A Fatal Affair Faith Martin (read dune .TXT) 📖

highly polished mahogany table that was littered with upmarket magazines and a selection of daily newspapers. Four green leather button-back armchairs (that reminded Clement of so many gentlemen’s clubs in London) were scattered around, offering a comfortable seat in which to sit and read.

It was also, alas, empty of human life. Consequently, they shut the door and tried the next one down. This opened onto a long sunroom, flooded with light from yet more enormous windows. And standing looking out across the gardens through a set of French doors was a man who barely acknowledged the sound of the opening door.

‘Want some hair of the dog, Froggo?’ he drawled over his shoulder, without bothering to look around.

‘Depends on the hair and species of dog,’ Clement drawled back.

The man’s shoulders stiffened slightly and he spun around.

Trudy’s first impression of Mortimer Crowley was one of lazy, effortless elegance. He was slim, and maybe a shade under six feet tall. His dark hair was just going silver at the temples, reminding her of the pictures of the romantic heroes on the front of the romance books her mother liked to read so much. He was dressed in well-fitting bottle-green slacks and a paler green jacket of some kind that seemed to be made of velvet. Trudy had never seen anything like it before.

‘Who the hell are you pair?’ the man said, his eyes narrowing slightly. With the light behind him, Trudy couldn’t tell what colour they were, but she guessed they’d be pale – blue, or grey maybe. ‘And how the hell did you get in?’ he added as an afterthought.

‘A young man opened the door to us, but became rather indisposed shortly afterwards,’ Clement said with a man-of-the-world smile. ‘He indicated you could be found down here somewhere. You are Mortimer Crowley, I take it?’

‘I am. Care to share the knowledge around?’

Clement swept forward, hand out. ‘Dr Clement Ryder, coroner of the city of Oxford. This is my assistant, Miss Loveday.’

Mortimer’s stiffened form relaxed visibly – too visibly for it to be real, Clement thought. And right on cue, his square, good-looking face creased into an affable smile.

‘That sounds rather ominous,’ he said mildly. ‘I didn’t think coroners made house calls. I know my dissolute lifestyle isn’t likely to let me see old bones, but I hadn’t realised you fellows actually came touting for business.’ He flashed them a smile to show that it was all in good fun, giving them a view of some very impressive white teeth.

Clement obliging exposed his own molars in a similar flash of manufactured humour. ‘Oh, it’s frowned upon, no doubt about it,’ he shot back. If he wanted to go down the hail-fellow-well-met route, he could be as insincere as the best of them. ‘Which is why we’re not here on your behalf, but on that of another unfortunate resident of the village.’

Mortimer sighed heavily. ‘Oh hell, not more about that poor wretched girl Iris?’ He moved from the window with a heavy sigh, and indicated a long, traditional sofa, done out in chintz, wordlessly inviting them to sit. ‘I’ve been so thoroughly grilled by the local police about her, I’m beginning to sympathise with lamb chops. Well, sit down, we might as well all be comfortable.’

It was interesting – but perhaps understandable – that their host had assumed they were here to talk about Iris rather than David Finch, and neither Clement nor Trudy, for the moment at least, were in any hurry to disabuse him.

Instead they sat down, watching as Mortimer selected a smaller two-seater sofa opposite them, and spread his legs out in front of him, neatly crossing his legs at the ankles. Under the velvet jacket, Trudy now saw that he was wearing a silk cravat so white it almost made her want to squint.

‘Poor Iris. I really do hope you find out who killed her, you know,’ Mortimer said, having clearly decided to tackle them head on. ‘I rather liked her. She had spirit, you know, and ambition.’ He smiled and shrugged. ‘You don’t really see much of either of that around here,’ he added, glancing out of the window, where, in truth, little of the village could actually been seen. Just a few roofs from the cottages facing the house across the lane. ‘And, of course, she was lovely to look at. And as an art-lover, you can forgive anyone or anything so long as it’s beautiful.’

‘Yes, we’re getting the impression she was quite something in that department,’ Clement said blandly. ‘No surprise she was elected May Queen then?’

At this, their host snorted disparagingly. ‘Oh, this village and their bloody May Queen! Just because the village elders made such a song and dance about the celebration of it in days of yore! No doubt it gave them an excuse to leer at all the village maidens. You’d think this bloody village invented May Day, the fuss they made about it! Still, she thought it was a great feather in her cap to be chosen and she was pleased to bits about it. Iris would have made a great May Queen, the poor cow, no doubt about it.’

Although the words sounded shockingly derogatory, Trudy thought she detected a genuine note of pity under all the man’s posturing. He might be trying hard to come across as the uncaring sophisticate, but she also sensed a wariness and nervousness that was distinctly making her policewoman’s nose twitch.

Clement sighed gently. ‘It must have come as a shock for the whole village – what happened to her.’

‘Oh, you bet. Hit it like an earthquake,’ he said flatly. ‘Nothing of the kind could have happened here since the first peasant built his first hovel back in the time of the great plague! The excitement! Such high drama!’ His lips twisted grimly. ‘Mind you, it gave all the self-righteous old biddies the chance to nod their heads sagely and say I told you so. Makes me sick! Just because a beautiful young girl had a bit