‘Stop this, will you! Just bloody stop it! You’re sounding like something out of a Golden Age detective story.’
‘Oh, you know about them, do you?’
‘Yes. When the library’s Writers’ Group was going, we had a session on Golden Age crime fiction. Bloody load of nonsense. That’s not proper writing.’
No, we’ve already established, thought Jude, the only stuff you regard as ‘proper writing’ is your own. But she didn’t say anything.
‘Did you just do this Golden Age session amongst members of the group?’ asked Carole. ‘Or did you have an outside speaker?’
‘We had that batty Yank from the University of Clincham.’
‘Nessa Perks?’
‘That’s her. She was at the talk on Tuesday, and all.’
‘Yes,’ said Jude. ‘And what did she talk about in this Golden Age session?’
‘Oh, some cobblers about old-fashioned whodunits being full of good ideas for real-life murders. She said she knew a Golden Age book that would tell anyone how to commit the perfect murder.’
‘Did she tell you the book’s title?’ asked Carole.
‘Yes, I remember it well. It was Best Served Cold. By G. H. D. Troughton.’
TWENTY-FIVE
On their return from the Crown & Anchor, the two women parted at their respective front gates, agreeing to make contact early on the Wednesday morning to see where they should go next with their investigation.
When she got inside Woodside Cottage, Jude felt a wave of exhaustion sweep through her. She knew it was delayed shock from the discovery of Uncle Pawel in the shelter. That thought reminded her of his plight. Was it possible that he was still clinging on to life in Worthing Hospital? She texted Zosia to send support and ask for a bulletin, but got no immediate response.
On other occasions Jude would have relaxed herself with a hot bath, candles and essential oils, but that evening she felt too wiped out. Pausing only to pour herself a massive Scotch, she went upstairs and collapsed into bed.
Next door at High Tor, Carole was wakeful. Though they’d agreed they could make no more investigative progress till the morning, Carole wasn’t so sure. There must be something she could do. And, still miffed about her unequal participation in the case, she determined to do it.
She felt only a token pang of guilt about resorting to Amazon rather than waiting to use the West Sussex library service. It was an e-book she wanted, after all. She wouldn’t be able to get that from Fethering Library.
Her search was surprisingly easy. Yes, Best Served Cold was listed. And yes, it was available as an e-book. In fact, it turned out that, with the revival of interest in Golden Age crime fiction, a lot of long-lost gems from the time were readily available.
It was a matter of moments for Carole to have the text downloaded on to her laptop.
She settled down to read for the rest of the evening – or into the night, if that seemed to be necessary. And with the opening paragraphs of the book she was instantly back in the Golden Age.
Pre-prandial drinks were taken in the library of Threshton Grange. With Dexter Hogg as his host, Sir Gervaise Montagu anticipated being introduced to the usual collection of City idlers and downright bounders who people the weekend parties of the lesser gentry. His expectation was not disappointed. There were few gentlemen present who had been to the right schools, but those who had must subsequently have let down the high principles of those academic establishments and the basic tenets of good form. Even with ladies present, most of the conversations Montagu overheard were on the vulgar subject of money.
Such certainly was the theme of Count Alexander Frisch, to whom Dexter Hogg introduced him with almost fawning enthusiasm. As they shook hands, Montagu caught the distinct whiff of brandy on the man’s breath. Since the Threshton Grange butler Pinke had yet to begin serving drinks, this meant Frisch must keep a secret cache of the French elixir in his bedroom. Having already marked the man down as a bounder, Montagu now suspected he might be dealing with a cad as well.
‘We have only to cast an idle eye around this room,’ said Frisch, ‘to see that we are among men of the world, whose brains are in tune with the mechanisms of international finance.’ The man’s accent was German, something that did not endear him any further to the bulldog spirit of the amateur sleuth. ‘Monarchs may tumble, shares go down to cats’ meat prices, but the gentlemen in this room will still be turning a profit.’
‘If you would choose to call them gentlemen,’ murmured Sir Gervaise Montagu …
Carole was quickly realizing the disadvantages of reading an e-book. For the kind of search she was making, it would have been much easier to handle an old-fashioned volume made of paper. On that she could have annotated, marked up, flipped back to compare references, hurried through the irrelevant bits. E-book technology did not allow that, so she had to read the whole text.
Which, in this case, wasn’t actually too much of a hardship.
The scene that greeted Montagu in the billiard room was one of abject horror. At the end away from the table, men in evening dress stood in a circle of silence. On the brows of some the sweat of excess glistened, but their conviviality was no more. At their centre lay Count Alexander Frisch. One hand still gripped desperately at the billiard cue, the other at the chalk he had been about to apply to its tip. His thick-lipped mouth was twisted into a rictus of surprise and agony.
Sir Gervaise Montagu dropped to his knees beside the lifeless body. ‘When did the fellow fall like this?’ he demanded of the assembled throng.
‘Only moments ago,’ came the reply. ‘He gasped suddenly, like a throttled dog, and hit the floor.’
‘There’s something queer about this,’ observed Montagu, ‘deuced queer.’
He bent closer to the dead man’s mouth. The smell of brandy which he had detected earlier was still there, but to it now was added the aroma. That of almonds.
The detective nodded, smiled to himself, and gave an almost unconscious ejaculation of triumph. ‘Got it, by blazes!’ he said …
Carole checked her watch. It was after midnight, but she could no more have stopped reading than she could have stopped breathing. She made a note of the location of the last section and pressed on, hungry for the next relevant passage.
The police surgeon’s work was done. He had made his preliminary examination in the billiard room and Count Alexander Frisch’s body was now in a police van on its way towards a post-mortem. The superior officer of the local constabulary was instructing his men to collect up all of the bottles in Threshton Grange, those of the wines that had accompanied dinner, and the ones which had supplied the pre- and post-prandial drinks.
‘I don’t know why you’re finicking about with those,’ said Sir Gervaise Montagu languorously.
‘Sorry, sir,’ the functionary responded, ‘but I know the correct procedure to be followed at a murder scene. We’re looking at a case of poisoning here, sir.’
‘Yes, but by collecting those bottles, you’re going off full cry on a false trail.’
‘I think I’ll be the judge of that, sir. I’ve been investigating murder for nigh on thirty years, and I know the correct protocols. Any student of medical jurisprudence will tell you that, in a case of poisoning, you collect everything that you know the deceased to have drunk from and then you get them all motored off to the laboratory for scientific examination.’