Free Charters and Caldicott by Stella Bingham Page B

and Serve. Rex ends Mall view.’
    â€˜That’s brilliant!’
    â€˜Just a knack,’ said Charters modestly.
    â€˜Rex ends Mall view. What does it mean?’
    â€˜How the devil should I know?’
    â€˜Then we’re back where we started.’
    â€˜Not quite, Caldicott. I shall make a close study of this. I have a hunch that in setting this puzzle Jock Beevers was relying on my expertise with the Times crossword.’
    â€˜We both do the Times crossword, Charters,’ said Caldicott, hurt.
    â€˜Of course we do, old fellow. Of course we do. Let’s have another sherry. Eric!’
    â€˜I say, Charters, you don’t suppose Inspector Snow suspects, do you? I mean, that his body isn’t really Jenny Beevers? Or that we’re holding something back?’
    â€˜No, no, no – hasn’t got the imagination. Policeman Plod, that’s his mark.’
    â€˜Yes, he does carry an aura of size eleven boots, doesn’t he?’ Caldicott agreed, comforted.
    The purpose of St Clair’s visit has been puzzling Grimes. In Caldicott’s absence, he decided to do a little snooping on his own account to see if he could find out what was so interesting about the flat. Moving gingerly from room to room, looking for he knew not what, he was startled to find himself suddenly face to face with Inspector Snow.
    â€˜Left the door open, didn’t we?’ said Snow.
    â€˜No reason why it should be locked,’ said Grimes, making a quick recovery.
    â€˜Every reason why it shouldn’t be. Anyone comes back unexpectedly, it’s just a case of having popped in to see if everything is all right, isn’t it? Heard a strange noise, taps running, breaking glass, smell of burning. Which was it?’
    â€˜I am the resident caretaker, Inspector Snow,’ said Grimes with attempted dignity.
    â€˜Yes, I know. I’m asking which was it. What are you doing in Mr Caldicott’s flat?’
    â€˜Just checking, sir.’
    Inspector Snow went over to an antique table. ‘Checked this, have you?’ He made as if to wrench open the drawer.
    â€˜Careful, sir! There’s a knack of opening that.’
    â€˜How do you know?’
    â€˜I’ve seen Mr Caldicott do it.’
    â€˜Oh yes? Has you round, does he? Social occasion? Glass of sherry?’
    Grimes licked his lips nervously. Snow, in no hurry, looked round the room. ‘So what are you looking for, Grimes?’
    â€˜Nothing – swear to God.’
    â€˜Now that’s a silly reply, that is, isn’t it. What are you looking for?’
    â€˜I don’t know, sir.’
    â€˜That’s better. I can believe that.’
    â€˜There has been a murder, Inspector. Just call it natural curiosity.’
    â€˜No, I won’t call it that. I’ll call it something that’ll look good on a charge sheet. If I have to, that is. Shall we have another chat, Mr Grimes?’ Inspector Snow, with all the time in the world, produced his notebook and two pens and laid them neatly on a side table, then he plumped up the cushions in an armchair until they suited him.
    Grimes watched aghast. ‘We can’t talk here, Inspector. What if Mr Caldicott comes back?’
    â€˜Caught me red-handed, you could try him on,’ said Snow, his attention distracted by two matching vases on the mantelpiece. One of them was a fraction out of place. Snow adjusted it, stepped back to confirm that the arrangement was now exact, then turned again to Grimes. ‘Let’s go back to the day of the murder, shall we, Mr Grimes? Mr Caldicott paying you to keep your mouth shut, is he, or do you have reasons of your own?’
    Â 

CHAPTER 6
    The funeral of ‘Jenny Beevers’ took place in a large, forlorn-looking, deserted cemetery. Inspector Snow waited alone outside the chapel, watching the unaccompanied hearse approach down the long avenue that led from the gates through rows of neglected