Free Murder in the Cotswolds by Nancy Buckingham Page A

staring vacantly at the opposite wall. Every now and then he was seized with a fit of trembling. Half an hour went by, and he heard the two women in the outer office leave for their lunch hour. Still he sat doing nothing. At length, he pushed himself up wearily from his chair and peered out through the communicating door, just to make quite sure that he was alone.
    He picked up his phone and dialled a familiar number. It rang for a long while—probably Joan was in the garden on such a fine day. When she finally answered, she was glad to hear his voice.
    “Georgie?” She became suddenly anxious. “I hope this doesn’t mean you won’t be coming to see me on my birthday next week. You did promise.”
    “No, that’s still on. Listen, Joan, I have a favour to ask.”
    “Then ask away, love. You know I can’t refuse my baby brother anything. What is it?”
    “I ... I can’t explain, not on the telephone. Suppose I come over to see you now?”
    “Well, of course. If it’s so urgent. You can have some lunch with me.”
    “No,” he said with a shudder. “I shan’t want any lunch.”
    Twenty minutes later, he drew up outside his sister’s thatched cottage, to which she’d moved to be near him after retiring from her job in the claims office of a large insurance company in Gloucester. The front wall of Meadow View was smothered with a giant banksia rose, a thousand tiny yellow blooms shimmering in the sunshine. Joan was standing at the door, on the lookout for him. She was a small woman, with grey hair frizzy from over-perming. Winged spectacles gave her a birdlike appearance, which was accentuated by the way she moved, daintily, with fluttery little gestures of her hands.
    “Georgie, whatever is this all about?”
    He glanced nervously at the open windows of the adjoining cottage. “Let’s go indoors, Joan.”
    “Oh very well. Though I can’t think why you need to be so secretive.”
    Inside, the sheen of polished brass dazzled from every shelf, every tabletop, almost every possible space on every wall.
    Horse brasses, candlesticks, handbells, paperknives, figurines and animals, platters and bowls and ashtrays. “I love brass,” Joan was wont to confide unnecessarily.
    George Prescott sank into a cushioned Windsor chair and passed his podgy hands across his eyes. “Joan,” he said, “you have to help me.”
    “Of course I’ll help you, Georgie, you know that. What is it you want me to do for you?”
    He gazed at her, wondering if he’d been a perfect fool to come here. How could he word his plea? What could he tell dear old Joan that she’d be able to square with her puritan conscience?
    “Joan, please listen to me and don’t ask questions. I can’t explain what this is all about, it’s too complicated. But the police have been ... well, nosing around, and....”
    “The police? Nosing around? Whatever do you mean, Georgie?”
    “I said don’t ask questions.” He was suddenly petulant, exactly as he used to be years ago when she’d caught him out in some boyish prank. “Just accept my word that what I’m asking you to do is necessary. It’s not all that much, anyway. I want you to say, if asked, that I spent Tuesday evening here with you. The whole evening. I came about seven and I stayed till nearly eleven. Have you got that?”
    “But you weren’t here on Tuesday, Georgie. It’s over three weeks since you last came to see me.”
    “For God’s sake, woman! Will you please do as I say and don’t nag me about the whys and wherefores.”
    Joan looked at him doubtfully. He could be so difficult and unkind when he got in a paddy. She set about soothing him down, aided by years of practice.
    “Oh very well then, if it’s so important to you. But you shouldn’t tell lies, Georgie, specially to the police.” She saw temper flare in his eyes and went on hastily, “All right, I’ll say what you want me to say. Now, which evening was it?”
    “Tuesday,” he said impatiently. “Tuesday. I