Free A Dead Liberty by Catherine Aird

them the more difficult it became for them to understand. It was as if the fact of knowing another human being well threw a mantle of goodness over them.
    Detective Constable Crosby was apparently not troubled by thoughts of any kind. “Nice place they’ve got here, haven’t they?” he said generally.
    Cecelia Allsworthy nodded. “It’s early eighteenth century.” The Manor House was older by a hundred years and more. “The parson lived in style then and had a big family into the bargain.”
    â€œYour friends been here long, then?” asked the constable, looking round at the furnishings.
    She frowned. “Lucy’s father bought it just after his firm got the Palshaw Tunnel contract. That’s about three or four years ago now. He’d been wanting to move at the time away from Calleford and this happened to be on the market.”
    â€œMr. Durmast would have wanted to be near the workings anyway, I suppose,” said Sloan.
    â€œHe used to say”—she smiled gravely—“that if he lived somewhere on the far side of the river he would have a vested interest in getting the tunnel finished on time, and it was.”
    Sloan reciprocated her smile with a quick one of his own and, terrierlike, came back to the point. “We’re not getting a lot of cooperation from Miss Durmast,” he said.
    â€œShe’s got a mind of her own,” said Cecelia Allsworthy. “I know she’s been a bit—well, caught up—with looking after her father and all that, but it doesn’t mean she can’t think for herself.”
    â€œWe wouldn’t know about that, madam, because so far she hasn’t seen fit to tell us anything.”
    â€œNor me,” said Cecelia almost cheerfully, “but you can take it from me that she’s not silly.”
    â€œIt wasn’t a silly murder,” said Sloan solemnly. “Kenneth Carline might easily have hit another car and his death been taken for a road traffic accident.”
    â€œI would have said,” responded the young woman with spirit, “that whatever action Lucy takes she knows what she’s doing. You can count on that.”
    â€œYou weren’t here the day Kenneth Carline came to lunch,” said Sloan.
    â€œOh yes, I was,” said Cecelia Allsworthy unexpectedly. “I’d come over for morning coffee after I’d got the twins ready—it was too cold for a long walk and Lucy’s kitchen is—was—always lovely and warm. They’ve got one of those big ranges that never goes out—unless you want it to, of course. Come through and see.”
    Nothing loath, the two policemen trooped after her into the kitchen.
    Cecelia put her hand on the kitchen range. “It’s cold now, of course.”
    â€œOf course, madam,” said Sloan.
    â€œI let it out when … after …” For the first time her voice faltered.
    â€œQuite right, madam.” It was the mundane aspects of crime that were sometimes as harrowing as the violent.
    A dead stove and a dead man.
    Both were stone cold now.
    â€œI used to come over most mornings then,” said Cecelia more matter-of-factly, “to see Lucy and have a chat. I didn’t have an au pair girl in those days so I couldn’t get back to work anyway. Besides, the twins were younger. If,” she said with an attempt at lightness, “you measure the time between an arrest and a trial it comes to about an inch of baby.”
    â€œYes, madam, I’m sure.” He cleared his throat. “That morning …”
    â€œI told the other inspector all about that morning …”
    Sloan explained what had happened to Inspector Porritt.
    Mrs. Allsworthy came from a background where injuries to policemen were not considered a good thing. “I’m sorry,” she said simply. “Well, it was all quite unexpected. I swear that Lucy didn’t know Kenneth was coming