Free Design for Murder by Nancy Buckingham

had been seen in the vicinity of Haslop Hall within minutes of his stepbrother’s murder. Sebastian Medway, adopted son of Sir Robert and now his only son. The new heir to the Medway fortune.
    * * * *
    The church clock was stirring into creaky life for nine o’clock as I slammed the door of Honeysuckle Cottage. I was walking to my garage at the side when I heard the front gate click, and glanced round to see that it was Neil.
    “Glad I caught you,” he called.
    “Only just. I’m on my way to work.”
    He grinned ruefully. “To tell you the truth, I was hoping to cadge a cup of coffee. I’ve been on the go since seven this morning, but I didn’t much fancy my chance of being served anything drinkable at that scruffy cafe on the Gilchester road.”
    I wasn’t feeling friendly after his treachery in questioning Ursula about my movements. But I shrugged and turned back.
    “Oh, all right. There’s nothing so urgent it can’t wait for half an hour. What brings you over this way so early?”
    “I have an appointment,” he said, and left it at that.
    He followed me inside to the kitchen. I filled the electric kettle and switched on, set out two mugs, and reached for the instant coffee jar. On second thoughts I put it back on the shelf and took down the tin of ground coffee and a filter paper. If Neil rated my coffee, it might as well be good.
    He perched himself on the edge of the table and glanced round appreciatively. With the sun streaming in between the orange-check curtains, giving life to the natural pine fitments and rush-matted floor, I wasn’t ashamed of my kitchen.
    “This is really nice,” he commented. “But then, considering your profession, I suppose it would be.”
    “It’s a bit cottagy,” I said, in the way we all have of disparaging our own creations.
    “But this is a cottage, a genuine old Cotswold cottage. It’s not precious, though, that’s the important thing.”
    “What a surprise,” I laughed, as I poured boiling water on the coffee. “A detective with an appreciative eye.”
    “A very appreciative eye,” he rejoined, and gave me a slow look.
    “D’you take sugar and cream?” I asked, turning away.
    “Dark brown, please, and two spoonfuls.”
    I took mine black, and leant back against the sink unit while I drank it.
    Neil spoilt the easier atmosphere between us by asking suddenly, “Have you seen anything more of Tim Baxter?”
    “I have.”
    He gave his coffee an extra stir. “When was that?”
    “Yesterday afternoon, when I arrived back at the Coach House after lunching with you. He had just called in to see me.”
    “Anxious to find out what had transpired, was he?”
    “If you mean did Tim know that I’d had lunch with you, the answer is yes. But then so did every single living soul in Steeple Haslop, I imagine, not to mention every cat and dog and budgerigar.”
    He grinned. “But about Baxter ...”
    “What about him?”
    “You were going to tell me what he had to say.”
    “Was I? Well, Tim asked me to dinner, but I was already engaged.”
    “So you made it another day instead.”
    “No, we didn’t, actually.” I put my mug down on the draining board with a bang. “If you’re looking for a link between Tim and me, you’re wasting your time.”
    “He rushed to cover up for you concerning those fingerprints,” Neil reminded me. “Which was a stupid thing to do. Why did he, I wonder?”
    “It was just an instinctive response.”
    Neil drained the last of his coffee, and held out the mug.
    “Any more in the pot?”
    “You’ve got a nerve,” I exploded. “Coming here expecting me to fill you up with coffee, and all the while making nasty insinuations ...”
    “People with nothing to hide,” he remarked sententiously, “have nothing to fear in answering police questions.”
    “You think I’ve got something to hide?”
    “Have you?”
    He was still holding the mug out, and I took it from him ungraciously, refilling it and adding cream and