Free Murder At Wittenham Park by R. W. Heber Page B

about the remarks Hamish was making, and about Welch’s intervention. He glanced at Dee Dee and saw that her expression was tight and angry.
    â€œAre you heavily involved?” Dulcie asked Gilroy with polite concern.
    â€œYes, damn the buggers.”
    â€œI’m so sorry.” Her concern now sounded more deeply felt.
    â€œIt’s the estate I’m worried about,” Gilroy said, disregarding a warning look from Dee Dee.
    Behind him Dodgson, still holding the decanter of white wine, stiffened and Jim saw an expression of extreme dismay cross his drooping face.
    â€œHow do I stop those bastards from taking my land?”
    â€œSpeaking as a lawyer,” Dulcie said quietly, “probably the only way out is to raise money on it and deposit that in an offshore bank account ahead of getting the demand. If you say you’ve already spent the money, how can they prove you haven’t?”
    â€œThat’s an idea,” Gilroy conceded, but before he could say any more he was firmly interrupted by his wife.
    â€œIf we must talk business, let’s at least talk the murder plot.” Dee Dee made a sign to Dodgson to start serving again, then fixed her gaze on Welch. “Now, let’s get one thing utterly clear. I am not about to be blackmailed.”
    â€œAccusing me of blackmail, are yer?” he reacted quite violently.
    â€œSince you have the nerve to ask, yes, I am.”
    There was another moment of absolute silence.
    â€œThere’s witnesses to that,” Welch said venomously. “I’ll sue yer. And your perishing ’usband.”
    â€œThat will be difficult,” Dee Dee said calmly, having made the real-life point she intended, “since my husband, John Sketchley, has been dead for eleven years.”
    Priscilla tittered and gradually the laughter of nervous relief spread around the table, as everyone else realized that this was playacting and could be the dispute referred to in the first clue; everyone, that was, except Welch. He glared at Dee Dee.
    â€œToo bloody clever by ’alf, ain’t you. Thought you ’ad me on the hop, eh? You make accusations like that again and we’ll be meeting in court.”
    â€œYou should have read the clue, Mr. Welch.”
    â€œPeople are as guilty as they think they are,” chimed in Priscilla, gesticulating with her newly refilled glass and spilling some on the table. “As Carr, you must be the blackmailer, Mr. Welch.”
    â€œI think it’s time for the next clue,” Dee Dee said, as Welch lapsed into a sullen scowl, his face becoming more highly coloured than ever, “even though you mustn’t throw away the first one.”
    Since Dodgson was busy serving the chicken, Gilroy got up and handed out the second set of clues.
    â€œWatch out for who drinks what,” the slip of paper advised. “And whoever is last to bed, please turn out the lights.”
    â€œThe proverbial coffee-cups, I suppose,” Jemma said to Gilroy.
    â€œHave to wait and see.” Gilroy was still trying to figure out what exactly his wife had been doing in challenging the property developer, even though he recognized an underlying purpose from her tone. It had been Dee Dee’s “telling you off” voice. Was she trying to warn him of something? Certainly Welch had been blustering and unpleasant, but he had made no threats. So what was all this about? Gilroy hated being talked to in riddles.
    The rest of the meal was uneventful, although Welch attempted to engage Loredana in conversation across the table, while Hamish surreptitiously stroked her thigh underneath it. They all returned to the library for coffee. Dee excused herself early and one by one the others drifted off, though not before Priscilla, now decidedly tipsy, asked Welch if he would take a bedtime mug of cocoa in to “Mrs. Sketchley.”
    Welch erupted as violently as one of those volcanoes that gives jets