Free Passing Strange by Catherine Aird Page A

and attention. “And after – er – him, the deluge of heirs?”
    â€œNot quite a deluge.” The agent permitted himself a small smile. “Only two. Richard Mellows had a daughter called Richenda.”
    â€œBut no sons?” said Sloan quickly. Even tribes that weren’t primitive put a higher premium on sons than on daughters.
    â€œNo sons,” said Hebbinge, “but that isn’t the stumbling-block. The inheritance isn’t specifically entailed on male heirs. In fact the other – er – contender is also female. She’s the daughter of a cousin of the Brigadier’s. The widow of a clergyman: a Mrs Edith Wylly. She is next in line, so to speak, after Richard Mellows’s daughter.”
    â€œThere is a stumbling-block though,” said Sloan patiently. “Otherwise …”
    â€œOh yes,” said the agent wryly, “there is indeed. The daughter –”
    â€œMiss Mellows.” Sloan did not let his interest in Miss Mellows show.
    â€œâ€“ Miss Mellows,” said Hebbinge, “may not – ah – be – er – Miss Mellows. That is the stumbling-block.”
    The atmosphere in the place where the Fortune Teller’s tent had been was noticeably relaxed now that the body of the late Joyce Cooper was no longer there. Norman Burton, the Show Secretary, had returned with his sketch of where all the tents and stalls had been. Ken Walls and Fred Pearson had never left. In the ordinary way – in the middle of a town, say – Detective-Inspector Sloan of the Berebury Criminal Investigation Department would have had them moved on, but somehow they fitted the rural setting and might perhaps be useful. He saw no point, either, in putting a foot wrong with the locals at the very outset of a murder case.
    Burton handed over his instant map of the camp.
    â€œThe Fortune Teller was in between the tent with the water otter in,” said the Show Secretary, “and …”
    â€œCharlie Smithson was in charge of that,” volunteered Fred Pearson.
    â€œNoisy,” said Ken Walls.
    Sloan didn’t know if he meant Charlie Smithson or the water otter.
    â€œâ€¦ and the Almstone Preservation Society tent,” continued Norman Burton. “That was on the other side with Miss Tompkins in charge.”
    â€œToffee-nosed,” said Fred Pearson.
    Sloan was in no doubt who he was talking about this time.
    â€œMiss Tompkins,” said the schoolmaster sternly, “is always anxious for support for the Preservation Society, but especially now.”
    â€œWhy now?” queried Sloan. He thought the countryside was always under threat.
    â€œNow that Esdaile Homes want to build here. Didn’t you know, Inspector?” Norman Burton pointed over his shoulder. “The Priory are leasing off a chunk of Home Farm.”
    â€œAre they?” said Sloan. That was something that Edward Hebbinge had not mentioned. He wondered why.
    â€œOnly the field on the church side of the road,” said Fred Pearson. He wrinkled his nose. “It’s a bit wet for cows anyway. It’s always been swampy down there by the river …”
    â€œPeter the Great built Leningrad on a marsh,” said Burton the pedagogue.
    â€œâ€¦ and it’s cut off from the farm,” said Pearson, who wasn’t interested in Peter the Great.
    â€œIt’s land within the Village Envelope,” said Norman Burton with all the schoolmaster’s desire to impart accurate information. “The Parish Council has gone into it most carefully.”
    â€œI’m sure,” murmured Sloan. He hoped Esdaile Homes, Ltd, had, too. And that they were prepared to lay out money on good damp courses. People who built near rivers needed to look to their foundations.
    â€œHe was here this afternoon,” said Ken Walls.
    â€œWho was?” said Sloan. He’d already canvassed the idea of finding out the names of