Murder At Wittenham Park Read Online Free PDF

strengthened it. Not that they were physically alike—“Thank goodness,” Jemma would say, “no way would I want his nose”—except in a few characteristics. And intellectually he was contemplative, she intuitive; although that distinction was blurred because his job had necessitated a degree of intuition.
    What she most admired about her father was his evenhandedness. He was slow to reach decisions, but when he reached them they were reasoned and dispassionate. This made him seem a rather dry character, yet underneath he was giving and warm, with occasional sparks of unexpected humour.
    This air of detachment was reinforced by his appearance. To look at, Jim Savage was an unobtrusive middle-aged man, with a good head of a hair and a waistline kept trim by golf and tennis. Today he was wearing dark slacks and an open-neck shirt under a blue sweater. He could have passed for a civil servant on holiday, except that he had deep-set pale-blue eyes which disconcerted people when he asked questions. Many years of assessing insurance claims had made him very good at asking questions.
    By contrast Jemma dressed with easy style, adorned her basically mousy hair with blonde streaks, had only a very diminutive version of the Savage nose, and kept her figure without noticeably taking any exercise. “Lucky me, I have the right metabolism” she would say cheerfully as she bubbled her way through parties. But she had the same pale eyes as her father, and journalism was rapidly teaching her to see through other people’s façades too.
    â€œSo why don’t you trust Lord Gilroy? she asked.
    â€œThere was something smarmy about the letter he wrote. You know, after I sent the deposit.” Savage remembered the personal letter from Gilroy. The notepaper was headed with a stag rearing up out of a coronet, apparently trapped by its hooves. This crest was embossed on the paper, not merely printed, which displayed class. But the text was studded with gushing phrases like “delighted to know” and “assure you this will be a weekend to remember.”
    â€œWhat I fail to see,” Jim went on, “is how he’s going to get away with it.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell, they can hardly steal the plot of one of Christie’s books. Someone will know the ending.”
    â€œHe must have thought of that. He’s probably changing it.”
    â€œLucky the old girl’s dead. She’d have a fit. Not the kind of person you could take liberties with.”
    Years ago, when he had been investigating an arson claim in Devon, Savage’s senior had taken him to Agatha Christie’s house for tea. He had been left with three abiding impressions: of the house’s glorious views over a river estuary; of the lady’s collection of ornamental teapots from canal barges, all of a kind, yet each one different; and of her strong sense of propriety, coupled with humour. He was pretty certain the sense of humour would not extend to her stories’ being altered.
    â€œI suppose there’s nothing much anyone can do about it, now she’s gone,” he observed.
    â€œD’you think they allocate the parts before they’ve even met us?” Jemma asked. “And who else will be there?”
    â€œHe didn’t say.”
    They had reached a turn off the A-40 road signed “Wittenham.” “Well, we’ll know soon enough,” Savage said “Let’s hope they don’t make me the murderer.”
    â€œWhy should it be a him?” Jemma demanded. “There you go. Sexism again.”
    *   *   *
    â€œF INISHED !” Dee Gilroy exclaimed triumphantly, rising from a desk in the library and crossing towards the high Gothic windows, scanning her notes. “In the nick of time. You’re lucky to have such an inventive wife, not to mention devoted.” She looked aggravatedly at her spouse. “You might