Free Eight Murders In the Suburbs by Roy Vickers Page A

think of doing a kindly little act like that. I did him an injustice, and was ashamed. I was above all anxious not to spoil the whole thing by telling him I had forestalled him. I intended to tell Mrs. Blagrove what had happened and ask her to help me in a harmless fraud. I took the book from my husband and, of course, I had to get rid of it, as Mrs. Blagrove would not want two copies. I had to go out that night to deliver a message to a neighbour, Mrs. Gershaw. I went on to a Mrs. Manfried, who was also a Wilcox fan, and offered her the book. But she had herself bought a copy that morning. The book was published that day and I suppose all the real fans bought it at once. On the way back, Dr. Delmore told me the news and I forgot the book. I found it in my mackintosh a few days later. I dropped the book in the croquet box, under the mallets. It may be there still. If it is, I’ll show it to you.”
    â€œDon’t bother on my account, Mrs. Penfold. I’m glad it’s all cleared up,” said Rason untruthfully. He had been quite hopeful when he thought he had cornered Penfold over the books. Journey from London for nothing!
    â€œI wish my wife had told me at the time—it wouldn’t have hurt my feelings,” said Penfold when Madge was out of earshot. “Is it too early for a drink, Inspector?”
    â€œToo early for me, thanks. I—”
    Madge burst in.
    â€œHere it is!” The newspaper on which the rain had fallen was crinkled and torn. “Just as I pulled it out of the mack!”
    â€œWell, I can put it on record that I’ve seen it!” said Rason, as he unwrapped the newspaper. “Cupids, eh! Same as the one I saw at the depository. The Best of Wilcox !” With hardly a change of tone, he went on:
    â€œNow let’s get this book business straightened out. At lunchtime, Mrs. Penfold, you gave Mrs. Blagrove a copy of this book? So the copy you gave her would still be in her possession at five-three—when Mr. Penfold arrived at the station here? Around six, Mr. Penfold shows you this copy I’ve now got in my hand—and you take charge of it?”
    â€œCorrect!” cut in Penfold, and was echoed by Margaret.
    â€œSomewhere between five-three and six—” Rason turned from Margaret to her husband “—you picked up the wrong copy, Penfold. Look here!”
    He opened the book and pointed: ‘ To dear Aunt Agnes With love from Madge .’
PART THREE
LITTLE THINGS LIKE THAT
    Peter Curwen was every bit as sane as we are. No repressions: no unmentionable cravings. If you were looking for faults, you might have said that he lacked repose. He was one of those men who can never really sit still and are generally fidgeting with something. But you couldn’t have made a grievance of it, as his wife did.
    Most wives would have taken no notice—that is, most sensible, give-and-take wives such as Marion. Her enemies, if she had any, could hardly have picked on a flaw in her character worth mentioning. Nor could Peter—though he might have admitted to himself that, after three years of marriage, the sweetness of her nature had mellowed along lines he could not have predicted. True that she still took pains to delight his eye at all hours and that he still paid her dress bills with gratitude. Their flat in Kensington was tasteful and homelike. She had a sufficiency of the domestic virtues. But she did make a grievance of his little foible.
    Of course, there was more in it than fidgeting and not sitting still. About one night in five he would get out of bed in the small hours to make sure he had turned off the light in the sitting-room. He would find pins on floors. Half way to a theatre, he would wriggle and mutter that he was making sure he hadn’t forgotten the tickets. Multiply that sort of thing to cover most of the small activities in which there is a chance of forgetting or mishandling something.
    Crisis