Free Death Speaks Softly by Anthea Fraser

tea, 'what can we do for you?'
    It emerged from Webb's questions that Claire'd met Arlette, and he was glad to add her impressions to those already collected. She repeated Edna's story of the parked car and passed on her address; which ended the official part of the visit. Webb had no justification for introducing Warwick's name, other than professional curiosity and a gut feeling he couldn't put a name to. Nevertheless, leaning back in his chair, he said conversationally, 'I believe Professor Warwick lives next door?'
    To his surprise, Mrs Marshbanks, refilling her husband's cup, jumped, and some liquid spilled in the saucer. 'I'm sorry. How careless of me.'
    Webb glanced at her husband and caught his quick frown. 'Are you close friends?' he asked, ignoring the interruption.
    'My wife's on a committee with Mrs Warwick,' Marshbanks answered. 'I don't know either of them well, though as it happens they're coming to dinner this evening.'
    'Then you get on well together?'
    Marshbanks met his bland gaze. 'Are you as casual as you're trying to imply, Chief Inspector?' Webb smiled. 'Almost, sir.'
    'But Bernard works at the same institution as Arlette. Is that it?' 'Exactly.'
    Marshbanks smiled slightly. 'Well, you've met him. Does he strike you as the type to start up a dangerous liaison with one of his colleagues?'
    'I can't say he does, sir.' Webb paused, his eyes on Claire's averted face. 'Forgive me, but Mrs Marshbanks seemed startled when I mentioned him.'
    She raised her head. 'It's too silly for words. Just that last night, I—' She stopped, flushed, and finished quickly, 'I had a dream about him. It disturbed me, that's all.'
    It wasn't what she'd started out to say, Webb felt sure. What had really happened last night?
    'Have they any family?'
    'No, they've only been married ten years. They were late starters.'
    'Neither had been married before?' 'No.'
    'But they strike you as happy? Look,' he added impulsively, 'I apologize for grilling you about friends. I'm sure you realize it's necessary, and completely confidential.'
    'As I said, I don't know them well. Claire?'
    'He seems a most devoted husband. Beryl thinks the world of him.'
    'Has he ever mentioned Arlette Picard in your hearing?'
    She shook her head decidedly. 'Never.'
    'Right. Then there's only one more question I have for you.' He smiled suddenly, relaxing. 'May I look at your superb watercolours?'
    'Of course.' Claire was as much taken aback by the smile as the request. Unlike his earlier, more perfunctory ones, it had transformed the rather hard face, with its bleak grey eyes and tight mouth, into a surprisingly attractive one. As she walked with him to the wall of paintings, she was aware of him for the first time as a man rather than a police officer, reassessing the plentiful brown hair, the loose, rangey body and the unselfconscious height of him. This last appealed to her particularly; a tall woman herself, Claire was the same height as both her husband and her son, and it was an unaccustomed pleasure to be with someone who made her feel petite.
    His knowledge of the paintings came as a surprise. Without hint of pretentiousness, he discussed easily with her the techniques of the various artists and the relative merits of their works.
    'I'd no idea you were such an authority, Mr Webb,' she said with a laugh. 'You should be conducting our Arts Appreciation course!'
    He looked embarrassed. 'I hope my enthusiasm didn't run away with me. It's a hobby, that's all, but I'm certainly no expert.'
    Tom spoke from behind them. 'I thought cartoons were your forte, Chief Inspector?'
    Webb turned with a rueful smile. 'They're supposed to be incognito. Simon's powers of deduction, no doubt.'
    'What cartoons?' Claire was puzzled.
    'In the Broadshire News. And very pertinent they are, too. Signed with an S in a circle.' Tom smilingly held Webb's eye.
    'And no doubt that cipher's also been cracked?'
    'A spider in a web.'
    'A spider? Claire echoed.
    'An unavoidable nickname.