Free Some Deaths Before Dying by Peter Dickinson Page B

pistol. For herself, she wouldn’t, have had any hesitation in
     handing it over, given reasonable proof of ownership, and she didn’t imagine Jeff would either. But she was pretty sure he
     wouldn’t do so without consulting Uncle Albert, who’d then be extremely upset, try and insist on leaving Marlings, and so
     on.
    Fortunately, Mr. Matson didn’t know about any of that, and otherwise he was no great problem to deal with. Apparent cooperation
     without any concessions—the lawyer’s stock-in-trade. So, since the company wasn’t particularly enjoyable, she concentrated
     on not wasting her pleasure in the stout, relishing both the mild alcoholic kick and the way the smooth creaminess contrasted
     and combined with the slight harshness in the flavour.
    “What about the other half?” he said as she put her glass down.
    “My turn,” she said, rising. “What’s yours?”
    He glanced ostentatiously at the slogan on her bosom and chuckled.
    “If you insist,” he said. “Another of the same, thanks. I’m driving to Devon.”
    “We had a cook once, used to drink stout,” he said when she carried the drinks back to the table. “Mrs. Moffet. Little nut
     of a woman, henpecked poor Moffet stupid, but she made a wonderful roly-poly. I’ve never tasted anything to touch it. Well,
     here’s mud in your eye, Mrs. Pilcher, and I’ll drink your health for real as soon as I’m home.”
    “How long will that take you?”
    “Bit under four hours, coming, but it’s Friday evening. I might be in by midnight if all goes well.”
    “You drove all this way, just on the off chance of seeing me?”
    “They matter to me, Dad’s pistols. The old boy was potty about them. I want the other one back. What do you say?”
    “It’s not as straightforward as that, Mr. Matson. As I’ve told you, the pistol doesn’t belong to me. I found it one day in
     the attic, when my husband was at work. A friend asked me to go with her to the
Roadshow
programme and I took it so that I’d have something to show too. I told my husband when he came home and he said it wasn’t
     his, either. It had been given to him for safekeeping by an elderly relative whose affairs he looked after, and he’d been
     asked to put it away and not talk about it or show it to anybody.”
    “A bit fishy, do you think?”
    “Not if you know the old man in question. It’s not just that he’s an ex-soldier—that doesn’t mean anything—but…well, no. I’m
     absolutely certain he came by it honestly, so all I can say is I’ll talk to my husband about it. Jeff’s in Paris at the moment,
     but he may call tomorrow morning and if he does I’ll tell him what’s happened, and then he or I will get in touch with you.
     That’s really the best I can do.”
    “All right,” he said, with surprising resignation. “I get you. You talk to your man. You keep my card. Now, I’ll tell you
     my offer. You’re obviously straight, Mrs. Pilcher, and I’ll take it your man is too—Jeff, did you say his name was?”
    “That’s right.”
    “So this is what you—”
    He stopped abruptly. He had been looking into her eyes, all sincerity. The look changed to one of astonished revelation. He
     gave a silent laugh.
    “Tell me,” he said. “This old soldier, the elderly relative you’ve been talking about—are we by any chance speaking of RSM
     Albert Fredricks of the Second Derbyshire Regiment? It’s all right, Mrs. Pilcher. You play your cards as close to your chest
     as you please, but last time I visited Sergeant Fred—that’s what we used to call him when we were kids—he was full of this
     nephew of his who kept his papers in order. Wasn’t he living with his sister near Aldershot someplace? Grand to know he’s
     still alive and kicking. RSM Fredricks, salt of the earth. I remember him since I was knee high. Tall and skinny—looked as
     long as a flag pole to a kid my age, with this bony great nose sticking out at the top. That was before the war,