Free This Private Plot by Alan Beechey

for?”
    â€œI can’t imagine.” Not here, anyway, Oliver added silently. Davina’s eyes stayed on Oliver, across the table.
    â€œPerhaps he couldn’t afford to pay,” suggested Ben. “And so he knew he would inevitably be exposed.”
    â€œExposed,” repeated Mormal, as if he were genetically required to report every potential double entendre .
    â€œExposed,” echoed Quilt-Hogg. He pointed at Ben. “It’s funny, because he’s a photographer,” he explained to Lucinda.
    â€œPlease,” said Davina firmly, “I insist that we change the subject.” She sat back as a stuffed artichoke was deposited in her place by the stoic housemaid.
    â€œOh, Davvy, this is literally the most hair-raising thing that’s happened for yonks,” Xanthe protested. “All right, we’ll respect the late Mr. Breedlove. But let’s play a guessing game. What’s the one thing that would make each of us commit suicide?”
    â€œI know what would do it for Davina,” giggled Catriona. “Being caught with a single hair out of place.” She turned to her eldest sister. “Honestly, Davvy, you’re so vain. I think if you ever got a run in your tights, you’d shrivel up with humiliation.”
    â€œLiterally,” added Xanthe.
    â€œThat’s a bit of an exaggeration,” said Davina.
    â€œExaggeration? You even secretly ironed your underwear this afternoon!” said Catriona.
    â€œWhy did she do that?” asked Clarissa.
    â€œI think it was because Oliver was coming to dinner,” claimed Catriona, with a sly glance at Effie, who felt freshly conscious that her dress had traveled to Synne rolled up in a duffel bag. Oliver, momentarily relieved that the ghastly conversation had drifted from Uncle Dennis toward sisterly teasing, felt the dread return.
    â€œThat’s astounding,” said Clarissa.
    â€œThat she was ironing her underwear?”
    â€œNo, that Davvy knows how to use an iron.”
    â€œShe clearly doesn’t, because she burned herself. That’s how I found out.”
    Davina glanced ruefully at the pink stripe on the edge of her hand, but Oliver noticed that the move was calculated to show off her golden wristwatch. A Cartier Tank Americaine. Money.
    â€œYou’re afraid of being baffled, Davina,” said Toby genially. “In the Shakespearean sense, that is. In his time, ‘baffled’ meant publicly embarrassed.”
    â€œReally?” replied Davina. “Then I’d have something in common with dear Effie. I hear the police are often baffled.”
    Effie glared down at her artichoke and took another mouthful of wine.
    â€œToby, why don’t you tell the ladies about the dig you’re working on in Stratford,” Oliver cut in swiftly.
    â€œOh, is that part of your research?” Ben asked.
    Toby looked at Mormal. “No, it’s just an excuse to spend a few weeks in Shakespeare Central, soaking up the atmosphere. There’s a small island next to the downstream weir on the Avon. An old Victorian house on it is being demolished. It’s standard practice to sift through the dirt whenever there’s any rebuilding in the Stratford area, just in case. So a bunch of us from my college agreed to do it, and Eric volunteered to help us in his spare time. But we don’t expect to find anything from Shakespeare’s time—we’re well south of the seventeenth-century part of town and on the opposite side of the river.”
    â€œThen what is this research of yours, Toby?” asked Davina. “Educate us.”
    â€œIt’s about the true identity of William Shakespeare. You probably know that many people think Shakespeare didn’t write the plays. That the author was really Francis Bacon or the Earl of Oxford or even Christopher Marlowe, whose murder in 1593 must have been faked. What’s provoked these theories is our