Murder on the Short List Read Online Free PDF Page B

went backstage at the theatre. It was still early in the afternoon and there was no matinee, but some of the actors were on stage rehearsing next week’s production.
    He spotted the person who had first informed him of Patrick Flanagan’s sudden death. Brendan was painting scenery, a fine, realistic bay window with a sea view behind.
    â€œMy dear boy,” the priest said, “I’m so pleased to catch you here.”
    â€œWhat can I do for you, Father?”
    â€œI’ve come from the house of poor Patrick Flanagan, rest his soul.”
    â€œWe’re heartbroken, Father. He was a lovely man.”
    â€œIndeed. Would you happen to know if he had a lady friend at all?”
    â€œYou mean Daisy Truelove, Father?”
    â€œI suppose I do, if you say so. Where would I find her?”
    â€œShe’s in the ladies’ dressing room.”
    â€œAnd how would I coax her out of there?”
    â€œYou could try knocking on the door and saying ‘A gentleman for Miss Daisy’.”
    He tried, and it worked. She flung open the door, a flurry of fair, curly hair and cheap scent, her eyes shining in anticipation. “Hello, darling – oh, my hat.” She’d spotted the clerical collar.
    â€œMiss Truelove?”
    She nodded.
    â€œThe friend of Patrick Flanagan?”
    The pretty face creased at the name. “Poor Patrick, yes.”
    â€œWould you mind telling me if you saw him yesterday evening?”
    â€œWhy, yes, Father. He was in the play, and so am I. I’m Lola, the gangster’s moll.”
    â€œAfter it was over?”
    â€œI saw him then, too. Some of us went for a drink at the Star and Garter. Patrick ordered oysters and champagne. He said he’d recently come into some money.”
    â€œOysters and champagne until when?”
    â€œAbout half past eleven.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    She hesitated. “Do you really need to know?”
    â€œThink of me as a vessel.”
    â€œA ship, Father?”
    He blinked. “Not exactly. More like a receptacle for anything you can tell me in confidence.”
    â€œYou want to hear my confession?”
    â€œNot unless you have something to confess.”
    She bit her lip. “We went on a river steamer.”
    â€œAt night?”
    â€œIt was moored by the bridge. It had fairylights and music and there was dancing. So romantic. He ordered more bubbly and it must have gone to my head. We finally got home about four in the morning. I’d better say that again.
I
got home about four in the morning. We said goodnight at the door of my lodgings. There was nothing improper, Father. Well, nothing totally improper, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œHow was his mood?”
    â€œHis mood?”
    â€œWas he happy when he left you?”
    â€œOh, dear!” she said, her winsome young features creasing in concern again. “I’m afraid he wasn’t. He wanted to come in with me. He offered to take off his shoes and tiptoe upstairs, but I wouldn’t risk upsetting the landlady. I pushed him away and shut the door in his face. Do you think that’s why he killed himself?”
    â€œNo, I don’t,” said Father Montgomery. “I don’t believe he killed himself at all.”
    â€œYou mean my conscience is clear?”
    â€œI have no way of telling what’s on your conscience, my dear, but I’m sure you did the right thing at the end of the evening.”
    I nspector Carew was far from happy at being dragged back to 7, Albert Street by a priest he’d never met, but the mention of murder couldn’t be ignored.
    â€œThe wife lied to us both,” Father Montgomery said as they were being driven to Teddington. “She insisted that the shooting was at midnight, but I have a female witness who says Patrick Flanagan was with her in Richmond until four in the morning.”
    â€œSo what?” said the inspector. “Emily Flanagan has her