The Horse You Came in On Read Online Free PDF Page A

immediately confided in me that she’d love nothing so much as a title. If only her husband had beenborn to the purple, she said. I laughed at that. They all think it’s terribly royal, don’t they? Americans are so romantic. Ermine and scarlet and all of us living in places like Woburn Abbey. ‘I do want a title,’ she said, ‘though Bobby doesn’t’—as if they were arguing over duck for dinner!”
    Lady Cray topped up her glass and poured Sergeant Wiggins more tea. Jury declined.
    â€œTell me about her nephew’s death.” He knew she’d been avoiding this painful subject with all her chatter about titles and cricket.
    â€œHis name was Philip. He was killed—murdered.”
    â€œI’m sorry. This was in Philadelphia?”
    â€œNot in Philadelphia. That’s where he worked. Upper Pennsylvania somewhere. He had a little cabin in the woods, very isolated, and someone just walked in”—she shrugged her shoulders—“and shot him. It happened two months ago.” She shook her head, anticipating Jury’s question. “The police think it must have been robbery. Why, I don’t know. Philip had nothing of value. He’d gone to the cabin for one of his weekends—a friend of his told the police all this—and he might not have been found for some time if this same friend hadn’t got worried when he didn’t come back on the Sunday evening. They had some sort of date.”
    Wiggins looked up from his notebook. “A lady friend, was it?”
    â€œYes. Helen, or Heather . . . well, I don’t quite remember. Philip had talked about her once or twice. Fanny flew over, of course. She talked to some sheriff or other in Pennsylvania, where it happened. Sinclair, his name was, I believe. Then she stayed on for a while, went to Texas, or . . .” She paused with a frown of attempted remembrance. “Somewhere out there. Abilene? She brought me this.” Here she retrieved the piece of turquoise from the table and held it up. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
    Jury agreed. “What about the rest of Philip’s family?”
    â€œFanny was his only relative. I should explain that the Calverts—Philip’s father and mother—were both killed when he was a little boy. Plane crash. Fanny wasn’t related by blood, but I can tell you she simply adored him. I’m convinced people really can die of a broken heart. Anyway, she’s dead.”
    Lady Cray looked away, through the window, where a chill breeze scattered and rattled old leaves like copper. “I met Philip; he was here two years ago. And he got on famously with my own nephew, my great-nephew, Andrew.” Lady Cray stopped to handle the turquoise block again, regarding him with her wonderful silvery eyes, whose expression was now full of sadness. “The thing is, Superintendent, I feel I could at least do this for her: carry on with trying to find out what really happened to Philip. She was absolutely devastated by his death. You can’t imagine.”
    Oh, yes I can, thought Jury. He stared at the silver flautist embeddedin the turquoise. For something to do, to be able to turn his back on the room, he got up and walked to the tall window that overlooked the cold garden, dripping as if last night’s rain were still trapped here, the trees still raining. He had been sitting on that bench in the Tate where Fanny Hamilton had sat; the portrait of Chatterton swam before his eyes. White skin, red hair. Lying on his narrow bed. He shut his eyes. Some composure returned, he turned with a half-smile to Lady Cray. “And you thought perhaps I . . . ?” He left it as a question.
    â€œPlease. I know it’s asking a lot; I know you’re on holiday. But that also means you aren’t tied up. . . .”
    â€œLady Cray, there’s protocol. This killing happened in the United