Free Maxwell’s Flame by M. J. Trow Page B

had to concede. ‘But I’m not sure she heard me, what with the rain and our feet on the gravel.’
    ‘But clearly she did, Mr … Harper-Bennet, because I’ve just told you what she said you said.’
    ‘Yes, well, clearly.’ Harper-Bennet cleared his throat. He didn’t like to be made a fool of. And Chief Inspector Warren was doing a very good job of that.
    ‘Have you seen a dead body before, Mr Harper-Bennet?’ McBride asked.
    ‘No. Well, my grandfather, but that hardly counts.’
    ‘All human life counts, sir,’ McBride told him.
    ‘Of course,’ Harper-Bennet blustered. ‘I didn’t mean … What I mean is …’
    ‘What did you think had happened?’ Warren cut his man up. ‘To Mrs Striker, I mean?’
    For a moment, Harper-Bennet just sat there, his mouth opening and closing. ‘I don’t really know,’ was the eventual outcome. ‘Some terrible accident, I suppose. I could see the blood.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘On the woman’s head.’ Harper-Bennet was holding his hand in front of his own, unsure in his recollection of it if mere words were enough.
    ‘You didn’t touch the body?’ McBride asked.
    ‘No. No. I got Lydia – Miss Farr – out of there. She was hysterical. Trant didn’t look too chipper, either. He’d joined us by this time.’
    ‘You weren’t hysterical?’ Warren asked.
    ‘Me? No,’ Harper-Bennet shrugged. ‘No, no. I was fine. Well, you know. I’m a Territorial. I’ve been around. She was out of it, you know. Screaming blue murder … Oh … I mean …’
    ‘You took her upstairs?’ Warren chased his man.
    ‘Yes. Trant and I found the lift and took her to her room.’
    ‘Room 203?’ McBride checked.
    ‘That’s right. I put her on the bed and telephoned Reception.’
    ‘Where was Mr Trant?’
    ‘He went off saying he’d fetch somebody. I always thought Greg was a cooler customer, but I’m afraid he panicked. No balls in the end.’
    ‘Who took your call?’
    ‘I don’t know. A girl. Tracey, was it? You’d have to ask her.’
    ‘We did,’ Warren told him. ‘Your call was logged at ten thirty-one.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Which is odd.’
    ‘Is it?’
    ‘Timing is very important in cases of murder, Mr Harper-Bennet,’ Warren said. ‘Crucial, in fact. What time would you say you and Miss Farr discovered the body?’
    ‘Er … I don’t know. About five minutes before, I suppose.’
    ‘Would it surprise you to know it was nearly thirteen minutes before?’
    ‘Nearly …? No. No, it couldn’t have been.’
    ‘You were seen entering that side door at ten seventeen. Allowing for the time taken to open it, see the late Mrs Striker, get to Ms Farr’s room and lay her on the bed, that’s quite a long time, Mr Harper-Bennet, before you contacted Reception.’
    ‘Well, Lydia … Miss Farr … was hysterical. I’ve told you. She was in a fainting condition. I had to revive her.’
    ‘Oh? How did you do that?’ McBride asked.
    ‘A flannel.’ Harper-Bennet’s eyes were bulging in his head. Little beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip. ‘I got a flannel from the bathroom.’
    ‘Ms Farr’s room is en suite?’
    ‘They all are,’ Harper-Bennet said. ‘Look here, what are you implying?’
    ‘Nothing,’ Warren shrugged, unclasping his hands and leaning forward for the first time. ‘Nothing at all, sir. I’m just tying up the odd loose end – you know how it is.’
    Harper-Bennet looked at the cold-eyed detectives in front of him. ‘Can I go?’ he blurted. ‘I’m late for a lecture.’
    ‘Of course,’ McBride said and he leaned forward over the table. ‘Interview terminated at … eleven sixteen. Thank you, Mr Harper-Bennet.’
    The big man grated back his chair. He swayed for a moment, as though about to ask a question. Then he thought better of it and left with a scowl in the direction of the WPC who was already pouring Mr Warren another cup of coffee.
    ‘Who saw him, sir?’ McBride asked, when Harper-Bennet had gone. ‘Going in through the