Free Some Deaths Before Dying by Peter Dickinson

it. Bloody expensive, lawyers are, in case you don’t know…”
    “I’m one myself.”
    “Are you now? Are you now?”
    The blue eyes had come to life and were twinkling with factitious charm, but Jenny guessed that this was his response to being
     for the first time mildly taken aback. She didn’t much like Mr. Matson and was far from sure how much of the truth he was
     telling her. A good deal, she guessed, but neither the whole, nor nothing but. He had, however, two holds on her of which
     he was unaware. The minor one was that she was enjoying her drink and now wanted the other half. The major one was that at
     all costs the thing should be sorted out without troubling Uncle Albert.
    Jenny had been looking through the boxes in the attic for clothes for the Oxfam sale while she waited for the engineer to
     service the washing machine. She’d had to take the whole day off because they wouldn’t tell her when he was coming. She’d
     found the box beneath, some strange old cricketing whites—wrong shape and generation for Jeff, and he’d never been a games
     player, but she had found no end to the weirdness of the objects he’d hung on to. (She herself was a ruthless thrower-out,
     except in the case of cotton socks. Her bottom drawer held nothing else but favourite pairs, now worn so thin that they would
     have been in holes after one more use, so she had not been able to bring them to that point. Typically, Jeff had never queried
     this quirk.) When she’d opened the box and seen the pistol she’d thought it was the same kind of hoarded curiosity as the
     cricket whites, but beautiful. Then the doorbell had rung, so she’d carried it: downstairs and put it on the hallway shelf
     as she opened the door.
    Her caller was the engineer she’d been waiting for, a cheery oaf who apparently expected to be admired for the simple virtue
     of being male, and became openly contemptuous when Jenny didn’t respond. They had parted in mutual loathing, leaving Jenny
     feeling that she couldn’t move comfortably around her own kitchen until it was aired and decontaminated of his presence.
    Then Anita Verey had shown up to collect the Oxfam clothes, but also carrying an absurd clock ornamented with stuffed finches
     which bobbled around at the strike, a series of bird-like twitters. She was on her way to ask about it at this TV programme
     which happened to be in town. She’d wanted someone to chat to while she queued. Jenny had felt the need to be out of the house
     for a bit. Anita was good company, and it would be pleasant to get to know her better. Thus it was that Jenny had taken Uncle
     Albert’s pistol to
The Antiques Roadshow
last summer.
    She’d told Jeff when he came home.
    “Oh, God!” he’d said. “It’s all right, darling, you couldn’t have known. Let’s just hope the old boy doesn’t get to see the
     programme. When’s it on?”
    “Uncle Albert? Why? What’s up?”
    “You remember I had to sort his stuff out when he went into Marlings? He was a bit more on the spot then than he is now, but
     he was pretty bewildered all the same. He sat in the middle of the room while I did the packing. He wasn’t interested. Anything
     I asked him about he said, ’I’m through with that. Chuck it out.’ I’d noticed he was clutching this box on his lap and I assumed
     it was something he was set on taking with him, but when I’d finished he pulled himself together and handed it to me.
    “‘Now you’ve got to take care of this,’ he said. ’Seeing I don’t know who’s going to come poking around this place you’re
     sending me to. You put it somewhere safe and don’t you go showing it around nor telling anyone about it. Right?’
    “I took it from him and without thinking I started to open the box and see what was in it, but…well, remember me telling you
     how I was brought up scared stiff of him, though as far as I know he’d never laid a finger on anyone, or even raised his voice
     to