Free Murder of a Snob by Roy Vickers Page B

literally.”
    There were small items to be checked. Querk had not noticed a registered parcel on the hall table; his mind being occupied with other matters. He knew nothing of the arrangements for the dinner party, nor of the movements of other persons.
    There remained the old lady in the garden, whose credentials Crisp had taken for granted.
    â€œI’ve been given to understand that Watlington was married?”
    â€œAn unfortunate episode in early life,” answered Querk sadly. “They separated by consent very shortly afterwards. A very embittered and—I say it with reluctance—and ungrateful woman. Lord Watlington bought her an adequate annuity yet she continued to pester him to return to her, on the ground that she suffered from——er—lack of company. At his request I wrote to her explaining the nature of molestation, with the result that she has ceaselessly importuned me to use my influence to effect a reconcilition. But why need we talk of that no doubt well-meaning woman who—”
    â€œWe needn’t,” said Crisp. “Do you know anyone called Fenchurch?”
    â€œFenchurch!” repeated Querk. “The name is familiar, though I cannot for the moment recall—oh yes! An artist who was to paint Lord Watlington’s portrait. He was, I believe, among the dinner guests.”
    Crisp glanced at the typed copy of notes which Watlington had pencilled on his blotting pad.
    â€œDo these words mean anything to you, Mr. Querk? ‘Casa Flavia’: ‘Tarranio’; ‘Fabroli’?”
    â€œCasa Flavia I know as a small town in Italy. The other words are meaningless to me.”
    Before Crisp could ask another question, there came from the hall the sound of a woman’s voice in energetic protest. Benscombe, hurrying to investigate, was accosted in the doorway.
    â€œI must see the Chief Constable. It’s ever so important, and I won’t keep him a minute.”
    Querk got up.
    â€œIf I can be of any further help, Chief Constable, do not hesitate to send word. I shall not be retiring for another hour.”
    From the doorway came Benscombe’s voice in protest.
    â€œI say, you know, you simply must wait until I have asked whether the Chief Constable will see you.”
    â€œOh! I recognise your voice! You asked me all those questions on the phone about Arthur. Why didn’t you tell me you were the police? Why didn’t you tell me Watlington was dead? You played a trick on me. I shall report this.”
    â€œLet her come in,” called Crisp.
    An entrance was made—a lamentably self-conscious entrance—by a willowy blonde of about thirty, who could probably have made a reasonable living as a mannequin or showgirl. ‘She is very pretty and very vain’ Fenchurch had said, and Crisp agreed with him. The vanity would waste time, so he decided to eliminate it.
    â€œYou have a complaint against one of my officers,” he barked. “What is the complaint?”
    â€œOh, it’s nothing really! Only, that man pretended to be one of us.”
    â€œA policeman often has to slander himself in the course of his duty. Anything else?”
    â€œSlander himself! Well!” The willowy blonde looked a little like a spoilt child in a first encounter with a stern governess. “I must say I didn’t expect this kind of treatment from a Chief Constable. I may as well tell you, before we go any further, that I have a friend who’s a cousin of the Home Secretary.”
    â€œThen I must be careful!” said Crisp. “What is your name?”
    â€œI’m Mrs—Arthur—Fenchurch!”
    â€œThat’s your occupation. I asked your name.”
    â€œOoh!” The vanity had become as remote as the Home Secretary. Her outward covering had been ripped off, leaving her to face the fact that she was not, never had been, the Pampered Pet she desired to be. She lived in a world where