Murder on the Short List Read Online Free PDF Page A

“canoodling”, but he guessed it didn’t amount to adultery. “Not a cause for suicide, then?”
    â€œGood Lord, no.”
    â€œAnd how was the balance of his mind, would you say?”
    â€œAre you asking me if he was mad?”
    â€œWhen he shot himself, yes.”
    â€œI wasn’t there when he shot himself, but I think it highly unlikely. He never lost control.”
    â€œWell, then,” the inspector said, preparing to leave, “it will be for the coroner to decide. He may wish to visit the scene himself, so I’m leaving the, em, den as it is, apart from the, em, . . .”
    â€œMortal remains?” old Mr Russell suggested.
    â€œSo please don’t tidy anything up. Leave it exactly as it is.” He picked up his hat and left.
    Mrs Flanagan had barely started her next brandy when the doorbell rang again. “Damn. Who’s that?” she said.
    Her father wobbled to the door and admitted a fat, bald man in a cassock. He smelt of tobacco. “Father Montgomery,” he said.
    â€œShould we know you?” she asked.
    â€œI was Padre to your husband in France. I’m the incumbent of St Saviour’s in Richmond. I heard from one of my congregation that he’d been gathered, so I came at once to see what I could do.”
    â€œVery little,” said Mrs Flanagan. “‘Gathered’ isn’t the word I would use. He killed himself. That’s a lost soul in your religion, isn’t it?”
    The priest sighed heavily. “That
is
distressing. I know he wasn’t a regular worshipper, but he was brought up in the Church of Rome. He professed himself a Catholic when pressed.”
    Old Mr Russell said in a parade-ground chant, “Fall out the Jews and Catholics.”
    â€œExactly, sir. So I do have a concern over the destiny of poor Patrick’s soul. Is it certain?”
    â€œIf you call putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger certain, I would say it is,” said Mrs Flanagan, wanting to be rid of this visitor. “We’ve had the police here and they confirm it.”
    â€œHis service revolver, I suppose? How I wish the army had been more responsible in collecting all the weapons they issued. May I see the room?”
    â€œIs that necessary?”
    â€œI would like to remove all doubt from my mind that this was suicide.”
    â€œYou have a doubt?”
    His eyes flicked upwards. “I have a duty, my dear.”
    She showed him into Patrick’s den, a small room with a desk surrounded by bookshelves. Her father shuffled in after them.
    The body had been removed, but otherwise the room was just as the police had seen it, with the revolver lying on the desk.
    â€œPlease don’t touch anything,” Mrs Flanagan said.
    The priest made a performance of linking his thumbs behind his back. He leaned over and peered at the gun. “Service issue, as I expected,” he said. “Did the police examine the chambers for bullets?”
    â€œEmpty. He only needed the one.”
    â€œWhere did he keep the gun?”
    â€œIn the bottom drawer – but don’t open it.”
    Father Montgomery had little option but to look about him at the bookshelves. There were plays by Oscar Wilde and George Bernard Shaw. “Did he act in any of these?”
    â€œNo. He collected them for personal reading. He was a well-read man.”
    â€œWell-read,” said old Mr Russell. “Oh, essay, essay, essay.”
    â€œFather adores his word-play,” Mrs Flanagan. “Not one of your very best, Daddy.”
    The books continued to interest the priest. There was a shelf of detective stories above the drama section featuring works by Conan Doyle, E.W.Hornung and G.K.Chesterton. Three by the author who called himself “Sapper” were lying horizontally above the others. One was
Bulldog Drummond,
the novel of the play the dead man had appeared in. On another high shelf were some