Free Dead In The Morning by Margaret Yorke Page A

asked Patrick.
    “Into Mrs Mack, of course,” said Cathy. “She’d have gobbled it up. She loved sweet things, they were her weakness. She couldn’t resist eating up any left-over bits and pieces. Everyone knew that.”
    “Everyone?”
    “Well, all the family. Everyone at Pantons. Why, Daddy mentioned it the moment he got home. He said she’d put on weight and she must have been eating too many sweets.”
    “Did you tell the Inspector this?”
    Cathy thought for a minute.
    “No. I don’t think I did,” she said. “In fact, I know I didn’t. But it didn’t arise in our conversation. Should I have?”
    “It was for him to discover,” said Patrick in dulce tones, and his sister gave him a look. “He will, if it matters. It was the inspector who was looking for the pudding, was it?”
    “Yes. There was a sergeant, too, in the kitchen. I’d got the dishwasher full of things, Gran’s breakfast, and our cups - we’d all been drinking coffee full of brandy. They wouldn’t let me switch it on. There were one or two other things in it, too, that Mrs Mack had left.”
    “Such as the plate that had held the missing pie, for instance?”
    “One that could have been it, yes. And a glass. Nothing else. Mrs Mack always did the dinner things straight away,” said Cathy.
    “And she posted a letter yesterday morning in time to catch the midday clearance,” Patrick said. “An extra letter to her daughter.”
    “That’s guessing,” said Jane.
    “It’s an informed guess,” said Patrick. “It’s a break from routine. If anything had upset her, the letter might say what it was.”
    “But she wasn’t upset, Dr Grant,” Cathy insisted. “Oh, what do you think went wrong?”
    “I don’t know, Cathy. I just don’t know,” said Patrick, but he looked extremely thoughtful.
    “Why don’t you try and think about something more cheerful, Cathy?” said Jane. “Your university entrance, for instance.”
    “I can’t really think about it now,” Cathy sighed. She made an effort, and added, “I suppose I should aim high and start with a bash at Oxford.”
    “Indeed you should. How about writing to the principal of St Joan’s and putting out feelers? I’ll write too, and say you seem a promising wench,” said Patrick.
    “Oh, would you? Do you know her?”
    “Intimately,” said Patrick with a grin. “She’s my aunt.”
    After Cathy had gone, which she did in a sudden rush, saying she must go and help with the chores, Jane gave Patrick another severe scolding.
    “Say what you like, it did the girl good to spill it out,” he repeated. “And she has a well-ordered mind, too. She told it well.”
    “Who cares about how she told it? Poor child, she comes down here to escape for half-an-hour, and you pin her down like a butterfly on a board with your beastly questions.”
    “How colourfully you express yourself, Jane,” he said admiringly. “A fine turn of phrase, that, about the butterfly.”
    “Oh, you’re a brute, an insensitive brute,” said Jane.
    “And pretty, too, when roused,” Patrick went on.
    “Swine,” said Jane, turning on her heel. “I’m going to talk to Andrew. He at least is civilised.”
    “A matter of opinion, I should say,” observed the baby’s uncle to her departing back.
     
    She returned some time later in a calmer mood and picked up The Sunday Times. Patrick had already finished the crossword, so she flung it down again with an angry mutter.
    “Why are you so interested, anyway?” she demanded. “Mrs Mackenzie’s death must have been an accident.”
    “Yes. But what sort of accident, that’s the question. Mrs Ludlow didn’t eat her lemon pie, but Mrs Mackenzie did. Mrs Mackenzie was loved by all, and needed; Mrs Ludlow wasn’t.”
    “No, Patrick. You’re being sensational. You know too many thriller-writing dons,” said Jane. “This is a very serious affair.”
    “I quite agree,” said Patrick. “And justice must be done. Work it out for yourself. Mrs