Free Splintered Icon by Bill Napier Page B

back of a police van.
    A policeman with a yellow traffic jacket circled his finger at me and I wound my window down. 'What's your business here?' He was trying for an authoritative tone, but he didn't have the Salter touch.
    'I want to speak to Sir Toby.'
    'You're not a relative, then?'
    'No, I hardly know the man.'
    'He's been dead for two days, sir. Don't you read the papers?'
    It took some seconds for the news to sink in. Apart from his florid cheeks, Tebbit had seemed healthy enough three days ago. I wondered if he'd had a heart attack. 'Maybe I should clear off.'
    At that moment Debbie appeared at the front door, speaking to someone who looked like a lawyer. She was dressed in a dark grey cardigan with a long black skirt. She seemed matter-of-fact, cool even. She spotted me and waved. I waved back.
    The policeman leaned forwards, spoke in a confidential tone. 'You've met the daughter? A real goer if you ask me. The mother died years back and she's the only sprog. Imagine inheriting this lot at her age.'
    'If this is the funeral
    'No, sir, he's on ice in town. This is just grieving friends and family. You might say Sir Toby was well-heeled.' The policeman leaned even closer; his breath was garlicky. 'And this lot look as if they own half of Lincolnshire.'
    The lawyer was heading for his top-of-the-range BMW, and Debbie came smartly down the steps towards me. 'Mr Blake? Harry?'
    I didn't know quite what to say. 'Debbie, I was sorry to hear about—'
    'Of course, you've been away. Daddy was killed, you know.'
    'What?'
    'By burglars.' Spoken conversationally. 'Do come in.'
    I picked up the manuscript, feeling a bit dazed, and followed her into the house. The study door had blue and white tape across it, with the words POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS. 'The forensic people say they're nearly finished. They had the whole house until this morning.'
    She led me into a long, dull room whose centre was taken up with a massive table surrounded by about twenty chairs. There were drinks and canapes on the table and a couple of dozen people standing around. Subdued conversation filled the air and there were curious glances in my direction.
    'I feel I'm intruding,' I began.
    'No you're not. Did you finish the translation?' she asked, nodding at the manuscript in my hand. She was unconsciously chewing a lip. Her eyes were a bit glazed and I thought she was probably doped with sedative.
    I had no chance to reply. A small, stocky man, a white-haired forty, detached himself from a group and sidled up. There was a startling resemblance to the late Sir Toby; the same small, bullet-like eyes and turned-down mouth. He looked at Debbie and then at me. And like Sir Toby, he made no attempt to be friendly. 'What's your business here?'
    'My name is Blake. I'm an antiquarian bookseller. Sir Toby asked me to translate and value a manuscript. I was sorry to hear—'
    'Never mind that. Just leave it there.' He nodded at the table.
    ''The translation isn't finished. I wanted to discuss the manuscript with Sir Toby.'
    'Well, that will no longer be possible. Just leave the manuscript on the table.'
    'Forgive me, but I don't know who I'm talking to.'
    'I'm his brother.' Spoken an octave higher, to show his irritation at the impertinence. 'If you're worried about your fee, send it to me at this address.'
    'That'll be fine.' And next time I'll use the tradesman's entrance, you repulsive toad.
    'What did you find, Harry?' Debbie's voice was quiet and solicitous, and I wondered how such a nice kid could have come from this arrogant family.
    I opened my mouth but the Tebbit brother got in first. 'I'm sure it doesn't matter now, Debbie. And I expect Mr Blake has other things to do.'
    'Uncle Robert, that journal belonged to Daddy and he wanted to know what was in it.'
    'Maybe I should just go, Debbie,' I suggested.
    'I think you should,' Uncle Robert agreed curtly.
    I told Debbie, 'It's a journal kept by a cabin boy who sailed on an Elizabethan voyage. He used some sort