Free The Death of Marco Styles by J.J. Campbell Page B

do anything, as a matter of fact, at least not in the sense of having a profession, but I am something of an amateur …’
    â€˜Please be assured that the matter will be thoroughly investigated,’ she cut in. ‘You will have the opportunity to make a full statement in due course, but in the meantime please sit down.’
    â€˜Very well,’ he answered, producing the glass from which Marco Styles had been drinking port, ‘but at the very least I suggest that you have this analysed for traces of poison, most likely tetrodotoxin, or something similar.’
    â€˜I’ll keep that in mind, Mr de Lacy,’ she told him as a new man entered the room.
    He approached the sergeant, who addressed him as Inspector Morden.
    â€˜I’ll take it from here, thank you, Sergeant,’ the inspector said, then turned to de Lacy, ‘and if you could just sit down, sir.’
    â€˜Certainly,’ de Lacy responded. ‘But I was just saying to Sergeant McIntyre …’
    â€˜Sit down, sir,’ the man interrupted, his tone now aggressive.
    Sergeant McIntyre had already taken the port glass, so de Lacy resumed his seat with a touch of regret. Inspector Morden was tall, bulky to the point of corpulence, and had the air of a man impatient with such things as well-meaning amateurs. He also showed open distaste for the trappings of wealth and privilege, and a distinct lack of tact, looking around the dining room with a disapproving eye, and apparent indifference to the distress of the family. This was not a man it would be easy to get on with, which was a shame, as the more de Lacy thought about events the more it seemed likely that Marco Styles had been murdered.
    De Lacy looked around the saloon bar of The George with an air of approval. The oak panelling, the upholstery of sage-green leather, the prints of rustic scenes and grand old houses: all were in accord with his personal taste. Even the list of wines chalked up on a nearby blackboard wasn’t entirely without interest, but he postponed further investigation for dinner and ordered a pint of beer, chosen from among the selection of real ales on offer. It proved excellent, and he took his seat in a mood of contentment tinged only slightly with regret for the circumstances that had brought him to the pub.
    He had been asked to remain in the area by Sergeant McIntyre, and although Irene Styles had said that he could stay at Elthorne House, he had left after the second night, not wanting to intrude on the family’s grief. Not that they seemed to be particularly upset, especially not Clive, who had even gone out to play golf with Adam Carradine the following morning. Irene had been close to fury at the presence of so many police and ambulance men in the house, but otherwise she had seemed as relieved as she was saddened. Only the daughters had taken the death at all badly, especially Louise, the youngest and most sensitive. De Lacy had been glad to leave, and after a leisurely morning spent investigating the local hostelries he had decided on The George, which was in the village of Great Aldbury, just a few miles from Elthorne House. There had been more luxurious choices, and more convenient choices, but none with such an appealing combination of old world charm and comfort. It also provided an opportunity to keep an eye on what was going on, just in case, as he suspected, that there was more to the death of Marco Styles than met the eye.
    He had drunk a third of his pint and was considering the possibilities offered by the lunchtime menu when a new arrival caught his attention; a young woman with bobbed blonde hair, dressed in white jeans and a light, roll-necked jumper of a striking cerulean blue. It took him a moment to recognise Sergeant McIntyre, and another to adjust himself into a position that he hoped would suggest languid refinement before she noticed him and started over.
    â€˜No longer on duty, Sergeant?’ he