Free Malice in Miniature by Jeanne M. Dams Page B

thinned out. I saw Richard Adam enter the pub, look around, and leave.
    â€œLookin’ for Meg Cunningham,” was Bob’s comment. “’Ee’s sweet on ’er.”
    â€œI’d noticed that,” I replied. “I would have thought they’d have been together tonight, but we saw her earlier, and she was alone with her daughter.” I didn’t need Alan’s kick under the table to limit the story; I gave him an indignant look, and he grinned and buried his face in his beer. “Anyway, he won’t find her here tonight; she took Jemima home.”
    â€œAr,” said Bob in a profound male comment on the inexplicability of female conduct, and we finished our beer amiably and went out to watch the fireworks.

6
    T he next Monday evening Alan came home with news. We were drinking our after-dinner coffee when he dropped his little bombshell on the kitchen table.
    â€œThe reports came in today.”
    I didn’t have to ask which reports he meant. “And?”
    â€œI don’t know whether you’ll be disappointed, or the reverse. I’m not sure how I feel about it, either, except that I seem to have made rather a fool of myself.” He ran a hand down the back of his neck in a familiar gesture. “The insurance report was negative.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” I asked, confused.
    â€œIt means that they came up with nothing at all. Sir Mordred has made no claim against any insurance policy he holds on the museum. None.”
    â€œBut . . .”
    We looked at each other.
    â€œMaybe,” I said, feeling for an idea, “maybe he just hasn’t gotten around to it yet. Maybe he’s been hiding away a few little things just to pave the way for something big that he plans to blame on Bob.”
    â€œPossibly. If so, we’ve put a spoke in his wheel. Our people are very discreet, but the fact we’ve been asking means the insurers will be very careful indeed about any claim Sir Mordred should happen to make in future. And no doubt word of our inquiries will filter back to him. If he
was
planning to pull off a major theft, he’s not likely to now.”
    â€œThat makes me feel better. I think. Or maybe we were entirely wrong, and the Bob incident was just some sort of mistake. A tempest in a tea set, as it were.”
    Alan groaned dutifully. “Maybe.” He shook his head. “And as for Claude . . .”
    â€œOh, yes, dear little Claude.”
    â€œNot so dear. He’s even nastier than I’d supposed. He’s never actually been convicted of anything—too clever by half—but he has an impressive pedigree of charges. Vicious little crimes, all of them. His favorite weapons are intimidation and a flick-knife; his victims women and the elderly. And of course that’s an actionable statement, since he’s officially innocent.” He paused.
    â€œAnd—is there anything in this roster of noncrimes that involves Meg Cunningham?” I prompted, a little afraid of what I might hear.
    â€œAttempted rape.”
    I stared at him, appalled. “Oh, Alan, how terrifying— and the little girl—”
    He covered my hand comfortingly with his huge, warm one.
    â€œNothing like as bad as it might have been. It happened about a year ago, at the Hall. Apparently Claude was living with Mum—she lives in, you know—and caught Mrs. Cunningham alone somewhere in the maze of corridors. The notes on the case are somewhat formally written, but I got the impression Richard Adam charged onto the scene like a roaring bull and scared the liver and lights out of young Claude. My sources say he hasn’t been seen about the Hall since, until last week. He’s been living in various squats in London, and he was apparently there on the Monday. I couldn’t, of course, ask for a full investigation; the Metropolitan Police are as shorthanded as we are, and no crime has actually been