More Deaths Than One Read Online Free PDF Page A

suggestion of a pause, Salisbury’s wife shrugged and said obliquely, “We hardly knew Rupert, as I said, and Georgina’s not one to exchange confidences.”
    â€œEspecially since you’re not exactly friends,” Mayo reminded her. “No,” she agreed, eyeing him rather sharply. “Not since she married.”
    â€œWhat did Rupert Fleming do for a living?”
    â€œHe was some sort of journalist, I think.”
    â€œLocal paper?”
    â€œNo, I believe he was a freelance.”
    â€œNot very well known,” Salisbury commented, then, showing a rather belated sympathy, he asked, “When was he murdered, poor devil?”
    â€œMurdered? Who said anything about murder, Mr. Salisbury?” An unreadable expression crossed his face. “Well, wasn’t he? God, you mean it was suicide?” he asked Mayo, who thought it better to leave the question unanswered.
    Mrs. Salisbury had given a soft cry of distress. “Oh Tim, what did you think? He must have shot himself ... if you’d seen ... but why? You’d have thought he’d everything to live for. He was young and good-looking and – oh, it’s too horrible to think of!”
    So she’d noticed. However horrified she’d been by her discovery, she’d looked long enough to see the gun on the floor, the suicide note stuck on the dash, to draw the inferences.
    At that moment a little mewling cry started up from somewhere near the fireplace, like a kitten or the bleat of a lamb, making Mayo realize that he’d been aware for some time of strange little snuffling noises coming from the same corner. He saw now that a baby alarm was installed there, and the noise issuing from it was the relentless demand of a small baby.
    Susan Salisbury had jumped up, not, Mayo thought, without relief. “You must forgive me, that’ll be Clarissa. I’ll see you when I come down.”
    â€œJust one question before you go, Mrs. Salisbury. What were you doing last night?”
    â€œMe? I was in bed. I had a very bad headache, and I went to bed about nine o’clock.”
    â€œAnd you, Mr. Salisbury?”
    â€œI had an N.F.U. meeting.”
    â€œWhat time did it finish?”
    â€œI don’t really remember, it was very late, I suppose it was after midnight when I got home, but what the hell’s that got to do with anything? What does it matter what we were doing? We’ve got nothing to do with all this.”
    â€œJust checking, sir,” Mayo said blandly, “just checking.” The baby’s cry was working up to panic proportions and Susan Salisbury was growing fidgety, as any mother would. “I don’t think we need any more from you at the moment, Mrs. Salisbury. We’ll have your statement typed out and perhaps you can come in and sign it sometime tomorrow. Good night to you, ma’am.”
    Before she went out she paused, framed becomingly in the doorway. “If there’s any way we can be of further help ...”
    â€œThank you, Mrs. Salisbury, I appreciate that offer.”
    She acknowledged this gracefully and went out.
    There had been undercurrents stirring in that room which he hadn’t understood, Mayo thought as the husband escorted them to the door and closed it firmly behind them. Susan Salisbury, like her furniture and her house, was cherished and perhaps more than a little spoilt. Evidently her husband adored her and she adored being adored. Nothing wrong in that, if that was how their relationship worked, but he wondered if it wasn’t a little too obvious, and momentarily why a woman as intelligent as he felt she was should ally herself with someone as irredeemably stupid as Tim Salisbury appeared to be.
    And he also wondered about her and Rupert Fleming, an entirely intuitive supposition, neither evidential as yet, nor even perhaps justifiable, but one which he didn’t intend to ignore.
    â€œIt wouldn’t do any harm