Free Slight Mourning by Catherine Aird Page B

anyway.”
    â€œThen,” said Mr. Puckle in no whit put out, “we should have to search for the sons and grandsons of Mr. Fent’s grandfather’s brothers.” He regarded Quentin over the top of his glasses. “You are aware, Mr. Fent, that we may have to institute a search for them anyway.”
    â€œOh?” Quentin frowned. “Why?”
    â€œAs I explained earlier the consent of the next heir is required before you could realize any of the settled assets.”
    â€œGood Lord!” Quentin’s face fell quite comically. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
    At Berebury Police Station, Detective Inspector Sloan reported on the funeral to Superintendent Leeyes.
    â€œSeemed a perfectly ordinary affair to me, sir. All the dinner party people were there and most of the village too, at a guess. All present and correct, in fact, you might say, sir.”
    â€œThere’s nothing correct about it,” snapped an exasperated Leeyes. “Just stop and think what would have happened if the deceased hadn’t had that car smash or Dr. Dabbe hadn’t spotted the dope.”
    â€œHe would have died hereafter,” murmured Sloan under his breath.
    â€œWe might never have known about it, that’s what would have happened,” the Superintendent swept on unheeding. He had days when he seldom waited for an answer or heard one if it was given. “And then where would we have been? Tell me that, Sloan, tell me that …”
    Sloan opened his mouth to speak.
    â€œIn the soup,” said Leeyes for him.
    â€œAbout the soup, sir …” Sloan seized the slender opening as quickly as he could.
    â€œSoup?” echoed Leeyes testily. “Who said anything about the soup?”
    â€œYou did, sir.”
    â€œWhat? Oh, yes, so I did. Well, what about it?”
    â€œWe’ve found out something about the soup.”
    â€œAh!”
    â€œFrom our point of view, sir,” said Sloan, permitting himself a rare moment of frivolity, “the soup of the evening was—er—beautiful.”
    â€œAre you having me on, Sloan?” Superintendent Leeyes looked up suspiciously. “What was beautiful about it?”
    â€œEvery single person at that dinner party at Strontfield Park on Saturday night—all twelve of them—drank it. There can’t have been anything wrong with the soup.”

SEVEN
    â€œThere was one thing about the soup which was rather odd, though, sir,” continued Sloan.
    â€œWell, get on with it, man! What?”
    â€œIt was cold.”
    Leeyes grimaced. “That happens in our canteen too, Sloan. Everyone has their off days.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t mean that, sir …”
    â€œThe guests stayed too long over their sherry, I expect,” said Leeyes largely, “or had another glass and the hostess couldn’t get ’em through into the dining-room in time.”
    â€œNo, sir. The soup had never been hot.”
    â€œNever been hot? Why not?”
    â€œIt was meant to be cold soup,” said Sloan.
    â€œFunny idea, that, Sloan.”
    â€œYes, sir. Can’t say the thought appeals to me very much either.”
    Leeyes frowned ferociously. “What sort of soup?”
    â€œEr—cucumber, sir,” said Sloan, adding hastily, “after that they had roast crown of lamb and something called crémets.”
    â€œAnd what may that be when it’s at home, Sloan? Fish, flesh, fowl, or good red herring?”
    â€œPudding, sir.”
    â€œKnow anything about it?”
    â€œNo, sir, except that they had raspberries with it.”
    â€œWell,” said Leeyes helpfully, “don’t waste any time asking our canteen cook about it. If you can’t boil it dry, she won’t know. Soup, lamb, and crémets—that all?”
    â€œThere was cheese for those who wanted it.”
    â€œI should think they’d all want it after a meal like that,”