Free Unnatural Causes by P. D. James Page A

happiness from her voice. This was what she had always wanted. They were talking together, planning together. She was being asked, however obliquely and unwillingly, for reassurance and advice. How odd that it should take Maurice’s death to bring them together. She babbled on: “I’m glad you’re not upset about the luncheon date. Young men today have no manners. If he couldn’t telephone you by the day before at the latest, he should have made it his business to turn up. But at least you know where you stand.”
    The girl got up from the chair and walked without speaking to the door. Her aunt called after her: “I’ll get the drinks and we’ll have them together in your room. I won’t be a moment. You go up and get into bed.”
    “I don’t want anything, thank you.”
    “But you said you’d like a hot drink. You ought to have something. Let me make you some Ovaltine. Or just hot milk perhaps.”
    “I said I didn’t want anything. And I’m going to bed. I want to be left in peace.”
    “But Eliza …” The door closed. She could hear nothing more, not even a soft footfall on the stairs. There was nothing but the hissing of the fire and, outside, the silence, the loneliness of the night.

10
    Dalgliesh was woken next morning by the ring of the telephone. His aunt must have answered it quickly for the ringing stopped almost immediately and he dozed again into that happy trance between waking and sleeping which follows a good night. It must have been half an hour before the telephone rang again, and this time it seemed louder and more insistent. He opened his eyes wide and saw, framed by the window, a translucent oblong of blue light with only the faintest hairline separating the sea and the sky. It promised to be another wonderful autumn day. It was already another wonderful autumn day. He saw with surprise that his watch showed 10.15. Putting on his dressing gown and slippers, he pattered downstairs in time to hear his aunt answering the telephone.
    “I’ll tell him, Inspector, as soon as he wakes. Is it urgent? No, except that this is supposed to be his holiday … I’m sure that he’ll be glad to come as soon as he’s finished breakfast. Goodbye.”
    Dalgliesh bent over and placed his cheek momentarily against hers. It felt, as always, as soft and tough as a chamois glove.
    “Is that Reckless?”
    “Yes. He says he is at Seton’s house and would be glad if you would join him there this morning.”
    “He didn’t say in what capacity I suppose? Am I supposed to work or merely to admire him working? Or am I, possibly, a suspect?”
    “It is I who am the suspect, Adam. It was almost certainly my chopper.”
    “Oh, that’s been taken notice of. Even so, you rate lower than most of your neighbours, I imagine. And certainly lower than Digby Seton. We police are simple souls at heart. We like to see a motive before we actually make an arrest. And no motive so gladdens our heart as the prospect of gain. I take it that Digby is his half-brother’s heir?”
    “It’s generally supposed so. Two eggs or one, Adam?”
    “Two, please. But I’ll see to them. You stay and talk. Didn’t I hear two calls? Who telephoned earlier?”
    His aunt explained that R. B. Sinclair had rung to invite them both to dinner on Sunday night. She had promised to ring back. Dalgliesh, paying loving attention to his frying eggs, was intrigued. But he said little beyond expressing his willingness to go. This was something new. His aunt, he guessed, was a fairly frequent visitor to Priory House but never when he was at Pentlands. It was after all well understood that R. B. Sinclair neither visited nor received visitors. His aunt was uniquely privileged. But it wasn’t hard to guess the reason for this innovation. Sinclair wanted to talk about the murder with the one man who could be expected to give a professional opinion. It was reassuring, if a little disillusioning, to discover that the great man wasn’t immune to common