Free The Man with a Load of Mischief by Martha Grimes

Trueblood apparently gasped for more oxygen before busying his mind. His wide eyes, behind the tinted glasses, roamed the room. “Do you know, we only talked about the weather — it had been snowing for two days, and then pouring with rain that night — well, the usual chitchat.”
    â€œThis Small didn’t seem anxious, worried, anything like that?”
    â€œOn the contrary, he seemed quite elated.”
    â€œElated?”
    â€œYes. As if he’d just got good news, or won the pools. ‘Lemme tell you, mate, it ain’t orfen a chap ’as a runna luck loike I done.’ The man was jubilant. But he wouldn’t tell me what his run of luck was.”
    â€œThis was before dinner, was it?”
    â€œYes. About eight, eight-thirty. He’d already had his dinner. Yes, I remember Lorraine — that’s Lorraine Bicester-Strachan — nearly dragged me off the stool and into dinner.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t see him after that? No one seems to have seen him for over two hours.”
    â€œI think the poor dear must have been under the weather. He told me he was going up to his room. Been drinking for two or three hours straight.” From a room beyond came the whistle of a teakettle. “Now, you really must join me. I’ve some marvelous Darjeeling, and some delicious petits fours a friend of mine gave me for Christmas.” Not staying for an answer, he was up and mincing his way to the kitchen. “Won’t be a tic, now.” He disappeared into the inner regions.
    Jury surveyed Trueblood’s stock. Hepplewhite and Sheraton chairs; secretaires, commodes, satinwood tea caddies; Waterford glass in a breakfront. An ormolu clock with porcelain panels was ticking softly at his elbow. Probably cost Jury six months’ salary.
    Trueblood was back with a silver tray and delicate china. Jury wasn’t used to such etherealized cups and saucers. His cup was shaped like a conch shell, the handle an airy spindril of green. He was almost afraid to pick it up. On a plate were tiny cakes, prettily iced.
    â€œAnd were you in the Jack and Hammer on that Friday evening?”
    â€œI popped in about six-ish for a Campari and lime, yes.”
    â€œYou didn’t see this man Ainsley? I mean later? He supposedly arrived around seven, maybe seven-thirty.”
    â€œNo, I didn’t.”
    â€œThere’s a back entrance to the Jack and Hammer which is usually unlocked.”
    â€œYes, I use it myself, sometimes.” Trueblood gasped slightly. “Ah! I see what you’re getting at. Like the Small business. Coming in the back?”
    That was not what Jury meant; he attached quite a different meaning to the cellar door of the Man with a Load of Mischief. Jury looked ceilingward. “Do you keep rooms above the shop?”
    â€œNo, Inspector. I used to do, but what with the noise from the pub —”
    â€œSo you saw and heard nothing?”
    With his cup at his lips, Trueblood shook his head.
    â€œAnd you live — where?”
    â€œHave a cottage off the square, beyond the bridge. You can’t mistake it; it’s the cruck-ended one.”
    â€œYou lived in London — Chelsea, to be exact — didn’t you?” Jury mentally scanned Pratt’s report. “And kept a shop in Jermyn Street?”
    â€œGood Lord! You policemen!” Trueblood clapped his forehead in mock wonder. “It’s rather like having one’s past come up to meet one.”
    â€œNorthamptonshire seems a bit out of the mainstream,” Jury said.
    Trueblood looked at him shrewdly. “For someone like me, you mean?”
    Jury noticed the pitch of the voice had dropped a bit with this statement, and the man seemed anxious, or irritated, or both. But Trueblood resumed his former manner, saying, “I was getting fed up with the city. And I’d heard this was quite a popular place for the better sort: the well-heeled, and