A Share in Death

“You were right about the heater and the plug. There’s not a smudge of a print anywhere on it that doesn’t belong 66 deborah crombie

to Cassie Whitlake. So, either Cassie plugged it in, and in that case why would she implicate herself, or the person who did wore gloves. Now, if it were Sebastian—and I never heard of a suicide wearing gloves—what did he do with them? His clothes, his shoes, his wallet, even his handkerchief and comb were folded in a neat stack by the bench. Did he plug the heater in, go dispose of the gloves somewhere, then come back and undress and hop in? I don’t buy it.” Raskin paused. “The heater might have shorted itself out before he could get in the pool. And I never knew a neat suicide not to leave a note.”

 

“I didn’t buy it, either,” said Kincaid. “What about the p.m.?”

“The best the doc can give us from the stomach contents is between ten and midnight.”

“Not much help, but then I didn’t expect it would be. None of the guests have a definite alibi?”

“Not to speak of.” Raskin ticked them off his fingers. “Cassie says she went to her cottage, alone, around ten, and didn’t come out again. The Hunsingers had gone to bed and to sleep, after tucking in the children and having some herbal tea. Marta and Patrick Rennie say they were in their suite all the time, but she doesn’t look too comfortable about it. The MacKenzie ladies retired around ten, were both asleep by eleven. Janet Lyle had a headache, and her husband fixed her a cup of tea. She then went to sleep and he did, too. Um, let’s see, who’s left?”

“The Frazers?” Kincaid prompted.

“The Frazers, father and daughter, arrived back from dinner in York about ten-thirty, whereupon they both went to bed.”

“And Hannah and I,” Kincaid continued for him, “were walking in this garden around eleven o’clock—”

“After which you each went, alone, to your separate suites,” finished Raskin, and stretched his fingers until the knuckles popped.

“Pretty bloody useless, the whole lot,” said Kincaid in disgust. “Any of them could be lying and we’d never be the wiser. For starters, I don’t think Angela Frazer has a

 

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clue whether her dad was in the suite or not. They had a terrible row on the way home and she locked herself in the bathroom. Went to sleep on the tiles.”

 

Raskin grinned. “Your interrogation technique must be a sight better than my chief’s—he didn’t get more than sullen ‘yeses’ and ‘noes’ out of her.”