Free Mrs. Malory and Any Man's Death by HAZEL HOLT Page B

home I threw them away, and when she asked me I said they were delicious!”
    “It’s strange, though,” I said. “Annie was very knowledgeable about such things; how did she come to make such a terrible mistake?”
    “Oh, that kitchen of hers,” Judith said, “very dark, with that tiny window, and she never had the light on in the daytime. Too careful of the electricity, I suppose.”
    “Well,” Maurice said, “if she’d been more careful over what she was cooking, this would never have happened!”
    “But still . . . ,” I said.
    “And her eyesight wasn’t too good,” Judith said. “Half the time she never wore her glasses—and now you see what that led to.”
    I turned to Lewis. “I suppose there’ll have to be an inquest?”
    “Yes. I saw Inspector Morris at the hospital. He’ll be coming to look round the house. I told him that the cottage was safely locked up and that you, Judith, had the keys, so he’ll be calling on you soon.”
    “I’m sure I’ll be glad to hand them over,” Judith said. “Such a responsibility. I wonder: Do you think he’d mind if I just went in with him and watered the plants?”
     
    The inquest was held quite quickly and the verdict (to no one’s surprise) was accidental death. Apparently fungi had been found in the basket in the kitchen, and some of them were discovered to be poisonous. An expert, called in to give evidence, said it was possible that the Lepiota specimens found in the house might have been confused with the Macrolepiota form, which is edible. Expressions of regret were made all round, and warnings of the danger of having insufficient knowledge of the subject would have annoyed Annie very much.
    What did surprise everyone was the will. Annie had left everything to a cousin we’d none of us ever heard of, who lived in London.
    “Some man,” Michael said when he called to deliver some eggs, “called Martin Stillwell—living in Acton.”
    “What’s he like?” I asked.
    “He seems like an ordinary sort of person,” Michael said.
    “What sort of ordinary?”
    “Just . . . ordinary. Well,” he elaborated, seeing my look, “late fifties, medium height, um . . . oh yes, a widower, no children, works for a travel company. He called in at the office and I brought him up to speed on what had happened. Actually, he said he didn’t know Annie at all and only met her once when they were children and her mother took her up to London for a couple of days and they stayed with his family.”
    “Goodness, how extraordinary. I suppose she left him everything—I guess it was everything?—because he was the only relative.”
    “Yes, I suppose so. And yes, she did leave him everything, except the Welsh dresser in the kitchen; she left that to Judith.”
    “Fancy! Judith will be pleased. So how long’s he staying down here?”
    “Only a couple of days. He wants to be here for the funeral, of course, but he’s got to go abroad for his firm—Greece, I think he said—almost immediately.”
    “Oh. Do you think I could see him? Is he staying at the cottage?”
    “No, he said he’d rather not. He’s been to see it, of course, but he’s actually staying at the Westfield here in Taviscombe.”
    “Well, he can’t be too badly off,” I said. “The Westfield’s quite expensive. It’s just that I wanted to ask him about those letters Annie lent me and see if he’d mind looking for the other stuff she was going to let me have for the Book.”
    “Why don’t you go and see him at the Westfield; he said he’d be in this afternoon.”
     
    Michael was right; Martin Stillwell was ordinary. That is, he looked like any middle-aged, middle-class businessman in a neat gray suit, with what looked like a club tie. I could see no sort of resemblance to Annie. He had a quiet but pleasant manner, and I explained the situation and asked him about the letters.
    “Oh, I’d very much like to see them sometime. Let me see—Frank Roberts? My grandmother was a