Murder on the Short List Read Online Free PDF

volumes the priest wished he hadn’t noticed, among them
Married Love,
by Marie Stopes. But his eyes were drawn inexorably to
Family Limitation,
by Margaret Sanger – not for its provocative title but for the round hole he noticed in the binding.
    â€œMight I ask for a dispensation to handle one of the books?”
    â€œWhy?” asked Mrs Flanagan.
    â€œBecause I think I see a bullet hole through the spine.”
    â€œJesus, Mary and Joseph!” said Mrs Flanagan, forgetting herself. “Where?”
    The priest unclasped his hands and pointed. “Do you mind?” He reached for the book and removed it. Sure enough, there was a scorched round hole penetrating this book and its neighbour,
The Psychology of Sex,
by Havelock Ellis. “Didn’t the police remark on this?”
    â€œThey didn’t notice it. What can it mean?”
    â€œPresumably, that two shots were fired and this one missed. If you look, the bullet penetrated the wood behind the books. Do you recall hearing two shots?”
    â€œI couldn’t say for sure. I was asleep. I thought it was one shot that disturbed me, but I suppose there could have been two.”
    â€œAnd this was when?”
    â€œAbout midnight according to the clock in my room. Daddy, can you recall two shots?”
    â€œAldershot and Bagshot,” said the waggish Mr Russell.
    â€œIt’s a puzzle,” said the priest, rotating his head, his eyes taking in all of the books. He replaced the damaged volume and turned his attention to the floor. “There should be two spent cartridges unless someone removed them.”
    â€œDo you think you’re a better detective than the police?” Mrs Flanagan said, becoming irritated.
    â€œNo, but I work for a Higher Authority.” He pushed his foot under the edge of the carpet and rolled the corner back towards the chair. He couldn’t be accused of touching anything; his feet had to go somewhere. “Hey ho, what’s this?”
    Under the carpet was a magazine.
    â€œLeave it,” said Mrs Flanagan.
    â€œWe’re allowed to look,” said Father Montgomery, bending low. The magazine was the current issue of
John Bull,
that patriotic weekly edited by Horatio Bottomley. The number seven was scribbled on the cover in pencil.
    â€œWell, I’ll be jiggered!” said old Mr Russell.
    â€œIs that your magazine, Daddy?” Mrs Flanagan asked him. “You said it was missing.”
    â€œNo, mine’s upstairs.”
    â€œWe have it delivered every Thursday. Father does the competition,” Mrs Flanagan explained. “What’s the competition called, Daddy?”
    â€œBullets.”
    â€œRight.” She gave her half-smile. “Ironic. He sometimes wins a prize. They give a list of phrases and the readers are invited to add an original comment in no more than four words. Give us an example, Daddy.”
    â€œâ€˜Boarding House Philosophy: Let Bygones Be Rissoles’.”
    â€œNice one. What about one for the church? What’s that famous one?”
    â€œâ€˜Wedding March: Aisle Altar Hymn’.”
    â€œThat won five hundred pounds for someone before the war. Daddy’s best effort won him twenty-five, but he keeps trying. You’re sure this isn’t your copy, Daddy?”
    â€œMine’s upstairs, I said.”
    â€œAll right, don’t get touchy. We’d best keep this under the carpet in case it’s important, but I can’t think why.” Mrs Flanagan nudged the carpet back in place with a pointed patent leather toecap, wanting to hasten the priest’s departure. “Is there anything else we can do for you, Father Montgomery?”
    â€œNot for the present, except . . .”
    â€œExcept what?”
    â€œIf I may, I’d like to borrow your father’s
John Bull
.”
    â€œI’ll fetch it now,” said the old man.
    And he did.
    F ather Montgomery returned to Richmond and