Free Something the Cat Dragged In by Charlotte MacLeod Page A

pretend Ungley’s death was accidental.”
    They were almost to the funeral home when Fred Ottermole clanked up in the village’s only police cruiser, practicing his tough-cop expression en route. Catching sight of President Svenson, he came to a rubber-burning halt. His features contorted into those of one who has just caught sight of some unnameable horror in a lonely graveyard at the final stroke of midnight.
    But Ottermole was no poltroon. Drawing on hidden resources of valor, he managed to get his jaw under control and accompany them more or less unflinchingly into the handsome white clapboard house to which Harry Goulson’s grandfather had added the wing not long after the great influenza epidemic of 1919. Harry’s own son and heir, who’d been hastily summoned home from morticians’ school for this history-making event, greeted the party in hushed tones appropriate to his destined calling.
    “I’m not sure if I should ask you to sign the book or not,” he confessed artlessly. “I’ve never before assisted at a—at this kind of viewing.”
    “I’m not clear on the etiquette myself,” Shandy told him, “so why don’t we just—er—get on with it?”
    Having given the boy his moment of glory, Goulson himself now appeared to take the party in tow. He was wearing his very best black coat now.
    “This way, gentlemen, if you please. We’re honored to have you along, President Svenson. Of course, Professor Ungley was one of your own, so to speak.”
    “Ur,” said Svenson.
    Shandy decided they’d better get off that topic fast. “Ottermole, Melchett, good of you to come. I want you to understand that I have no quarrel with the—er—preliminary findings you made this morning,” he began diplomatically. “However, certain facts have since come to light that I thought you should be apprised of before you arrive at any—er—final decision.”
    “Huh?” Ottermole was clearly under the impression they’d already made a final decision. Then he took a reflective look at the set of Thorkjeld Svenson’s jaw and appeared to remember they hadn’t.
    “To begin with,” Shandy went on, “you were no doubt struck by the—er—disproportionately small amount of blood you found on the harrow peg, in contrast with the copious bleeding from the victim’s head wound.”
    Dr. Melchett averred that he’d called it to Ottermole’s attention at the time of discovery. Ottermole said he had the fact down in his notebook for further study.
    “Since then,” Shandy went on, “I’ve had additional testimony from Mrs. Elizabeth Lomax. She was, as you know, Ungley’s landlady.”
    “How come she gave it to you instead of me?” Ottermole demanded.
    “Perhaps because she’s been keeping house for me ever since I came to Balaclava. Mrs. Lomax is somewhat—er—feudal in her ways as you may have noticed.”
    “I’ll say she is.” Ottermole wasn’t sure what feudal meant, but he knew Betsy Lomax. “Okay, so what did she tell you?”
    “That Ungley’s flat had been searched. She took me in there and showed me various indications of disturbance that would have been imperceptible to the—er—untrained eye. Being myself so familiar with Mrs. Lomax’s housekeeping methods, I had no doubt she knew whereof she spoke. Furthermore, we found evidence that Professor Ungley’s filing cabinet had been cleaned out last night, presumably by the person or persons who burgled the flat.”
    He explained about the missing plastic bags. “Lastly, President Svenson has some information, which I’ll let him give you himself.”
    Svenson could be articulate enough when he had to be. He imparted what he knew so forcefully that Ottermole was left insisting he’d known all along there was something fishy about Ungley’s death. Melchett was calling attention to the fact that he hadn’t yet signed the certificate; mainly because he hadn’t got around to it, but that was beside the point. And Goulson was feeling a parental