Common Murder

Cordelia steered carefully through the crowd of journalists and vehicles that still made the narrow road in front of Brownlow Cottages a cramped thoroughfare. Lindsay noticed the blond watcher was no longer there. At the end of the Crabtrees’ drive, Rigano wound down the window and shouted to the constable on duty there, “Open the gate for us, Jamieson!”

The constable started into action, and, as they drove inside, Lindsay could see the looks of fury on the faces of her rivals. As soon as the car stopped, Rigano got out and gestured to Lindsay to follow him. He was immediately distracted by journalists fifty yards away shouting their demands for copy. Lindsay took advantage of the opportunity to lean across and say urgently to Cordelia, “Listen, love, you can’t help me here. I want us to work as a team like we did before. Would you go back to the camp and see if you can get Jane to help you sort out this alibi nonsense that Rigano wants? And make it as watertight as possible. Okay?”

“We have a deal,” said Cordelia, with a smile. “As the good superintendent says.”

“Great. See you later,” Lindsay replied as she got out of the car and joined Rigano standing impatiently on the doorstep.

“Mrs. Crabtree’s on her own,” he remarked. “There were some friends round earlier but she sent them away. The son, Simon, is out. He apparently had some urgent business to see to. So you should have a chance to do something more than ask superficial questions to which we all know the answers already.”

He gave five swift raps on the door knocker. Inside, a dog barked hysterically. As the door opened, Rigano insinuated himself into the gap to block the view of the photographers at the end of the drive. Using his legs like a hockey goalkeeper he prevented an agitated fox terrier taking off down the drive to attack the waiting press eager to snatch a picture of Rupert Crabtree’s widow. Lindsay followed him into a long wide hallway. Rigano put his hand under Mrs. Crabtree’s arm and guided her through a door at the rear of the hall. The dog sniffed suspiciously at Lindsay, gave a low growl and scampered after them.

Lindsay glanced quickly around her. The occasional tables had genuine age, the carpet was dark brown and deep, the pictures on the wall were old, dark oils. This was money, and not arriviste money either. Nothing matched quite well enough for taste acquired in a job lot. Half of Lindsay felt envy, the other half contempt, but she didn’t have time to analyze either emotion. She reached into her bag and switched on her tape recorder, then entered the room behind the other two.

She found herself in the dining room, its centerpiece a large rosewood drum table, big enough to seat eight people comfortably. Against one wall stood a long mahogany sideboard. The end of the room was almost completely taken up by large French windows which allowed plenty of light to glint off the silver candlesticks and rosebowl on the sideboard. On the walls hung attractive modern watercolors of cottage gardens. Lindsay took all this in and turned to the woman sitting at the table. Her pose was as stiff as the straight-backed chair she sat in. At her feet now lay the dog, who opened one eye from time to time to check that no one had moved significantly.

“Mrs. Crabtree, this is Miss Lindsay Gordon. Miss Gordon’s the writer I spoke to you about on the phone. She’s to write a feature for Newsday. I give you my word, you can trust her. Don’t be afraid to tell her about your husband,” Rigano said.

Emma Crabtree looked up and surveyed them both. She looked as if she didn’t have enough trust to go round, but she’d hand over what she had in the full expectation that it would be returned to her diminished. Her hair was carefully cut and styled, but she had not been persuaded either by husband or hairdresser to get rid of the gray that heavily streaked the original blonde. Her face showed the remnants of a beauty that had not been sustained by a strong bone structure once the skin had begun to sag and wrinkle. But the eyes were still lovely. They were large, hazel, and full of life. They didn’t look as if they had shed too many tears. The grief was all being carried by the hands, which worked continuously in the lap of a tweed skirt.

She didn’t try to smile a welcome. She simply said in a dry voice, “Good afternoon, Miss Gordon.”

Rigano looked slightly uncomfortable and quickly said, “I’ll be on my way now. Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Crabtree. I’ll be in touch.” He nodded to them both and backed out of the room.

Emma Crabtree glanced at Lindsay briefly, then turned her head slightly to stare through the windows. “I’m not altogether sure why I agreed to speak to you,” she said. “But I suppose the superintendent knows best and if that’s the only way to get rid of that rabble that’s driving my neighbors to distraction, then so be it. At least you’ve not been hanging over my garden gate all day. Now, what do you want to know?”