Free Eight Murders In the Suburbs by Roy Vickers

him except Rason, who had to, owing to his routine?
    Better ask Penfold.
    â€œRenbald’s Depository!” he exclaimed when civilities had been exchanged in Penfold’s dining-room. Penfold looked ghastly, which was not what Rason wanted. “It’s all right, Mr. Penfold—it’s only routine. We don’t worry about the forged letter and the fake name. Told ’em you wanted to inspect some books. What did you really want? Tell me, and I can cross it off.”
    It was an unanswerable question. Penfold remembered the excuse he had used to induce Madge to search for the anthology.
    â€œI did want to inspect the books, though I knew there were no first editions. The truth is, Inspector, I had lost a technical book of my own. I thought it might have got mixed up with Mrs. Blagrove’s books—”
    â€œBut you could have got your wife to write you a real letter for that—and you could have used your own name?”
    â€œI did ask her. She was unwilling, because she convinced herself that the book couldn’t possibly be there.”
    It was such an unrehearsed, knock-kneed tale that Rason was inclined to believe it.
    â€œPerhaps I can help you,” he grinned. “I’ve inspected those books. Was it called The Best of Wilcox? ”
    â€œ No !” The emphasis was not lost on Rason.
    â€œ The Best of Wilcox —” Rason was mouthing the words, “was found on the settee on which Mrs. Blagrove was killed!”—So Margaret did go to Dalehurst, thought Penfold.
    â€œThat does not concern me,” he said. Playing for his own safety, he added: “The copy of that book which I bought never left this house, so far as I know.”
    â€œSo you bought a copy of that book, Mr. Penfold?”
    â€œI did. I intended to present it to Mrs. Blagrove on the following day, which was her birthday. Wilcox was her favourite author.”
    â€œWhere did you buy it?”
    â€œIn London.” He added: “At Waterloo station, before taking the train which arrives here at five three.”
    Rason felt he was getting somewhere. The note in the dossier said that the book had been bought by Margaret Penfold, from the local bookseller.
    â€œIf you’ve no objection, I’d like to see what Mrs. Penfold has to say about this.”
    â€œCertainly! She will tell you that—at around six o’clock that night—she handled the copy I had bought and talked about it—in this house. But I won’t have her bullied and frightened.”
    Penfold did not leave the room. He rang for the housemaid, but it was Madge herself who answered the bell.
    â€œMy dear, I’m afraid we have to talk about your poor Aunt Agnes,” began Penfold. “Mr. Rason has informed me that on the settee on which she was killed, there was a copy of The Best of Wilcox . I have—”
    â€œOh!” It was a quick little cry of dismay. “I think I can see what has happened. Arthur, I would like to speak to Mr. Rason alone. Please!”
    She did go to Dalehurst—Penfold was certain, now. If she had also picked up a clue to his guilt he must try to cope with it before the detective could build it up.
    â€œI am sorry, Madge, but I really feel I have the right to be present.”
    â€œVery well, Arthur!” There was a shrug in her voice. “Mr. Rason, on the morning of that day, I bought a copy of that book locally, at Penting’s. I lunched with Mrs. Blagrove and gave her the book—not as a birthday present—we were jointly giving her a more elaborate present the next day.
    â€œIn the evening I reached home at six. My husband had come home earlier than usual. He showed me a copy of The Best of Wilcox which he had bought in London for Aunt—for Mrs. Blagrove.” She paused before adding: “I was very greatly surprised—I have to say it!—I thought that my husband was not the sort of man who—who would ever