Free Death of a Mystery Writer by Robert Barnard Page B

authors, she thought wistfully, but it seemed foolhardy to waste her experience of the last few years: having worked for Oliver Fairleigh, she could pick and choose in the literary world. And after all, she could not be sure that a businessman or a politician would turn out any better.
    She would be careful what kind of writer she engaged herself to, of course: nothing would induce her to consider employment with a romantic lady novelist, for example: candy-coated sarcasms and slavery for a pittance were the fate of those who let themselves fall into that trap. But a biographer would be nice, a sort of popular historian. Her capacity for research had never been properly exploited in her present job, especially as Sir Oliver had been so criminally careless over details. The sort of person who wrote biographies of the romantic poets or the queens of Englandwould suit her down to the ground, thought Miss Cozzens, warming her feet on Cuff.
    She was in the middle of constructing this particular aerial edifice when she was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. She set her face in an expression of containable grief, and took up the receiver.
    â€œOh, Dr. Leighton, how good of you to ring. . . . No, Lady Fairleigh is already up, and taking it very well, considering. . . . It’s not as though it’s entirely unexpected, is it? I believe they’re in the sitting room now—I’m trying to keep all the worrisome stuff from them, till they’re more used to the idea, more able to cope. . . . I’m sorry, Dr. Leighton, could you repeat that, I don’t quite understand.... Not satisfied? But... an autopsy . . . police, but... Are you sure you wouldn’t like to tell Lady Fairleigh about this yourself, Dr. Leighton? . . . Of course, if you wish it, I’ll tell her.... Thank you, Doctor, it’s kind of you to say so.... I’ll tell her straightaway.”
    But when she put down the phone, she sat for some time, staring ahead of her, her face still wearing the mask of decorous grief, but her forehead slightly creased. Then she got up, squared her shoulders, and walked resolutely to the door.
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    â€œOf course, one keeps saying it’s not unexpected,” said Eleanor Fairleigh, putting down a cup of strong coffee, and looking round at her children; “I’m sure Miss Cozzens is saying that to everyone at the moment. But when it comes to the point, it isn’t expected, and the shock is just as great, however many doctors’ warnings there may have been.”
    â€œStill, it’s not as though Father was an easy person to keep in order,” said Terence, his voice on a very even keel. “Doctors’ warnings didn’t mean much to him.”
    â€œWell, but he did try, you know,” said the widow. “He very seldom smoked, and he had cut down on his drinking an awful lot. He never took spirits at all, and only the occasional glass of lakka at weekends. Really, you know, considering your father’s character, he was surprisingly good.”
    â€œBut there was the wine,” said Bella. “Daddy said he’d rather die than give that up.”
    It wasn’t a fortunate expression. Bella was looking less than her perfectly groomed self, though still enormously self-controlled. Her hair was falling around her shoulders with hardly a wave, and some of her makeup looked left over from the previous night.
    â€œIn any case,” said Mark, sober and suited, though somewhat bloodshot of eye, “he kept the keys, so he could always have helped himself whenever he wanted one.”
    â€œBut I kept a very good eye on him, you know, dear,” said his mother. “And so did Miss Cozzens. Of course there were occasions when he had one or two when he shouldn’t: like finishing the last book, for example. But on the whole I think he stuck to the routine Dr. Leighton