Free Murder on Black Friday by P.B. RYAN

one—that would be the window Munro fell from. He landed on these steps.”
    Pointing to the ornamental molding above the portico, Nell said, “And that would be the cornice he supposedly struck on his way down. I don’t see any blood or marks, though.”
    “Neither do I.”
    As they approached the front door, Nell saw that a black ribbon had been tied to the bell pull. The door was opened by a dour butler wearing a black armband, who took Will’s card and sent a parlor maid upstairs to let Miss Munro know that she had callers.
    The reception room in which the butler left Nell and Will to wait was mournfully dim, its windows being shrouded in black and the gasolier hanging from the fourteen-foot ceiling unlit. Nell rubbed the diaphanous curtains between her fingers—silk crepe, as costly as it was fragile. The fireplace, to which Nell gravitated, was surmounted by a monumental, crepe-draped mirror, both housed in a confection of ornately carved rosewood. Among the various objets d’art cluttering the mantel was a fanciful Rococo clock of ormolu and brass, its hands stilled at just past 3:40.
    Will set his hat and gloves on the marble-topped center table, pulled out a chair, and gestured Nell into it, then took a seat himself.
    She leaned toward him, lowering her voice so as not to be overheard by any household staff who might be lurking nearby. “Do you find it odd that Miss Munro has managed to purchase and install so much black crepe in such a short period of time? Her brother died just—“ she checked her watch, which read 11:40 “—fifteen hours ago, almost to the minute.”
    “How do you know exactly what time he died?” Will asked.
    She nodded toward the mantel clock. “Someone obviously took note of it—a servant, most likely.”
    “That clock would indicate what time he fell from the window,” Will said. “We’ve no idea what time he was actually killed, except that it must have been earlier than three-forty.”
    “Assuming you’re right about his being dead before he fell.”
    “I am. As for the crepe, perhaps Miss Munro keeps a supply of it around for such contingencies.”
    “It looks brand new,” she said. “Smells new, too.”
    “Then perhaps she sent out for it first thing this morning, or even yesterday evening, and had it installed forthwith. It could be that she’s simply an extremely organized lady.”
    They chatted intermittently in hushed voices—mostly about what was delaying the lady of the house—until a whisper of silk drew their attention to the doorway.
    For a moment, Miss Munro just hovered there, a spectral presence in the gloom, as her gaze homed in on her guests. Younger than Nell had anticipated—early thirties, perhaps—she was slender and pale, a delicate china doll dressed in mourning black. She wore her hair clubbed in back and swept in two sleek black wings over her ears, the center part razor-straight. Her eyes were grayish and unremarkable, but framed by the most arresting eyebrows Nell had ever seen, as if someone had dipped a fat No. 10 brush in India ink and painted one sad black stroke over each eye.
    “I’m Catherine Munro.” She had a voice like feathers wrapped in velvet—throaty and drowsy-soft.
    Nell rose along with Will, who bowed and said, “Good afternoon, Miss Munro. I apologize for intruding on your bereavement.”
    “Is it afternoon already?” Catherine Munro looked with an expression of mild curiosity toward the crepe-covered window.
    “Only just,” said Nell with a glance at her watch. In fact, it was ten after twelve. They’d been waiting for almost half an hour.
    Will introduced them, explaining that they’d come for the purpose of investigating both Philip Munro’s death and that of Noah Bassett. “There are business papers of Mr. Bassett’s that his daughters are eager to reclaim. They assume those papers were in Mr. Munro’s possession, given that he served as Mr. Bassett’s financial advisor. As for your brother, it is