Free Shadows of Death by Jeanne M. Dams Page B

don’t have to talk,’ I whispered.
    Alan put the kettle on to heat and found the tea bags. ‘The reaction was mixed. Larsen and Fairweather agreed that the watch was almost certainly Carter’s. Norquist said it was too dirty to draw any conclusion about it, and was all for cleaning it up then and there, which of course Baikie wouldn’t allow. He, Baikie, did tell me privately that there was no watch found on Carter’s body.’ He assembled milk, sugar and cups on a tray and rummaged in the cupboards for biscuits. ‘The varied conclusions drawn, though, were most interesting. Baikie, who is somewhat inclined to treat Carter’s death as a murder case, thought his watch – if it is his watch – being found so far from the body strengthened that view. He didn’t say so, but I was a policeman too long not to see it in his manner.’
    The kettle whistled. Alan filled the pot and brought the tray to the table. ‘The others could see it, too, and they united in opposition. It was a bit funny, actually. They expressed themselves differently, of course. Larsen and Fairweather were trying diplomatically to suggest that the project would suffer greatly from any adverse publicity, in addition to the financial blow of their principal donor’s death. Norquist, predictably, fulminated. I’m having a very hard time trying to like that man.’ He poured the tea, with plenty of milk and sugar in mine.
    I sipped gratefully, cleared my throat, and essayed a question. ‘What’s Baikie going to do?’
    ‘He didn’t confide in me. In his place the first thing I’d do would be to confine Andersen to quarters. He’s the obvious suspect, though there are a good many questions about the whole situation. But he hated Carter, he has a filthy temper and considerable strength, and he was presumably here last night.’
    ‘Do we know that?’
    ‘No,’ Alan admitted. ‘But where else would he be? He doesn’t seem the gad-about type. Besides, he has livestock to tend.’
    ‘I don’t know. Getting himself polluted in a pub somewhere, maybe. Alan, I can’t think. My head’s booming like a drum. I’m going to bed.’
    I found a couple of elderly cold tablets in my traveling bag, swallowed them, and drifted off into deep if somewhat uncomfortable sleep for the best part of the next twenty-four hours.

EIGHT
    M y method for dealing with a minor respiratory illness has been the same for at least forty years. At the first sign of a sore throat or stuffy nose, I take myself to bed. The theory is that, given rest and fluids, the body will heal itself. I have to admit that it doesn’t always work, but this time it did. When I woke on Wednesday afternoon, I was hungry, able to breathe, and more or less in my right mind. I got out of bed and wandered into the sitting room.
    ‘Ah,’ said Alan, who was sitting with newspapers on his lap and a cup at his elbow. ‘It’s the Sleeping Beauty.’
    I looked down at my crumpled nightgown and ran a hand through my unkempt hair and over my unwashed face. ‘Sarcasm is the tool of the devil. Is there anything to eat?’
    ‘You’re feeling better.’
    ‘Much. And I’m starving.’
    ‘How’s the throat?’
    ‘Better. I’m not quite ready to address Parliament or sing
Madame Butterfly
, but I think I’m up to some comfort food.’
    ‘Good. If you want to get cleaned up a bit, I’ll have some scrambled eggs ready when you are.’
    Dear man! He didn’t quite wrinkle up his nose, but I was aware that I badly needed a shower.
    I felt nearly normal when I had showered. I poked my head out of the bathroom. ‘What’s the weather like? Sunshine, I can see, but what about the temperature?’
    ‘Probably a little chilly for a pampered American,’ he called back from the kitchen. ‘I suggest layers. And hurry up. The eggs are almost done.’
    I hurried. Cold eggs are an abomination unto the Lord.
    One of Alan’s many virtues is that he can cook. He was a widower for many years and learned to fend