my mobile number? She said she was going to get a pen and paper and shut the door. The next moment I heard a man’s voice shouting at her. I heard her say, ‘But Bent, darling, it’s such an opportunity!’ She’d used my uncle’s nickname! I pushed the door and entered the hall. There was Eden Swann, a terrified expression on her face, and next to her, looking very menacing indeed, stood a man. He asked what the hell I thought I was doing. He came very close to me, hands clenched in fists — I saw he was wearing a signet ring with the initials B.J. He looked as though he was going to hit me — though all he did was manhandle me out of the house.”

“B.J. Benjamin Jenner...”

“Yes. But that man, Payne, was not my uncle.”

“He said it with an air of unalterable certainty. He wouldn’t be swayed — even though he admitted he’d never laid eyes on his uncle in the flesh before. He said he had a jolly good idea what his uncle should look like. He had seen a photo of him as a young man. In fact, he had the photo in his wallet. He showed it to me.”

It was later in the day and Major Payne was giving Antonia an account of Captain Jenner’s strange experience.

“Most people start looking different as they age. Especially as a result of their particular circumstances,” Antonia pointed out. “From what you said, Benjamin Jenner had been leading a raffish, dangerous sort of existence. He might have been on the run from the police or from fellow gang members... He might have been a drinker or a dope fiend or he may be seriously ill. Or he may be on medication — illness does alter people’s appearance.”

“Jenner was adamant. That man was not his uncle. He might have been wearing his uncle’s ring and answering to the name of ‘Bent’ — but he was a complete stranger. Everything about him was wrong. The nose was wrong — the young Benjamin Jenner had a distinguished eagle profile whereas the man at the Mongoose was snub-nosed. The chin was wrong — the Jenner chin is jutting and decisive whereas this man appeared to be virtually chinless. The ears were wrong — Benjamin had big ears and in addition he had acquired a cauliflower ear after a fight at the age of fifteen — whereas the man at the Mongoose had freakishly small, round ears.”

Antonia scrunched up her face. “So what does Captain Jenner think happened? The singing aunt got herself a boyfriend named Stewart — between them they killed the uncle — after which the boyfriend took over his identity and became Benjamin Jenner?”

“Something along those lines, yes.” Payne nodded. “Of course, such an impersonation would involve forging papers and signatures on documents, substituting photographs, and so on and so forth — hard to imagine it being an unqualified success, not in this day and age — but it is not impossible. Though I honestly don’t quite see what purpose it might serve... Jenner thinks his uncle’s body is buried somewhere — either in The Mongoose’s back garden or perhaps in the nearby Highgate cemetery itself — in somebody else’s grave.”

“It seems wildly improbable... Why doesn’t he go to the police if he is so certain?”

“He has mixed feelings about going to the police. He admitted he doesn’t really want the two killers punished — even though he found them perfectly odious. He says his uncle caused so much distress to his family and to everybody he came in contact with that he deserved what he got — but, being au fond a conventional, law-abiding chap, Jenner is troubled by his conscience. He thinks we can help him decide what he should do... It’s a tricky situation, I know.”

“Help him decide? How exactly? He didn’t suggest that we go and take a look at The Mongoose menage, did he?”

“Only if it wasn’t to be too much bother.”

There was a pause.

“Impersonations are always interesting,” Antonia said thoughtfully.

“Indeed they are. Actually, my love, it’s the kind of story you might have dreamt up yourself.”

“I was rather hoping you wouldn’t say that.” Antonia sighed.

“I’ve got some titles for you... The Case of the Spurious Uncle... Murder at The Mongoose... The Captain and the Enemy... Though who is the Enemy?”

“Could the captain be the Enemy?”

Payne cocked an eyebrow. “You think Jenner may be setting us up — for some dubious purpose of his own? Come to think of it, it was a bit odd that he denied having imagination while he clearly has lots of it— No, no! He’s thought of jolly highly at the club, you know. The general consensus of opinion is that he’s straight as a die. Why would he want to set us up, anyhow?”

“I could always think of a reason,” Antonia said dreamily.

“Of course you could. It’s the sort of thing you excel at.” Payne took a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. “He was good enough to draw a rough map for us, so that we shouldn’t spend too much time looking for The Mongoose... What d’you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Hugh. Isn’t it time we stopped mixing ourselves up in things that are no business of ours?”

“Things? Things? You call a quest for a truth that may turn out to be stranger than fiction a ‘thing’? Come on, be a sport. It isn’t as though we’ll be embarking on some protracted, wearisome journey, Magi-fashion— The Mongoose is not in the Golan Heights, it’s in Highgate — and as it happens, Highgate’s just round the corner from us.” The Paynes lived in Hampstead. “The former child star and her sinister consort are neighbours! This particular mystery happens to be at what’s practically our doorstep! Who would have thought it?”

They set out the following day, sometime after eleven in the morning. Antonia seemed unusually quiet.

“You look as though you already have a theory,” Payne observed as they got into the car.

“It’s something Captain Jenner told you... the bit about his uncle’s involvement with gangs... Also that he killed a child... Uncle Ben is clearly crooked to the core and nasty to boot... The kind of man who would have a great number of people baying for his blood...”

“I agree... Well? What d’you deduce from that?”

“I have an idea I know who Eden Swann’s sinister consort might be,” Antonia said.

They parked the car next to a small green glade covered in primroses and took a path between a row of trees that formed an arch above their heads. Glancing round, Payne observed that spring was getting to be as colourful and as picturesque as the restraints imposed by the English climate allowed. Captain Jenner’s map was in his hand.

“Remember the plan of action we agreed on?”

“Couldn’t you think of something less theatrical?”

“D’you think it’s theatrical? All I want you to do, my love, is feign a fainting fit — I ring the front-door bell and ask for a glass of water and then I beg to take you in so that you could lie down while I call a doctor. Then I ask to use their phone as we happen to have left our mobiles behind.”

For the sake of verisimilitude, they had left their mobiles behind, in their car, which, on second thoughts, Antonia didn’t think particularly wise of them.

“I am not at all sure it’s going to work,” she said. “I very much doubt they will open the door... He’s bound to be suspicious after Captain Jenner’s visit... He won’t allow Eden to go anywhere near the front door...”

“We could always set the house on fire. That should bring them scuttling out. Or I could smash one of The Mongoose’s windows with my brolly? Or two of the windows?” Payne waved his rolled-up umbrella. He might have been an Indian brandishing a tomahawk. “That’s bound to provoke a reaction.”

“It certainly will. They’ll call the police and we’ll be arrested for a random act of vandalism.”

“A criminal record may boost your sales. A succès de scandale, don’t you know. No, they won’t call the police... People who have something to hide don’t call the police.”

“What if they are not in?”

“Then we’ll go back home, but we’ll return tomorrow... Now, don’t be defeatist. We want to get to the bottom of the Mongoose Murder Mystery, don’t we?”

“We don’t know yet there’s been a murder.”

“Our aim is to scrutinise the faux uncle at close quarters.” Payne glanced down at the map. “Where is the bloody house? We should have got there by now... What the hell’s that?”

“Sounds like a posse of small ill-tempered dogs.”

The next moment the dogs appeared — there were three of them, all pugs — trotting along the path towards them on leashes held by a tall, ramrod-backed woman in a belted tweed suit, porkpie hat, and gloves. She was middle-aged, with a pleasant weather-beaten face, somewhat flushed. She was wearing brogues, carrying a handbag, and clutching a stick. “Lovely weather!” She raised the stick in a hearty greeting.

The Paynes nodded and smiled. Antonia thought the dogs hideous — flat-faced, goggle-eyed, overfed, slobbering.

“Do you by any chance know a house called The Mongoose?” Payne asked.

“I am afraid I don’t! I am a stranger to these parts!”

“It should be somewhere here — an old, ivy-covered house?”

The tweedy lady halted. “Oh. I did pass by a Gothic monstrosity — it was covered in ivy, yes. Looked like an abandoned lunatic asylum!”

“That must be it—” The next moment the good major ouched. Having broken from its leash, one of the pugs had rushed towards him and, without the slightest provocation, dug its needle-sharp teeth into his ankle.

“Come back at once! Roland! Come to Mother! Bad boy!” the tweedy lady cried and rushed to help. The dog ignored her. “Bad boy! Oh, I am so sorry!” Her scent, Antonia noticed, was something evocatively old-fashioned: cinnamon, orange, and vanilla came into it. “Bad boy!”

A tall teenage boy riding a bike passed them. He had also come from the direction in which they were going. Antonia was struck by his extreme pallor, by his blood-red lips, and the fact that, despite the warm day, he was wearing a woolen hat pulled low down his forehead. He gave them an insolent look. “Bad boy,” he mimicked. “Bad boy.” He disappeared down the path. The tweedy lady glared after him.

So the place was not entirely isolated...

“I think we’ve got him under control,” Payne said. With Antonia’s help he had managed to detach the growling beast from his trouser leg and he held him firmly by the collar. The dog kept twisting its short fat body, snarling and snapping viciously, trying to bite Payne’s hand.

“Don’t know what’s got into him... I am so sorry... Stop it,” the tweedy lady said. “Behave.” The next moment she whacked the dog with her stick, making him yelp. “Are you badly hurt?”

“No, not at all,” Payne reassured her. “I don’t think there’s any blood—”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when they heard a very loud bang.

Startled, the pugs set off barking. The tweedy lady said incredulously, “What was that? Not a gun?”

“That was a gunshot, yes,” Payne said. His trouser leg was torn — but it couldn’t matter less now.

“You don’t think it came from — that house?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Let’s go and see. What’s the time? We’d better make a note of the time.”

“Twelve minutes past twelve exactly,” Antonia said.

“I really must dash. I am expected,” the tweedy lady said.

“Please, come with us,” Antonia said. “We may need help... Or another witness...”

Payne led the way, Antonia and the tweedy lady following, the latter rather reluctantly, dragging the dogs behind her.

Some fifteen seconds later the trees on either side of the path parted and, like some stage set, the Gothic monstrosity called The Mongoose was revealed in a bay of pale sunlight against a misty well of dark desolation. They’ve allowed the trees in their back garden to grow as tall as the house, Antonia thought. She was put in mind of the world of fairy tales, those of the Brothers Grimm in particular. One expected an ogre or a witch to live in a house like that...

The front door was gaping open — they saw a blob of colour — a fat woman in a voluminous orange bathrobe, her head encased in a frilly bath cap, appeared on the porch. Catching a glimpse of them, she waved her hand, beckoning them to get closer.

“Eden Swann,” Antonia whispered.

“Ahoy there!” Eden Swann cried.

“Holy Jerusalem, Jenner was right,” Payne murmured. “She does look ghastly.” He turned to Antonia. “Please, promise me never to wear orange.”

Something caused the tweedy lady to gasp, draw back, and drop the pugs’ leashes. “Look — look — in her hand!”

“Stay still,” Major Payne commanded sotto voce.

They heard the dogs running away, but none of them made an effort to stop them. Their eyes were fixed on the object clutched in the former child star’s right hand.

It was a gun.

“Miss Swann? Miss Eden Swann?” Payne called out.

“Are you from the music business? Please, come over! Don’t be afraid of the gun. I only used it because there was an emergency.” She waved the gun in another beckoning gesture.

They didn’t move. Payne proceeded to speak in a loud voice, very slowly, “You must do something first. Kindly drop the gun on the ground.” As he spoke he wrapped his handkerchief round his hand. “Gently. Please do it gently.”

“Drop it? Gently? On the ground?” She pronounced ‘drop’ as ‘dwop’ and ‘ground’ as ‘gowned’. But like the good little girl she clearly still imagined she was, she did as asked. As soon as she dropped the gun, Payne walked up to it, scooping it up and putting it in his pocket. A tiny gun, like a toy, he thought. Antonia and the tweedy lady joined him.

“Are you from the music business?” Eden Swann asked again. Her face was an unhealthy mottled pink colour. Her eyes didn’t focus well.

“So it was you who fired the gun?”

“Yes. The phone’s not working, you see. I had a little drinkie first. I was a bit shaken up. Two little drinkies, in fact.” She held up two fingers. “No, three.” She held up three fingers.

“Why did you fire the gun?”

“There was an emergency, I told you. I couldn’t think of anything else. It’s my husband’s gun, I think. Bent has several guns. But he keeps them locked.” She stood peering at them. “Who are you?”

“My name is Hugh Payne and this is my wife Antonia. And this is—?”

“Beryl Fletcher,” the tweedy lady introduced herself.

“Are you from the music business?”

“I am afraid not,” Payne said.

“I am afraid not,” Beryl Fletcher said.

“Where’s your husband?” Antonia asked.

“How terribly disappointing. I was in the music business once. I was on TV the other day.”

“Where’s your husband?” Payne asked.

“He’s inside.”

“We’d like to see him, if we may.”

“I don’t want to go back.” She shook her head.

“We must see your husband,” Payne said firmly.

“It’s nice here, in the sun. Warm and bright. I am free at last. And there’s that sweet cookie smell again! How lovely.” She shut her eyes. “Such a cosy kind of smell. Reassuring. I love cookies. Takes me back to the time when I was a little girl...”

Major Payne was already walking towards the front door.

“I am not going back to that ungodly hole.” Eden Swann sniffed. “I’m going to stay here. I need to think. I believe — yes, I believe something extraordinary has happened! A miracle. One of those one-in-a-million chances. Well, I have always been a firm believer in Fate. Whatever is meant to happen, will happen. What will be, will be. This was clearly meant to happen. Bent is in the hall. You can’t miss him. I’d rather not look at him again. I don’t like blood.”

They couldn’t have missed him, even if they had tried. He lay on his back in the middle of the hall. He was clad in a tartan dressing gown. His pale eyes bulged open. There wasn’t any doubt that he was dead. A pool of very dark blood had formed round his balding head. It had oozed from a tiny jagged hole in his right temple. Beside his right hand there lay the pieces of a broken china cup in a puddle of spilt black coffee.

“My God,” Miss Fletcher whispered. Unexpectedly she crossed herself.

Payne nodded. “Exactly as Jenner described him — snub-nosed, no chin, small ears — and he’s wearing the signet ring.” Bending over, he touched one of the man’s hands. “Still warm.”

“He’s been shot... Who is he?” Miss Fletcher asked.

“A fellow called Stewart posing as Benjamin Jenner,” Payne explained. “Benjamin Jenner used to be the husband of the lady outside. Her name is Eden Swann.”

“Did she kill him? She admitted to firing the gun.” Miss Fletcher glanced round the dark hall as though expecting someone or something to jump out of the shadows. “Do you know these people?”

“We know of them. It’s a long story—” Payne broke off as he saw his wife kneeling beside the body. “What are you doing? Why are you looking behind his ears?”

“What I thought,” Antonia said. “I was right.” She rose to her feet. “Your Captain Jenner got it all wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“No such person as ‘Stewart’ exists. This is the body of his uncle Benjamin Jenner, known as ‘Bent.’ ”

“But it can’t be! He looks nothing like Jenner’s late papa!”

“The reason he doesn’t,” Antonia said, “is because he made sure he didn’t. He changed his appearance, Hugh. There are stitches behind his ears.”

Payne stared back at her. There was a moment’s pause. “Plastic surgery?”

“He did have plastic surgery, yes.” It was Eden Swann who had spoken. She seemed to have changed her mind and decided to come back into the house. She was standing beside the front door, leaning against the frame. “He didn’t allow me to have plastic surgery, he was so mean, but he paid a fortune to have his own mug altered beyond recognition.” She no longer spoke in her little-girl voice, Antonia noticed. And there was a strange light in her eyes — a certain knowing look? “He paid for it with my money.”

“Why did he have plastic surgery?” Payne asked.

“He didn’t want his enemies to recognise him. He’d been involved with some extremely dangerous people. He hadn’t paid his dues. He had taken more than his share. He’d cheated and double-crossed his own associates. He never told me what he was running away from exactly, but he used to mutter to himself and I always listened. He talked in his sleep too. I always listened. Then there was that child business and the letters. That tipped him over the edge. That really scared him. He changed his name. He became Stewart. We kept on the move, like gypsies. So undignified. Each time we bought a house, he called it The Mongoose. That was his only link with the past. Some puerile joke... I wanted to leave him but I was afraid. He said he’d find me and he’d skin me alive. He enjoyed hurting me.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police?” Antonia asked.

“Oh, but I couldn’t! Bent said that if I opened my trap, I’d be arrested too, for aiding and abetting. If he went down, he’d take me with him. Or, if he was put inside and I wasn’t, one of his former associates — one of those who wasn’t an enemy — would come and slit my throat. I believed him! I wouldn’t have put anything past him... I was a mere child when I married him. He said it was advisable for a young girl to have a husband who could protect her in times of trouble... He said we were ‘natural soul mates’... He said I was ‘delicious enough to eat’... Lies, all lies, but he was very persuasive... He said I was his ‘splendid spur’... He was after my money... Well, his nerves got in a really bad state in the end. He couldn’t sleep. He started walking about the house at night. Talking to himself. He said he was surrounded by vipers... He said he was being crushed, the life blood being drained from him... Kept imagining someone was behind him. ... He wouldn’t accept any food or drink prepared by my hands. He thought I was going to poison him.”

“Would you have poisoned him?” Miss Fletcher suddenly asked.

“No! I was too scared of him! He enjoyed devising punishments. Punching — pinching — twisting my arm — making me kneel in a corner — oh, you should have seen him after he realised I’d been on TV — he raised the roof! I’d done it behind his back, you see. The way he raved! Oh, it was terrible. He went mad! Well, it’s all over now and I can’t pretend to be sad or surprised. He was far gone on the road to the devil.” Eden Swann paused. “He’d go straight to hell now. Perhaps he’s there already... He’d come to the end of his rope and found it frayed. That’s the sort of thing I expected him to do anyhow.”

Antonia looked at her. “Do what?”

“Shoot himself, of course.”

“We should call the police, really,” Miss Fletcher said, her eyes on the phone on the dusty hall table.

“It’s out of order,” Eden said. “Don’t know what’s happened to it.”

Payne walked up to the table and pushed it to one side. “It’s been ripped out of the socket, that’s what’s happened. Didn’t you know?” He watched her carefully.

She shrugged her substantial shoulders. “No. I never look under that table. How queer. I didn’t pull that thing out, if that’s what you mean. Bent must have done it. He took away my mobile phone too and hid it somewhere. It all happened after that music producer’s visit — he didn’t want me to communicate with anyone from the outside world! He threatened to lock me in my room! And he threw the box in the bin. I mean the Internet thingie. Total isolation, that’s what he kept repeating. Total isolation! Total isolation!”

“What are we going to do? I haven’t got a mobile,” Miss Fletcher said. “I never got used to them.”

“We left ours in the car,” Antonia said. “It’s a ten-minute walk from here. Hugh — perhaps you could—?”

“Yes, of course, my love,” Payne said, but he made no move.

They exchanged glances. Neither of them really wanted the police to come — not yet — not before they’d found the solution to the conundrum. Antonia knew they were being selfish — childish and irresponsible — they thought they were cleverer than the police. This is not a game, she reminded herself. It was against the law to delay the reporting of a serious crime. In the silence that followed she was aware of Miss Fletcher’s quizzical gaze on her.

Eden Swann was speaking to Major Payne. “You’ll find that two shots have been fired from that gun. I was about to have a bath when I heard the bang, so I came down, though not at once — I am a bit slow. I had to get out of the bath first and then put on my bathrobe. I opened the bathroom door and I called out, but Bent didn’t answer — it was five minutes to twelve, I looked at the clock — then I went down and saw Bent’s body and the blood and the gun lying beside him!”

“What did you do then?”

“Well, I went and I picked the gun up, opened the front door, and fired it into the air.”

“You fired in the air?”

“Yes, to attract attention — an SOS kind of signal, you know. I couldn’t think of anything else. I was dishabille. Changing into a dress would have taken ages — it always does. No phone and no neighbours — no Internet — my voice, sadly, all gone, so it would have been no good standing on the porch yelling for help — and I never learnt to drive! To think that in my singing days I used to have my own chauffeur! We have a car, yes, but only Bent drove.”

“You mean what we heard was the second shot?”

“Well, yes. You’ll probably find the bullet somewhere.” Eden Swann waved vaguely towards the porch.

“Was the front door shut when you came down?” Antonia asked.

“Yes. Shut and locked. It is made of the thickest wood and all the windows are kept shut and latched at all times. That’s Bent’s paranoia for you. That’s why you didn’t hear the first shot, if that’s what you are wondering.”

Silently Major Payne took the gun out of his pocket and checked it — he knew about guns—

“Only one bullet’s been fired,” he said.

“Really? There should have been two! I am sure you are wrong. I am telling the truth! I hate lies!” Eden’s voice rose. “Bent shot himself. He committed suicide.”

“I don’t think he did. It’s not only the gun,” Antonia said. She pointed to the broken coffee cup. “He couldn’t have held his cup and the gun in the same hand. Besides, the nature of the wound suggests that he was shot from a distance of at least five feet. To put it in layman’s terms, the hole in the temple would have been ‘neater,’ the damage to the skull less considerable, had the gun been fired by your husband. Someone shot him.”

Antonia stood looking across the hall. There was a door leading to the kitchen that had been left open. And when she shifted a little to the left, she could see the back door gaping open too. She was able to catch a glimpse of the overgrown garden.

“How do you know so much about gun wounds?” Eden Swann asked.

“I have been doing research. It’s... it’s part of what I do.”

“D’you mean you work in the police forensic department? No, of course you don’t! What do you do?” Suddenly Eden laughed. “Don’t tell me you write detective stories or something?”

“Well—” Antonia was reluctant to admit she did write detective stories.

Eden didn’t seem interested enough to pursue the point — or she had a very short attention span. She said, “My fingerprints are on the gun, but it wasn’t I who killed Bent. It must have been done with a different gun. That’s the likeliest explanation. The killer must have brought two guns.”

“You said the gun belonged to your husband,” Payne said. “You said your husband had several guns.”

“Are you trying to catch me out? I can never tell one gun from another! I assumed it was his gun, that’s all. I may be wrong. Bent used to say I was always wrong. He kept his guns in his study, under lock and key.”

She cut an absurd, pathetic, and a somewhat unnerving figure in her orange bathrobe and frilly bath cap. Payne wished she would go and get dressed.

“He was shot while he was standing here, drinking his coffee,” Antonia said. “His dressing gown doesn’t look disarranged in any way. There are no signs of a struggle. He was taken unawares... The kitchen door is open... Was it open when you came down, do you remember? After you heard the shot?”

“Is the kitchen door open?” Eden swung round and peered across the hall. “Goodness me, so it is, you are absolutely right.”

“What access is there to your garden from outside?” Payne asked. Something had stirred at the back of his mind which he felt was important, though at the moment he couldn’t say what it was.

“There’s a door in the wall. It’s usually kept locked. Bent spent a fortune having a high wall built round the garden. That’s where the last of my money went. He feared for his life.”

“Can we go and take a dekko?”

“By all means.”

“Oh dear, our footprints will be everywhere. We may be destroying vital evidence,” Miss Fletcher said. “I wish I’d never come to Highgate! Don’t know what possessed me! And heaven knows where the beasts have gone!”

Once more they were following Payne.

“Where do you live?” Antonia asked.

“South Kensington. Normally I go to Kensington Gardens or Regent Park, but somebody told me it was good for the beasts to be taken outside their comfort zone. I left my car in Highgate Village...”

“I suppose your dogs have gone back to your car. You’ll probably find them there waiting for you.” Antonia tried to sound reassuring. “You passed by this house earlier on, didn’t you?”

“Yes... I didn’t see or hear a thing... apart from that terrible boy with the bike, that is.”

“That was later, wasn’t it?” Antonia remembered the boy’s extreme pallor and blood-red lips. He had brought to mind a young vampire. “We were together when he passed by.”

“Actually—”

“Yes?”

“I saw that boy earlier on too, outside the house, riding up and down the path, with no hands on the handlebars.” Miss Fletcher shook her head. “Showing off. Looking jolly pleased with himself. Highly dangerous, riding with no hands — but he seemed the kind that likes danger.”

The kitchen was in a shocking state of neglect. There were heaps of unwashed cups and dirty dishes everywhere, an unpleasant musty smell hung in the air, and as they entered, something black scurried across the floor. (A mouse? A giant cockroach?) Antonia gave a little gasp. Eden explained that they had had a cleaning woman but Bent had quarrelled with her and she had stopped coming. It was a relief when they got outside, though the garden was another sorry sight. Antonia caught a glimpse of a dilapidated deck chair among the weeds and a decaying straw hat perched on what had once been a balustrade.

There was a key sticking out of the door in the wall but the door itself, like the kitchen door, was gaping open.

“That’s how the killer must have got in and out of the house.” Eden Swann pointed and nodded. “The door must have been unlocked. Housekeeping is not exactly my forte... Bent used to check all the doors and windows but the pills he was taking for his anxiety were making him dopey...”

Major Payne looked at her. “Have you any idea who might have killed your husband, Miss Swann?”

“One of his former associates, most likely.”

“You mentioned threatening letters,” Antonia said. “That child business and the threatening letters. That tipped him over the edge. What child and what letters?”

“The child he killed, of course. It was a little girl called Pinkie, some such name. Bent was playing golf. We were living in Sunningdale at the time. Marvellous place. My money hadn’t run out yet. That was five years ago. Bent drove a ball onto the public path and it hit the little girl and killed her. It was an accident, though I had heard him say he sometimes felt like driving golf balls out on purpose — he got a tremendous kick out of scaring people. Anyway, the verdict was accidental death, though the child’s family weren’t happy. There was a mother and a boy, Pinkie’s older brother, who was twelve at the time. Apparently after the inquest, there was an ugly scene. The boy — who’d been very fond of Pinkie — very protective — actually went for Bent.”

“You mean he attacked him — physically?”

“Yes. I wasn’t at the inquest — Bent wouldn’t let me go — but a friend of mine went and she told me what happened. At first the boy was crying quietly but then he suddenly went berserk. He leapt at Bent and attacked him with a well-sharpened pencil he’d picked up from the jury table. He stabbed him in the left cheek, narrowly missing his eye. Bent had to go to the doctor’s to have the wound dressed. He was badly shaken. The guards pulled the boy away — but he kept shouting he would kill Bent. I kill killers — I’ll find you and I will kill you. Well, three days after the incident the first letter came and soon after Bent said we were moving house. We’d already moved house once before. We went all the way to Scotland. But the letters continued. Not letters, really. Single sentences.”

“What did they say?”

“I kill killers. Always the same thing, that single phrase. I kill killers. The messages were made up from letters cut out of newspapers. Some of them had been delivered by hand and pushed through the door, or left outside the front door, under a stone. It was driving Bent mad, I could see. Maybe that was the idea? He had had his plastic surgery, though that didn’t bring him any peace of mind. Then we moved house again — we went to Wiltshire — but the letters started again! Then we came down to London — we used to live in St. John’s Wood — we moved to Highgate only three months ago. But the letters kept coming.”

“Who did he think was sending them? The boy?”

“Of course it was the boy — his name was Dmitry, I think. I am sure it was the boy. The boy was playing a cat-and-mouse game with Bent... That’s what boys do... especially those who are off their rocker... Apparently Dmitry never got over his sister’s death... Went to one of those special schools. EBD? Last year I checked on the Internet. I found various stories about tragic Pinkie and her family... the Cunninghams. The boy Dmitry was apparently in and out of various institutions. He must be — what? — seventeen now? A teenager — the most dangerous age, isn’t that what they say? I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it turned out it was Dmitry who killed Bent in the end — having succeeded in reducing him to a nervous wreck!”

The boy. Antonia frowned... She felt a flash of excitement crackle through her... The boy on the bike...

She caught Miss Fletcher’s eye and she could see that the same idea had crossed Miss Fletcher’s mind as well.

Payne was frowning. “If it was the boy, it would appear that he knew every move you made and that he was familiar with each one of your addresses — but how is that possible? Did you say that some of the letters were delivered by hand?”

“Yes. It does sound incredible, doesn’t it?” Eden Swann flicked her tongue across her lips.

She’s lying, Antonia suddenly thought. She’s been lying from the very start. Either she killed her husband — or she knows who did... Two guns?

“It is incredible, yes,” Payne said. “It’s in fact impossible. Unless... unless someone kept tipping him off?”

“Perhaps he had contacts at the estate agents we employed?”

“I would consider that highly unlikely.”

“You talk like a criminologist.” Eden adjusted her frilly cap. “Are you a criminologist?”

“Why didn’t your husband tell the police about the messages if they bothered him so much?” Antonia asked. She was ashamed to admit it but part of her brain was already occupied with possible story titles. Murder on the Links? No, that had already been used. The Case of the Lethal Golfer?

“He was worried his various criminal activities would come out if the police started probing into his affairs. Bent was scared of the police as much as he was scared of his former associates — the ones he’d cheated and double-crossed. But most of all he was scared of the boy. He kept seeing that boy everywhere, though how could he tell it was the same boy? The boy would have changed quite a bit by now, wouldn’t he?” Eden Swann broke off. “Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t you believe me? The boy does exist! Since we moved to this place there have been ten more letters... Want to see them?”

“Have you got them?”

“Some of them. Bent destroyed most of the letters he got, but not all. Those he asked me to burn I kept. As possible evidence. In case something happened — which now it has! They are upstairs, in my dressing-table drawer... Want to see them?”

But as Eden Swann led the way back into the dreadful kitchen — through the hall, past the body of her dead husband, and towards the stairs — they heard the front doorbell ring.

There were three policemen standing outside.

They had come to investigate a report about a gun having been heard fired at the house known as The Mongoose. Someone had phoned them.

The next moment they saw the informer — he was standing further back, leaning on his bike — a tall teenage boy, with very red lips, a sneering mouth, and a woolen hat pulled over his eyes.

“His name was Nicholas Hay and he had nothing to do with any of the events at The Mongoose. He lived locally... I only mention him because at one point Antonia was led to believe that he was in fact Dmitry Cunningham, Pinkie’s brother... The policemen told us off for not calling them at once but they were most understanding when they found we had had no immediate access to a phone.”

It was two days later and Payne was once more talking to Captain Jenner at the Military Club. They were sitting in the club library, only this time Antonia was with them.

“The papers are full of the murder. Dulcie — my wife — can’t get enough of it.” Captain Jenner waved The Sunday Telegraph. “She thinks my uncle deserved what he got. Good riddance to bad rubbish. That about sums up her attitude. She’s disappointed that you get no mention.”

“Thank God for that,” Antonia said.

“It says here that all the threatening letters my uncle received were the work of his wife, former child star Eden Swann. The police discovered mutilated copies of music magazines from the sixties in a case under her bed — Pop Weekly and Fabulous — she had used them to cut out letters for the I kill killers messages. The moment they showed them to her, Eden confessed that she had done it as a form of revenge on her monster of a husband who had made her life hell. The incident of Pinkie’s brother attacking my uncle and shouting threats at him had given her the idea. She went on sending messages to her husband for five years and succeeded in driving him mad. But she absolutely denies killing him. She insists it was an outside job. And it does seem to have been an outside job!” Jenner lowered the paper. “The gun that she picked up from beside the body and fired in the air was not the gun that killed my uncle! That’s what the forensic team discovered!”

“Yes. Most curious.” Payne nodded.

“The police haven’t been able to track down the gun that did kill my uncle, though they have searched everywhere! It doesn’t seem to be one of his guns, all of which are accounted for, locked in a drawer in his desk. The killer must have brought two guns. But why? It makes no sense!”

“Actually, it makes perfect sense. The killer had a very good reason for bringing two guns,” Antonia said.

“Technically speaking, the murder was an outside job.”

“What do you mean, ‘technically speaking’? The police seem to incline to the view that Eden Swann is innocent!”

“Oh no, she is not innocent,” Payne said. “We managed to work out exactly what happened. Eden Swann played a pivotal part in the murder of her husband. You see, Jenner, mad as it may sound, Eden Swann invited the murderer to come to The Mongoose and kill your uncle.”

Jenner stared back at him. “She... invited the murderer?”

“Yes. As good as. She did it when she appeared on that TV programme, Where Are They Now? You told me that she had spouted a good deal of irrelevancies — but they were not all irrelevancies. Some were clues. She gave the murderer all the information he needed. She said she often left both the kitchen and garden doors open — she also announced the name of the house and made it clear it was in Highgate, within striking distance of Highgate Cemetery — she also mentioned the fact that her husband wore a tartan dressing gown, in case his altered face deceived the murderer. She wanted her husband killed.”

“She knew the killer?”

“No. She had no idea who it might be.”

“I don’t understand—”

“She issued her invitation on the off chance that the murderer might be watching the programme and that he — or she — might decide to follow her leads,” Antonia explained. “She knew her husband had enemies — that there were people out there who had it in for her husband — people who badly wanted him dead — former associates whom Bent had double-crossed, Pinkie’s brother, and so on — and she hoped they’d come over and kill him. She wanted her husband to die a violent death — that’s what she believed he deserved!”

“Couldn’t she have killed him herself?”

“No. She was fat, she was slow, and, most importantly, she was scared of him,” Payne said. “She would probably have missed if she had used a gun and if she’d gone for him with a knife or the poker, your uncle would have overpowered her. He wouldn’t accept any food or drink made by her. She knew her limitations, Jenner. She knew she wouldn’t be a match for him. So she hoped one of his enemies would do it for her. She put her trust in Fate. She said so herself. She believes that if something is meant to happen, it will happen. Que será, será.”

“It’s... it’s a fantastic notion.” Jenner shook his head. “Completely dotty.”

“I agree. But that’s the kind of person your aunt is.”

“Are you sure? However did you work it out?”

“Eden practically told us,” Antonia said. “A ‘miracle’ had taken place. One-in-a-million chance. She had meant it to happen. What she meant was that one of Bent’s enemies had watched the programme — they had got her message — and they had acted on it.”

There was a pause. Captain Jenner leant forward. “Who was it? D’you know? It couldn’t have been Pinkie’s brother — he is currently in a juvenile detention centre, that’s what the paper says... Was it one of my uncle’s fellow gangsters?”

“No. It was someone — completely unexpected,” Payne said.

Antonia gave a self-deprecating smile. “In the kind of book I write this is known as the least-likely-person solution.”

“The never-suspected-person solution, more likely,” Payne murmured.

“But who is it? Who? The police still haven’t got a clue. Why — why are you looking at me like that?”

“You are familiar with the killer, Jenner.”

“What the hell do you mean? I am nothing of the sort!”

“Oh, but you are. You told me about her—”

“I told you? Have you gone mad? Her? Her? Is the killer a woman?”

“Yes. As it happens, you are related to her — in a tenuous kind of way.”

“For heaven’s sake, Payne!” Captain Jenner half rose from his seat. “You don’t mean it’s Dulcie — not my wife? I know she belongs to one of those bring-hanging-back societies but that means nothing — nothing at all! It would be idiotic to suspect Dulcie!”

“Of course it would be — don’t be silly, Jenner — we don’t suspect Dulcie. Besides, you aren’t related to your wife in a tenuous kind of way, are you? No. I meant your uncle’s wife, Jenner. His former wife. Your former aunt, so to speak.”

Jenner sat back. His hand went up to his forehead. “My former aunt? I never — I never met her. I only know what my parents told me about her. Uncle Ben treated her very shabbily — she was pregnant but then she had a miscarriage — he pushed her or shook her — something awful like that — that’s why she miscarried. After the divorce she disappeared and was reported to have spent some time in a clinic. My mother said she had reverted to her maiden name and that she’d gone a bit funny. My mother met her one day and she told her she’d never forgive Ben, never...” Jenner broke off. “Good lord,” he whispered.

Payne brought his fingertips together. “You said she had the name of a jewel or precious stone — you thought it was Ruby.”

“Ruby, that’s correct. I mean, that’s what I thought it was — but I am not certain. It might have been — um — Amber — or Coral?”

“No, it was Beryl. Her name is Beryl Fletcher.”

“We ran into a Miss Beryl Fletcher on our way to The Mongoose,” Major Payne went on. “A tweedy lady, the no-nonsense type, leading three thuggish-looking pugs on leashes. We were together when we heard the shot — the second shot, as it happens — Eden Swann’s SOS call. Miss Fletcher said she was a complete stranger to Highgate and she admitted to passing by The Mongoose — but the truth was she had already been inside The Mongoose.”

“How do you know?”

“It was her scent. I noticed her scent,” Antonia explained. “A pleasant blend of cinnamon, vanilla, and citrus — which some associate with cakes or cookies. When the three of us introduced ourselves, Eden said, ‘There’s that sweet cookie smell again.’ Again. My deduction was that she had noticed Miss Fletcher’s scent in the immediate aftermath of the killing — inside the hall. Scent tends to linger in a closed space after its wearer has gone, as you may have noticed. Then, only a moment later, Eden came up with her one-in-a-million-chance line. Later, when she joined us, I noticed a knowing look in her eyes. I believe she realised it was Miss Fletcher whodunit.”

“Our theory,” Payne said, “is that Beryl Fletcher, like you, had watched the programme on which Eden appeared. She had been feeling low — brooding about the husband who had ruined all her chances of being a mother. Having picked up all of Eden’s ‘leads,’ she decided on a course of action. It sounds fantastic, I know. She had two guns in her possession, both small in size, two of a pair, most likely. Well, she placed them inside her bag. She then put on her gloves and set out for Highgate with murder in her heart. She was clearly not afraid the guns could be traced back to her. No idea how she got them — she looked the acme of respectability, though she probably had contacts in the underworld.”

“Why two guns?”

“One to kill her former husband with, the other to make sure Eden Swann didn’t go to jail for the murder. That was her way of showing her gratitude for making the murder possible. We believe it was a question of solidarity. A variation on the honour-among-thieves principle, one may say.”

Jenner looked doubtful. “Would a woman contemplating murder bring dogs with her?”

“Bringing her pugs with her was the cleverest of psychological touches. A stroke of genius, no less. It is impossible to suspect of murder a woman in a porkpie walking pugs. In the same way as it is impossible to suspect a woman pushing a child in a pram. Think about it. But the fact remains that she was in the right place at the right time. She must have fastened the dog leashes to a tree while she disposed of her former husband. Eden had made sure both the garden door and the kitchen doors had been left unlocked. Beryl Fletcher found her former husband standing in the hall drinking coffee and she shot him in the head. She placed the gun back in her bag — she was wearing gloves — and dropped the second gun beside the body. She then returned the way she had come.”

“Only she had the misfortune of running into us,” said Antonia. “We were together when we heard the shot and she felt she couldn’t refuse to come with us when we asked her. It would have looked suspicious. But she is clever! She tried throwing suspicion on the boy.”

“Look here, you make this whole rigmarole sound awfully convincing, but I find your denouement a bit hard to swallow. It’s too far-fetched.”

“She told your mother she’d never forgive your uncle, never — didn’t she?”

“Well, yes, but the whole thing’s too outlandish for words! The miscarriage happened more than fifty years ago!” Jenner cried. “Can a woman still bear a murderous grudge about her former husband after such a long period of time? Can she?”

“Revenge is a dish best served cold,” Payne said. “An awful cliché, I know — but it makes you wonder... And I have a second cliché for you — life is stranger than fiction. Most clichés are actually rooted in something that’s been tested and proved to be true...”

There was a pause. “Have you told the police about your conclusions?” Captain Jenner asked.

“We haven’t. Like you, we have mixed feelings about the affair... Your uncle certainly deserved what he got. And of course it may turn out that we’ve got the wrong end of the stick altogether... What are our clues, after all? A jewel, a scent, and the word ‘again.’ Oh, and the mysterious workings of Fate... So,” Payne concluded with a glance at his wife, “we’ll need to think very carefully about what we are going to do next — if anything.”

© 2017 by R.T. Raichev