Free A Fête Worse Than Death by Dolores Gordon-Smith

of course, but after his meal Morton went out in the garden with his coffee and a brandy. No one saw him come in again, but the empty cup and glass were found by the table under the tree out there. The barman remembered the cup because, strictly speaking, the crockery isn’t allowed out of the dining room and it was the only cup and saucer in use all evening. But what I can’t get over is the fact that we’ve had two deaths on the same day. Morton’s death has to be connected with Boscombe’s murder, it just has to be.’
    â€˜Oh, undoubtedly,’ agreed Haldean. ‘You can’t have two murders of blokes from London on the same day in a one-horse place like this without there being a common link. It stands to reason. Besides that, this is Boscombe’s room, and that alone tells us there’s some connection between the two men. Which means, of course, a common murderer and probably a common cause as well. Was anyone unusual seen coming into the pub? Anyone who wouldn’t normally be here, I mean?’
    â€˜I asked that. There were just the usual faces. A few more, perhaps, than average, wanting to talk about the fête and what happened to Boscombe, but they were all regulars.’
    â€˜Of course,’ said Haldean, walking to the deep windowsill, ‘there’s nothing to say that the murderer came in through the door at all. Was this window open all night?’
    â€˜It would have been, I imagine. It certainly wasn’t shut when I left the room yesterday. It was a sweltering day, after all.’
    Haldean crouched down and peered at the windowsill. ‘No marks that I can see. No dust either, unfortunately, disturbed or in its virgin state.’ He looked out of the window. ‘It’d be an easy climb, though. There’s an old apple tree plonk outside the window. It wouldn’t take much to shin up that and get across. This must smell lovely when it’s in blossom.’
    Ashley disregarded the apple tree’s probable scent and joined Haldean at the window. ‘I see what you mean. It’s a bit of a stretch at one point, but nothing a man of reasonable size couldn’t tackle. But there are at least three doors downstairs. Why should anyone climb through the window?’
    â€˜Because that way they wouldn’t need a key. And talking of keys, how did Morton get in here?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ said Ashley slowly. ‘Boscombe’s key was on his body, but there are spare keys for all the rooms on a board downstairs in the little office off the hall.’
    â€˜And come to think of it, I bet Morton’s key would fit this lock with a bit of jiggling.’
    â€˜Well, that’s something I can check easily enough,’ said Ashley. ‘I’ll go and get the other key to Morton’s room and see if it will open the door.’
    Left alone in the room, Haldean walked back to the body again, seeing once more how the desperate clutch of the hand had brought down the curtain. Not an attractive-looking character, he thought, even discounting the ghastly evidence of death. A thin, sharp face, made sharper by the dark wisp of moustache. The clothes were new, smart and expensive. Very carefully he turned back the jacket, revealing the label of Sweet and Co. He’d been right about the expense. He crouched down beside the bed. What about the shoes? They showed a high polish under a thin layer of white dust. Unsuitable shoes for the country. Thin soles and a shape that belonged on a London pavement rather than a country road. An odd type to find in a rural inn. He looked as if his natural habitat was Piccadilly and that warren of nightclubs and bars which spawns out from the heart of London. So why had he come to Breedenbrook? If he had merely wanted to see Boscombe he could have done that easily enough in London. So that implied there was some business that the pair of them were engaged on down here. But Boscombe