Free More Deaths Than One by Marjorie Eccles

Mayo said, “but barbiturates as well? Somebody must have slipped one to him. But I ask myself why. Why should anyone take the trouble, Martin?”
    â€œYou mean the killer needn’t have bothered with the shotgun, when enough of the pills and the booze would have done the trick? It would’ve looked like suicide just the same ... more so.”
    â€œThe trick being, of course, to know when enough’s enough. And that’s it – whoever killed Fleming would have to make sure he was good and dead. Wouldn’t do for him to be found before he was dead, and carted off to hospital to have his stomach pumped. As it was, the drugs would have knocked him out sufficiently for him to be moved into the driving seat before he was finished off.”
    â€œBarbiturates,” Kite said. “Sleeping pills. Georgina Fleming takes sleeping pills.”
    â€œSo she does.”
    â€œAnd it was her father’s gun.”
    â€œAnd they cooked this up between them?”
    â€œThey could have,” Kite said.
    â€œHm.” Mayo rubbed the side of his nose with his forefinger, and thought. “That gun. I think it’d be as well to have a word with Culver’s housekeeper and find out –” The telephone went. “Hold on a minute.”
    â€œSomeone on the line for you, sir. She won’t give her name and won’t speak to anyone but you. Says she has some info on the Fleming case.”
    The young constable on the switchboard had been wary of passing the message direct to Mayo, rather than some lesser being, but fearful of his wrath if he didn’t do so and the woman rang off, as she’d threatened. He was new and very green, but he thought she sounded nervous enough to do so. On the other hand, there’d already been the usual crop of those sure they had important information, all needing to be dealt with in case their stories happened to be true or relevant – some genuinely believing they could help, but a lot of them time-wasters, and not a few nutters. He wouldn’t be thanked for wasting the D.C.I.’s time with any of those. He was relieved when Mayo told him to put her through.
    â€œYou don’t know me, but my name’s Bryony Harper.” The soft voice came over with the hint of a West Country burr, sounding young and uncertain. “It’s about ... Rupert Fleming, that appeal you put out for anyone who’s seen him recently ...” The voice stopped, faltered.
    â€œTake your time, Miss Harper. Presumably you have some information about where he was on Monday?”
    â€œHe was at home, here, with me and the children.”
    â€œWith you?”
    â€œWell, where else would he be? He lives here, doesn’t he?”
    This was the woman in the photograph. Now that the connection was made, the voice and the face seemed to fit together, like the foot in Cinderella’s slipper. “Miss – Mrs. – Harper, I don’t want to deal with this over the telephone. I’d like to see you.”
    â€œYes, I expected you would, but I’m afraid you’ll have to come here, I can’t leave my children.”
    â€œWe’ll be with you as soon as possible.”
    The housekeeper would have to wait for the time being.
    There was a sign for the Morvah Pottery on the Lavenstock Road, four miles out of Coventry, Bryony Harper had said, and here it was, a rather amateurish rendering: ‘Morvah Pottery, 100 yards. Please come and look around,’ with an arrow pointing the direction.
    Kite manoeuvred the car down a lane so narrow that passing places had had to be constructed to allow the passage of vehicles coming from opposite directions, though they met no oncoming traffic. Nor did there seem any reason for any to be there, since there was no sign of any habitation whatsoever, not even the pottery. When they had gone for about half a mile and were just beginning to think they had missed some turning or other