A Fête Worse Than Death Read Online Free PDF

Isabelle looked at her mother in exasperation. ‘Honestly, she’s so
wet
! The slightest thing brings on the heebie-jeebies.’
    â€˜I think it shows very proper feeling,’ said Sir Philip.
    â€˜Oh, Dad, it doesn’t. If Mr Lawrence isn’t clucking over her like a mother hen when the slightest bit of a thing goes wrong, she goes running up to her room. I can’t think why you have her to stay.’
    â€˜I think you’re being too harsh, Isabelle,’ said her mother. ‘You know perfectly well why poor Marguerite’s here and it’s only natural that a girl of her age shouldn’t want to listen to a catalogue of horrors. We’re talking about murder, which isn’t the slightest bit of a thing, as you put it. Jack, you should be more careful. Bullets and skulls are all very well in your stories, but I don’t see why we have to talk about them.’
    â€˜I don’t mind talking about them,’ muttered Isabelle rebelliously, ‘and I don’t see why Maggie should. She’s only a couple of years younger than I am.’
    â€˜But you really are like an old boot,’ said her brother.
    She gave him a charming smile. ‘Thank you, Greg. How beautifully put.’
    â€˜Actually,’ said Haldean, ‘I was surprised how upset you were about Boscombe popping off this afternoon, though, Isabelle. After all, as you said, you didn’t know him.’
    â€˜I’m not so hard-bitten that I can’t whack up a bit of sympathy for the poor soul. It was bad enough when I thought he’d just died, what with having Mrs Griffin to cope with, but murder . . .’ She stopped and shuddered. ‘It’s awful to think that while we were all enjoying ourselves and thinking of ordinary, everyday things, someone was planning
that
. They’d be all smiling on top and underneath . . .’ She shook herself. ‘And what makes it worse is that you were there. Right outside the tent, I mean.’
    Greg nodded. ‘It’s rotten, isn’t it?’ He glanced at Ashley. ‘But that’s the point, Superintendent. We were there all the time. It can’t have been murder. Jack and I and Mrs Griffin saw Boscombe go into the fortune teller’s tent and not another soul went in after him.’ He sighed uneasily. ‘We were talking – joking, I suppose – about him being bumped off. It sounds dreadful now, but he was pretty drunk and very offensive. I can’t believe he was murdered. Are you quite sure it wasn’t suicide?’
    Ashley knocked the ash off his cigar and sat forward. ‘Perfectly sure, Captain Rivers. Not only could we not find the gun, but there were no powder or burn marks on Boscombe’s skin either, which you usually get with a suicide –’
    â€˜If the gun’s an automatic then there might not be anyway,’ interrupted Haldean. ‘They’ve got smokeless powder in them so you often don’t get the burning you do with a revolver. I got it wrong in a story I did last year and received a very learned telling-off from a bloke at the Home Office.’
    â€˜Trust you to know that,’ said Greg with a grin. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ashley, what were you saying?’
    Ashley coughed. ‘I wouldn’t take anyone’s opinion about firearms marks as gospel. It always seems to depend on whom you ask.’ He put down his coffee cup thoughtfully. ‘As for you not seeing anyone go into the tent, Captain Rivers, there’s no great mystery about that. After all a tent isn’t like a house or even a hut. The canvas walls are laced together and what I think must have happened is that someone pulled apart the lacing and shot him through the hole.’
    Haldean frowned, visualizing the scene that afternoon. ‘You could get under the wall of the tent quite easily, you know. Especially if you pulled out a tent peg or loosened a guy rope. Anyone who’s