Free A Better Quality of Murder: (Inspector Ben Ross 3) by Granger Ann Page B

raised his eyebrows again and this time replied with a touch of impatience. ‘It was painted for me. I had already spoken to her father. He agreed to our marriage, once his daughter should reach the age of eighteen. Until then, I should have to console myself with the possession of a portrait in oils in place of the sitter.’

    Had fifteen-year-old Allegra been as enthusiastic, I wondered, at the prospect of a husband so much older? I was beginning to feel a little dissatisfied by some of the words Benedict used. ‘Adore’ not ‘love’, for example. You might say they meant the same thing, but there again, in human terms, they might not. ‘Possession’ of the portrait, instead of the living girl . . . that also niggled at me.

    ‘May I ask a question in my turn, Inspector?’ Benedict’s voice broke into my musings. I realised with a shock that I had been silent for two or three minutes.

    ‘Certainly, sir.’

    ‘What has all this to do with finding the fiend who killed my wife?’

    ‘Probably nothing, sir, but we have to know the background of the victim.’

    ‘Then now you know it,’ he said simply.
     
    ‘You have no children?’ I got in one last personal question.

    ‘No,’ he said coldly. It was an intrusion too far. ‘I am finding this very difficult, Inspector; perhaps you could come again? Or I would be happy to come to Scotland Yard and we can discuss all this further. I really feel . . . my doctor has given me some powders, to calm my nerves. I am in need of a draught now.’

    That led neatly to my last enquiry. ‘I understand, sir. I was told that you collapsed after identifying the body.’

    His face twisted in pain at the memory. He nodded.

    ‘The assistant, Scully, who conducted you to see your wife, said that, when you were recovered enough to speak, you spoke of some “gates”. I understood that you said words to the effect, “They want to close the gates but it won’t help.” I may not be accurate, or Scully may not have told me accurately.’

    ‘Oh, he was correct enough,’ said Benedict brusquely. ‘You want to know what I meant? Let me show you!’

    He got up and went to a table on which was stacked a pile of leather folders. When he came back he was carrying one which I saw was a sketch album. Benedict opened it and found what he sought. He turned the open pages towards me, so that I could see the picture.

    It was a watercolour, signed S. B. I supposed it must be a copy of something he had seen, perhaps on his original Italian tour, perhaps later. The scene was mediaeval in style and quite terrifying. It showed a landscape. Across it raced a ghastly figure on a spectral horse in pursuit of a fleeing group of young men, also on horseback. The figure, which could only be Death, had galloped past a very elderly couple, ignoring them. The crone of a wife was pointing at him in amazement, unable to believe she and her aged husband had not been his chosen victims. But Death had other prey. He wanted the youngsters. The young men were finely dressed. They had golden curls. Their companions at the rear of their party had already fallen victim and were slung lifeless across their saddles, carried onward uselessly by their panicking steeds. The young men at the front of the group looked back in horror and desperation. Their intention was clearly to squeeze through the open gates of a walled city, as if, once inside, they could close them against the pursuing apocalyptic figure and escape. But they were doomed, and knew it. It was written on their faces. Even their horses knew it, eyes rolling and nostrils flared. They had reached the gates, but the earthly refuge would save none of them.Youth, beauty, wealth . . . nothing would cheat the pursuer.

    ‘I copied that,’ Benedict said, ‘from a wall painting in a chapel of the Dominican church in Bozen, as the Austrians call it, in the South Tyrol. The Italian name of the city is Bolzano. The mural is generally called “The