It was not at an amusement park that Scott parked his car. It was at a lovely little cottage on the edge of a village. Margaret had not looked at its name because she had never for a moment fathomed that this was their destination, so she had no idea where they were precisely.
The garden was full of colourful flowers, with a small patch of grass in the middle, from which two large dogs were keeping a watchful eye on anyone who came through the gate. They barked and jumped up, but it was a good and enthusiastic sort of bark -- they had recognised someone they knew.
They knew Scott, Margaret noted. She stood waiting as the dogs greeted him. She got a brief sniff from them as well, but they could not stop jumping up to Scott.
He turned to Ailsa, one hand on a dog's head. "I hope you're not afraid of dogs."
"No," she said a little too softly. They were very big dogs and they could easily throw her over if they jumped at her.
Margaret was more interested in who would come out of the house. Someone would come to see why the dogs were barking, she supposed. It all depended on who lived here, of course, but the look of the house and garden were points in its favour. She might be able to leave Ailsa here. "If anyone asks, am I your sister?"
He laughed. "You could try that."
"But it won't work?" she deduced quickly. "Just where exactly are we?" There was something he had not said. It gave her pause to think he might be living here with his wife. Why should he not? She swallowed. How could she be so disappointed at the mere thought?
Just then an elderly lady came out of the house. "Iain," she said with a warm smile. "That's sooner than I expected." At the same time she glanced at Margaret with curiosity.
That, at least, was not his wife. Margaret felt relieved. The elderly lady greeted Iain with a kiss. She studied them both for a family resemblance, but all she could see was that nothing ruled it out.
"How do you do, Miss Maxwell?" said the woman politely.
Margaret was not surprised at being known. That happened often. She was thinking about something else. It was the accent that gave the woman away. This was definitely Iain's mother, but why would he take them here? It would be a safe environment, that was clear, but she did not understand why he would want to involve his mother in the case. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs…Scott," Margaret murmured. What else could her last name be? But there was no denial, so it had to be right.
"And this is…" said Mrs Scott, looking at Ailsa.
"Ailsa Maxwell," the girl answered.
"So you'll be coming to stay with me for a few days."
"Am I?" Ailsa asked. "They didn't tell me that."
"Come in. I'll make you some tea." Mrs Scott thought it best to divert the attention away from the fact that they had not told the girl. This was not the right moment.
Iain had not told her everything either. He had asked her if a little girl, too young to stay alone but of a boarding school age, could stay with her for a few days because her mother was unexpectedly caught up in a murder investigation, though not as a suspect. He had never asked such a thing before, which was why she had assumed it was serious and she had agreed.
Margaret Maxwell was a pretty woman, of course, and she could well imagine that she would need a special treatment. That explained a lot. She did not really know how Iain dealt with women nowadays, though. He never told her -- or perhaps he just had.
She told them to sit down while she finished the tea, though she had naturally already made her preparations. Only the water had to be boiled, but she had pressed the button on the cooker the moment she had seen her visitors arrive.
Iain, as usual, said nothing. He was leaning back on the couch as if he was at ease, but he was not. She could tell. He would be anxious about her reaction and he might be anxious about Ms Maxwell's reaction, if he had also not told her everything.
"Is that your mother, Inspector?" she heard Ms Maxwell ask. And when he nodded, "you could have told me. I might not have given my assent." That answered his mother's question -- he had not told Ms Maxwell everything either, but bless the woman for putting a little pressure on Iain.
He seemed to know why she would not have given her assent. "Why not? Nobody would need to know. They wouldn't hear it from me. Nor from you. I didn't get the impression that many people even knew you had a child."
"No more than knew you had a mother."
"Which seems evident. How else could I be here?"
"I am here and I don't have one," Ailsa spoke up cleverly. "Maggie is my aunt."
"Hearing you speak we never would have known she wasn't your mother," Scott remarked. He engaged himself in an interesting internal debate whether nature or nurture was responsible for the personality of the girl.
"Are we too much for you?" Margaret sparkled.
Mrs Scott poured the tea, but she remained interested in the conversation. So the girl was not Ms Maxwell's daughter, but her niece, something Iain must not have known when he had phoned. He knew by now, because he was not surprised upon hearing it. "Iain said it was your daughter." The other woman could not very much mind the curiosity she herself had displayed. As mothers, they had to know who was whose child. And, she thought, Ms Maxwell should appreciate directness.
"Oh, but I've only just told him that she wasn't. The technicalities of who gave birth to whom don't matter, except when I don't want there to be any doubt about my opinions." She did not divulge the particulars to just everyone. There was no need for that.
Scott's mother wondered what those opinions were. Given that she herself had at first wondered if there was a Mr Maxwell, or at least a father, she supposed that had to be connected. Many people would wonder about that and Margaret Maxwell would be familiar with the reactions. She probably had definite opinions on the absence of a Mr Maxwell that resulted in her occasionally revealing that the girl was in fact not her daughter. That got her off the hook with regard to the absence of a father, but it did not reveal whether she wanted there to be one or not. Either was possible.
"But that hardly ever happens," said Iain with a barely suppressed snort. "Thank goodness."
"It happens when I'm being accused of hypocrisy by members of the police force who are being very unprofessional by displaying an opinion on the matter," Margaret shot back.
"I never said a word."
"It's worse when you don't."
"Now that is a very apt observation, Miss Maxwell," said Mrs Scott. It was indeed worse when Iain did not open his mouth, because there was always so much guesswork as to what he was implying. And she had a very good point about unprofessional behaviour. He was not supposed to betray any of his personal opinions when he was working.
That made her wonder what his opinion had been. It had been displayed clearly enough for Ms Maxwell to become defensive enough to tell him the truth. Again, he should not even have engaged Ms Maxwell in discussions of this kind while working. She would have told him about her daughter, but he should have said yes or no and not have accused her of being hypocritical without speaking. He never could pass up the chance to point out inconsistencies, though -- not unlike his opponent.
"Margaret," she replied. "And I said display, not say," she said to Iain.
"Whatever." He stood up. "Which room is she staying in?"
"I thought I'd let her choose," his mother replied, noting with interest that Margaret could indeed not keep her mouth shut either upon hearing facts being misrepresented. This would either drive them crazy very soon, or keep them going for a long time.
Iain was at least wise enough to drop the matter for the moment. "Come, Ailsa. Let's go and pick one. Your tea is still too hot to drink anyway."
"Are you Maggie's boyfriend?" Ailsa inquired without fear as they ascended the stairs.
Scott raised his eyebrows at the question, though he supposed it was a perfectly natural one to ask from the point of view of the girl. "No, I'm not."
"I didn't think you were, because she doesn't have any. What are you then? You are looking for criminals and Maggie isn't one."
"She isn't?" He was amused by her curiosity as well as by her firm belief that Margaret did not have any boyfriends.
"No, she's my mother, so she isn't."
The faith in her mother was touching. "And you said she was your aunt." Perhaps both of them used whatever term was most convenient for them at a given moment.
"You can be both," she said seriously. "So what are you?" He had better not think she was going to give up on that question. If he was not a boyfriend, then what could she tease Maggie with?
"I'm with the police."
"So what are you doing with Maggie?"
"Do I have to be doing anything with her?" Scott paused on the landing. There were rooms to either side, but it did not look as though Ailsa was interested in where she would be sleeping yet.
Ailsa was exasperated. "Do you think you're clever or something?" she repeated what Maggie often asked her.
He could not help grinning. "Yes. You want to know, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Somebody was murdered." Margaret was probably going to murder him for revealing that. She seemed to want to keep Ailsa as far away from nastiness as possible, but he had no defence against the questions of this girl.
Ailsa's lips rounded and she let out an impressed sound. "Oh."
He was relieved that she was not affected or shocked. Perhaps she could handle this. "I am investigating the case."
"Oh." There was a pause. "Maggie said she was too."
He inhaled and bit his lip. He had to be tactful here. He did not think she would condone anything less than positive about Margaret, even though it was not his intention to be negative. "She's…she thinks she is, maybe, but she's not with the police."
"No, so she's like Miss Marple?"
Scott winced in horrified amusement. "Miss Marple was old!"
"But she's always smarter than the police."
He shuddered, still thinking of Margaret as a grey old lady. "Well, yes…shall we go and look at the rooms?" Saying anything about Miss Marple to Ailsa was like giving Margaret carte blanche to interfere with his investigation. He somehow did not doubt that his words would be communicated to Margaret in such a way as to make her think he welcomed the assistance.
"All right."
Margaret found herself alone with Scott's mother. She felt she had to clarify some things now that he was not there. "He didn't tell me where he was taking us. I told him I didn't know what to do with Ailsa and he said he might have a solution. That was all. I didn't know he was going to use his own mother. I'm sorry if it's inconvenient to you."
"Not at all. I heard you would not have given your assent if you had known?"
She wrinkled her nose. "I don't know. If there were other options, I might not have chosen this one. It's the favouritism, you know."
"You don't want any special favours."
"That is so unwise."
"Or uncomfortable?" His mother smiled.
Margaret closed her eyes for a second. "That too. It's very uncomfortable that he can do what I do." She had not encountered it often, or it had never made such an impression.
The smile on the older woman's face deepened. Iain could relate to that sentiment, she was sure. "But doesn't he know you can do more?"
"It should never be my objective to convince him of that during a murder case. Bah."
"Bah?"
"I just realised that I haven't been allowing him the opportunity to remain professional, because I have been interfering without his knowledge and I just realised I plan to keep doing so. I wish I'd never needed money, because if I hadn't, I wouldn't have needed to go there."
And her world would never have been disrupted. "On the other hand," Mrs Scott said devilishly, "if you help him, he might wrap it up sooner and your life will return to normal."
"I shouldn't be interfering, but I can't help it. I know those people better than he does and I have suspicions he cannot have and that I cannot tell him about because they are not facts, just feelings. I cannot stop myself from thinking about things, though, and from asking people questions."
"What is that programme that you'd really like to do?" Scott asked Margaret when they were on the road again. He wondered what she and his mother had spoken about, but he dared not ask.
"Hmm. About writing and authors." For her part she was wondering what he and Ailsa had talked about upstairs. They had come downstairs as very good friends, almost partners in crime.
"Bad writers?" He wondered if this was in any way connected to the file named Story.doc.
She laughed. "No, good ones. No one would believe that, would they? My reputation is pretty bad when it comes to judging other people."
"So you can be nice about other people?"
"Interested in them, certainly. I could be nice about you, I suppose. But only if you solved the case," she added when that felt too dangerously serious.
"Not otherwise?" Scott raised his eyebrows interestedly, wondering what the difference was.
"No, unless the case was especially difficult, but I don't believe in hard murder cases thought up by geniuses. If you think you can get away with murder, you mustn't be very bright. Lies and dishonesty always come out."
"That's a very optimistic point of view." He was not sure that he shared it, because he had experienced the opposite often enough. Many people got away with lies -- and murder.
"I'm talking about clever investigators, of course. I'm sure stupid ones miss clues. If you look well, nothing will stay hidden." Margaret cringed at her own words. They sounded trite. Any simple person might have spoken them. She was sinking low.
"Sounds cliché," Scott commented with little regard for Margaret's feelings.
"It might be. Are you clever?"
"Would anyone say that he wasn't?" Scott replied. "My opinion shouldn't have much value."
She agreed with him and was glad he had given her this answer. "I generally take the opposite of people's opinion. They have a tendency to think too well of themselves in this regard. If we take the other guests…I don't know if there's anyone among them with a proper self-image. The women all think too highly of themselves and I'm not too sure about the men, but wonderful they are not."
He did not want them to be. "Are there any known liars among them?"
"Clarissa, whose real name is Ethel. But that's probably not a ground for murder."
"Ethel," he mused. She had told him that before. "No."
"Nigel probably knew that anyway. They go a long way back."
"No other liars or criminals that you know about?"
A mere suspicion of lies was not enough. "I don't know them well enough to say that with absolute certainty. I go by impressions."
Scott sensed she was not telling him all, but he did not press on. She would tell him eventually if it was important. The topic would no doubt come up again. He concentrated on what she had told him so far. Most of it had been her personal opinions, but he felt he could trust her judgement enough to use it as a guideline. "Motives?"
"No good ones, but they don't tell me all their little secrets." She was loath to point the finger at someone without any strong evidence.
Not all their secrets, he thought, but some, and she would tell him soon.
Scott was not surprised that Margaret joined him after she had put away her things. He had told her he was going to search Nigel's room and he had expected her to be curious. She seemed to take an interest in everything concerning the case. While that was not a problem to himself, he might have some trouble explaining it to Randall. It did not usually happen that he closely involved suspects in his investigation. "You do realise, Miss Maxwell, that you cannot search through the room yourself?" he asked for Randall's sake. She was already raising her eyebrows in a curious manner upon seeing Margaret join them.
"I'll sit on the bed -- after you've searched that -- and keep myself available for consultations," Margaret said sweetly. "Unless Sgt Randall sees a problem." The Sergeant had been eyeing her very curiously, but not in disapproval, she thought.
"I…" Randall gave up after a moment's thought. She seated herself next to Margaret and began to speak in a voice too low for Scott to overhear. "What is your role in this? I'm confused. Have I missed something?" If she asked Scott he would either be silent or sarcastic and she wanted some clarity before she accidentally said the wrong thing to a close friend's of the Inspector's.
"I have no role," Margaret confessed. "Other than that of highly intrigued observer."
"Of the Inspector's?" Randall inquired and regretted her words a second later. One did not make smart remarks to Margaret Maxwell. She paid one back in kind or worse.
Margaret giggled at the younger woman. It was shocking, but true and she was an honest woman who could only admit it. "Oh Sergeant! How could I ever refute that?"
"I don't know if you want to try."
Scott appeared in the entrance to the bathroom. He had been looking around there already. "Sergeant? Care to help?" He would rather have her do something constructive. Talking about him did not qualify.
"Sorry, sir." Randall blushed.
"Miss Maxwell stays on the bed." He turned back into the bathroom, fully counting on him to follow them.
"Sure." Margaret followed him into the bathroom. "I'm an obedient little woman."
"Good. That's how I like it." He did not wait for her reaction, but glanced around.
The bathroom was spacious and shiny. At the far end was what they were most interested in: a luxurious jacuzzi. Hargreaves had been found dead there, electrocuted by an appliance thrown into the bath. It was unlikely that it had fallen in by accident. Hargreaves had been found facing the direction from where it had come. "Randall. You said you liked jacuzzis. Get in."
"Right now?"
"Yes, no water. Sit the way Hargreaves was found."
Randall stretched herself out in the bath, facing them. "He would have to have seen the murderer approach, sir."
"Yes. And there's no space to store CD players behind you," he observed the small ledge. "Ever been here, Miss Maxwell?"
"No. Why should I?"
He shrugged. "From the housekeeper we know that the CD player was standing over here." He indicated a small table well out of the reach of people in the jacuzzi. "It could be operated with a remote control. As far as he housekeeper knows, the remote control has never fallen into the bath."
"That means Nigel was careful," said Margaret, looking into the cabinets over the washbasin. She had always thought only women assembled such a large collection of bottles and tubes. Had Nigel really used all this stuff?
"Exactly. Now, Randall. If I lifted the CD player and you saw me do it, what would you do?"
"I'd ask you what you were doing and I would probably jump up. Everybody knows it shouldn't be close to water. Why did he have one in here anyway? He could just as easily have turned up the sound if he had placed the thing in the bedroom."
Scott listened only to half of what she was saying. "But he did not jump up, according to our doctor."
"How does he know?" Margaret interrupted. "The way Nigel was lying?"
"Apparently. Randall, just check how much time it takes to jump up." Scott pretended to lift something off the table.
"What are you doing?" Randall cried dutifully, but she did not have time to leave the bath in the second that it took Scott to take a step towards her, which would be enough to drop the CD player into the bath while still leaving it plugged in. All she could do was get to her feet. "He wouldn't have managed, sir."
"He never tried. If he'd got up, he would have fallen differently and perhaps hit his head as well. Nothing like that happened. There were no bruises. He was probably too stunned to react."
"And that cost him his life."
"Not locking his bathroom door did too," said Margaret, taking a closer look at it. It could be opened with a screwdriver or coin from the outside, but by the looks of it no one ever had. "If you leave it open, you're practically asking for people to walk in."
"This was his own room. Why should people walk in?"
"To kill him? Someone did. If you suggest the murderer was already here, you're suggesting that she was female."
DCI Scott frowned at her. "Do you mean a woman?" That was something he had never considered. He had always assumed the murderer had come in after Hargreaves had got into the bath. He examined this other option.
"Females usually are," Margaret said dryly, deliberately misunderstanding him.
"I meant, a woman? In here? With him? Before the murder?"
"I have some trouble thinking of him as gay," she answered. "Such a scenario would rule out Poppy, as his daughter, and me, because I would never get into a bathroom with him. That leaves us only two women. Of the guests. I don't know about the staff. This is all assuming it wasn't an outsider, but frankly the timing and location of the murder more or less rules that out." And no visitors had been admitted to the house, had they?
"Speaking of bathrooms, when precisely did you hear sounds from the room next door?" Scott finally asked.
"What has that got to do with bathrooms?" she asked immediately.
"I thought you might have sought refuge in the bathroom."
Margaret looked surprised. "How do you know I did?"
"I thought you might have taken a bath instead of listened."
He had almost got it right then, but not quite. "No, no. I had just taken a bath when it all began, so I couldn't go back in and it was wet everywhere. I couldn't sit on the floor." She stifled a giggle. "Don't tell anyone. I put the toilet seat cover down and I sat on it with my laptop."
"What time was that?"
She wondered why he asked. "It was almost half past six. A little closer to a quarter past. I remember being appalled at the time they had chosen for such an activity." There was a faint blush.
So at that time it might have been Symonds or Sebastian Hargreaves as well, Scott thought. "Who was it and when did it stop?"
Margaret gave him a disgusted look. "I went into the bathroom for a reason. By the time I had a sore back from sitting hunched and decided to get out, I didn't hear anything anymore. I have no idea how long it takes." She looked annoyed and began to wash her hands. "Ask people who do such things."
Scott stared at her back reflectively. She had emailed again at 18:38, he remembered. That must have been shortly after she had come out of the bathroom. Ten to fifteen minutes was all the episode had lasted. "But who was it?"
She turned and looked vaguely puzzled. "Listen. I may have my suspicions, but they might not be correct. I assume you have questioned both parties and if you have to ask me, I'm assuming that they didn't tell you themselves."
"You could prove that they didn't do it."
Yes, she could see that. "Why should I, if they don't care about that themselves? And they could prove that I didn't -- by speaking up. But they haven't. Why not? Before I tell you, I'd first like to know what reasons they have for keeping silent. I am loath to clear or accuse people without proof." Margaret looked at him evenly.
Scott rolled his eyes. "It would help me a great deal if you just told me."
"Come on, Inspector. Why didn't you ask Clarissa outright? You didn't, or she would have told you. She's far from stupid, even if she prefers not to tell you until you've found out. Besides," she stepped forward and tapped his arm very lightly in a patronising manner. "I don't want to solve your case for you."
"So either Nigel was completely stunned or it was someone he knew and who took him by surprise when he wasn't looking," Margaret summarised when they exited the bathroom. She pretended not to see that DCI Scott was eyeing her with almost murderous intentions. Of course she had aggravated the poor man terribly just now and she did not know why. He was nice. Too nice, perhaps, and he had to suffer because of that. She really ought to get rid of that destructive mechanism some time.
"But no clues as to who it was, no fingerprints or hairs. All hairs that were found belonged to the victim." Scott had received news about that not long before. "And the murderer hasn't left anything else behind." He had to get over Miss Maxwell's attitude. It was in his way. She was in his way. If she was not also helpful, he would have to tell her to stop interfering, but right now she was a two-edged sword.
"Was the murderer wearing gloves?" Randall asked. "If so, where are they now?" They could not be far away if no one except Margaret Maxwell had left the premises. Contrary to Margaret, she was very interested in those murderous glares on one side and that introspective and dissatisfied frown on the other. The lady did not really take pleasure in upsetting Scott at this moment, but she seemed unable to help herself.
"Or they went out with the rubbish yesterday."
"Only bin bags closed before the murder went out," Scott said smugly. "If you insist on helping us, Miss Maxwell, I offer you this task."
She shuddered. "I've already told you that you have a fine sense of humour, Inspector, but don't you have local constables on loan for that?"
"If you'll excuse us, we'll confer with the local constabulary right away." He looked at her very seriously. "I don't know what plans you have, but may I ask you not to do anything prohibited by law?" He knew it was useless to ask. After he had turned his back she would start investigating on her own. He did not know why he was so sure of that, though. It had to be because she possessed just that little bit more information that she did not want to share.
"You may ask," Margaret said with a saucy smile, but in a much less saucy tone. "But I give you no reply." When she saw his exasperation, she relented. "I won't be the next corpse, I promise." The Inspector had a right to question her and his suspicions were not far off the mark. She was planning to snoop around a little. It was not everyday that one was confronted with a real murder case and one had to make the most of it.
"Well, sir," said Randall when no information was forthcoming about Scott's trip. He had found her in the study and he had suggested they investigate the bathroom another time, without telling her where they had been. She had expected that he would do so later, but then Margaret Maxwell had appeared and he had not sent her away, or rather his half-hearted -- and perhaps not very seriously meant -- attempt had not been a success.
"What did Miss Maxwell have to do?" She had only been told that Margaret Maxwell had important business elsewhere, the relative importance to be decided by the DCI alone, naturally. "And you were right about keeping your trip a secret, because both Arthur and Clarissa approached me with the question of when they were allowed to leave. They have important things to do as well."
"You didn't tell them, did you?"
"No, of course not." She realised he was not answering her question about Margaret's reason for leaving. "Why did she have to go and why did you have to go with her? I thought you had already decided that she didn't do it."
"She didn't."
"So, why?" It was typical for Scott not to give a direct answer to a simple question, but to hope that she might forget what her point was. She would remember, though, and she would continue until she had an answer.
"Randall, why don't you ask her? I'm sure that if she feels you're allowed to know, she would tell you. I don't know if she minds that you know the reason. I cannot speak for her." He would keep Margaret's secret.
Randall felt annoyed. "If it's important to the case I really don't care if she minds and you shouldn't either." She was sure that he was making too much of it. In all likeliness it was nothing of interest.
"It's not important to the case. What did you find out here?"
She held her breath, considering a reaction that showed him just how displeased she was with his evasiveness, but she remembered that he was still her superior and that even with one as easy as Scott, she had better be wise. She would find Margaret and ask her directly, she decided. "The gardener didn't see anything strange. I mean, nothing stranger than what usually goes on." She coughed. "I now know about everybody's preferences with regard to the park. Would you care to hear them?" She expected that he would not. He was always a bit sensitive about such issues.
"Preferences with regard to the park," Scott repeated suspiciously. "Please clarify."
"Who likes to do what and where," Randall said with a saucy grin.
He backed off instantly. "Do any of these preferences have any bearing on the case? Or did you and the gardener just engage in gossip?"
"Arthur and Margaret like the rose garden," she said slowly, studying him.
"To do what?" he asked evenly, certain that Randall was out to get him. He should by no means betray any anxiety about this revelation, or ask what they would do in the rose garden. It was probably something very innocent.
She looked a little disappointed that he did not bite. "To work in peace. They bring their laptops. Edwin likes to walk his ladies to the copse of trees beyond the pond. Clarissa likes to sunbathe with very little on in any location not previously detected by the gardener --"
"Did he say that?" Scott interrupted. He could not imagine that someone would admit to spying on a sunbathing woman.
"Not literally, but that's how I interpreted it. To continue, Sebastian doesn't care about the park at all and Anna likes flowers, but she can never remember any names." She looked at her notes. "Tomorrow we'll get the definite info on the phone calls and bank accounts, as well as on the contents of the will."
"Good. What else?"
"I spoke with a few of the suspects, but I didn't learn very much. None of them met for the first time this week. They all knew each other already from previous occasions."
"Here or elsewhere?" If they had been here before, they might be more familiar with the layout of the house and Nigel's rooms, as well as with his habits.
"Both. But that was it. I spent most of the time on the phone, arranging things."
They parted, Randall hoping to find Margaret somewhere so they could have a word in private and Scott to have some questions of his own answered.
Margaret had thought she would start with the room of whoever was likeliest to stay at the poolside the longest. A peek out of the window showed her that Poppy was snogging Edwin in a deck chair and Anna Edmondson and Sebastian Hargreaves were looking bored with that, but too lazy to move. The other guests were not in sight, so it was not wise to try their rooms -- they might be in them.
Edwin and Poppy might be tempted to continue their activities elsewhere, so she had to do Anna's room first. Anna, she knew, preferred sunbathing to almost anything else, and given that this was the sunniest day for weeks, she would want to make the most of it. What Sebastian might do was unclear.
She did not think she would find anything in Anna's room, but it was a good first step on the snooping path. She might learn how to tackle a next and more important room more efficiently.
Randall's mention of gloves had brought the first aid kit to Margaret's mind. She would need gloves, in case Scott and Randall would check Anna's room for fingerprints and find hers all over. How would she talk herself out of that? It was best not to leave any behind and with this weather the only gloves available were the ones in the first aid kit.
She was probably the only one apart from the housekeeper who knew where the first aid kit was kept -- in the wardrobe in the hall, on the shelf, covered by hats. Quietly she inspected the box. She might leave fingerprints on this too if she opened it, so she used a thin shawl to push the bolts away. It was very easy. Still with the thin shawl, she carefully searched the kit until she found the package with gloves. It was unopened, but according to the list of items there should be two such packages -- yet there was only one left.
Surprised by how easy it was not to leave a trace, Margaret went upstairs with the gloves in her pocket. Another peek from the window showed her that Anna was now lying with her eyes closed and Edwin was in the water. She would not be interrupted soon.
Anna's room was opposite hers. As she turned the doorknob silently, she felt she was doing the same thing the murderer must have done. Again she was surprised at how easy it was, but this time she felt a little more unsettled. No one saw her going into another room at all. No one would see anyone go into her room either.
Inside Anna's room, Margaret first checked her escape options and excuses. There were no excuses. Anna did not have anything she could possibly need -- except a balcony facing south. Perhaps that would work if all else failed. With the curtains closed, Anna would not see if she hid there. Preferably she should leave it as soon as possible, though. The drop from the balcony was too much to be jumped, but dangling would work.
Having that sorted out, she started with the bathroom because that was the most difficult place from which to escape. There were no gloves in the bin, only cosmetic waste, and nothing suspicious elsewhere.
Because she had spent a few minutes in here already and the situation downstairs by the poolside might have changed, she opened the door to the hallway slightly in order to hear approaching footsteps and then she continued with the dresser. Anna was not the tidiest person, but presumably if she wanted to hide something she would not hide it among the mess on the floor and the table.
After numerous uninteresting items of underclothing -- an amazing quantity for someone who was to stay here for only a week -- Margaret finally encountered something worth looking into -- a diary.
"I haven't seen our dear Maggie all day," Poppy said to Randall when the latter walked past the swimming pool. "Are you sure she's still in the house? Shouldn't you check if she's still in her room? Maybe she stole my jewellery."
"Is your jewellery gone, Miss Hargreaves?" Randall asked politely. Earlier, Poppy had also asked her where Margaret was. She had been told Margaret was in her room, but obviously she did not quite trust this information. Perhaps she had checked.
"Not that I know of."
"Then why are you wondering if Miss Maxwell stole it?"
"How else do you think she supports herself?" Poppy stretched her legs lazily. "She's a bit passé in the business."
Randall sat down to hear more. She observed the two others by the poolside. Anna was looking as if she had trouble believing it, but Sebastian was smirking. Edwin had just left -- she had passed him on her way here -- or else he would have protested, she thought.
Scott ran into Edwin Symonds outside the lavatory. He wondered if there was anything he needed to ask him, but Edwin beat him to speaking. "So, did you allow Margaret to go home?" he asked.
"Why should I have?" Scott asked cautiously.
"Because of her family life."
"What do you know about her family life, Mr Symonds?" Margaret had implied that not many people knew anything about it, but perhaps Edwin was an exception because he had known her for a long time. Still, it was better to be careful about revealing anything.
"She has one family member to take care of and I know she was supposed to do that as of today. That was why she was going to leave today. Did you allow her to go?"
"No, I did not."
"I, for one, wouldn't protest if you did allow her to go."
"There are more guests in this house," Scott reminded him, but he was pleasantly surprised at the man's concern for Margaret's family situation. He was not thinking solely about himself, even though that was a quality he had first assumed about many of the guests here. "I cannot make any exceptions."
"I suppose you cannot," Edwin agreed. "She will understand that, I'm sure, if you explained it, but she can be a bit difficult. If you want me to have a word with her, just say so."
"Thank you, but that won't be necessary. I think the situation was resolved to her satisfaction."
Symonds looked surprised. "Well, have I ever. That's quite a feat, Inspector. You did not let her go and she was still satisfied. My compliments to you." With a shake of the head he went into the lavatory.
Scott mused about his words as he continued into the study. Here was where Nigel Hargreaves had spoken to Arthur Moss just before his murder. Here was where he was supposed to have had another appointment with an unknown visitor at 16:30, when interestingly enough none of the staff had let any visitors in around that time.
He stared around himself. There was only one entrance. He had just come through it. Arthur would have left the room that way, but Arthur had not run into anyone, not in the hall and not on his way to his room. If Nigel's appointment had shown up at all, which might not even have been the case, who could it have been? Clarissa and Poppy were the only two internal candidates.
There was a window, but why should a bona fide visitor come in that way? Scott walked closer to examine it. He could not imagine why a visitor with malicious plans would climb in through a window and then not kill Nigel until the man was in his bath.
On the other hand, if Nigel had already gone upstairs, climbing in through this window ensured that one was not seen, especially if one turned left after leaving the study and not right. At the far end of the corridor there was another staircase. This route did not lead one past the central hall and the kitchen.
Provided that the window had been open, it would have been easy to climb in -- the window sill was low and on either side of the window there were huge bushes that shielded one from curious eyes. It was just as easy to climb out. Before Scott did so, he hung over the window sill to inspect the soil. There were no footprints, but the earth was dry. Maybe it was impossible to leave any. He stepped out and tested it. It was indeed next to impossible to see that he had set his foot there.
Just as she was leafing to the present date in the diary, footsteps approached and Poppy's voice could be heard. Margaret froze and tried to make out to whom she was speaking. Poppy's room was not this far down the corridor and neither was Edwin's, but if she was with Anna, Margaret had better get onto the balcony very quickly. Regretfully she closed the diary and put it back. It was best not to take any risks. She slid through the curtains, trying to keep them still. There she waited for a few seconds until she heard a sound at the door. Then she quickly swung herself over the railing.
Even the best-laid plans go awry. This proved it again. In planning this she had not counted on the fact that, once hanging, she might find it too high to let go. Margaret cursed her own curiosity. At some point she would have to let go and she might break her ankles. Until then, she hung suspended for as long as her hands could bear it.
Just when she was in complete agreement with herself that it was silly to keep hanging, suddenly someone grabbed her around the waist and the weight was off her own hands. She let go in relief, not caring who was supporting her, and she was guided to a bumpy landing in a flowerbed.
"Bloody hell!" muttered DCI Scott as he helped her up. "What did you think you were doing?" He was more angry than concerned, if one could call the prevalent emotion anger at all. Margaret had not been that far above the ground, but how did she come to be suspended here with no apparent intention of jumping down? She had not jumped up -- she had come off that balcony and it was not the one belonging to her room. If he was not very much mistaken, her room was not even on this side of the house.
He had told her not to do anything and despite having known that she was not going to listen, he had hoped she would have more sense than to get into dangerous scrapes. All right, scratch his anger, he thought -- he was mostly concerned.
Suddenly he noticed her gloves. "What are you wearing those for?" She had not been up to anything innocent. White latex gloves were hardly fashionable. She had not wanted to get her hands dirty, but why?
Margaret could not yet speak. She flexed her hands and removed the gloves, stuffing them into her pockets out of sight, so perhaps he would not longer ask about them. She was glad he did not shout. The last thing she needed was people seeing them get up from a flower bed. People might wonder what they were up to. Strictly speaking she was the only one who was up to anything, but she shuddered to think what anyone would make of the DCI grabbing her by the waist. They were in front of a window too. No one had looked out yet, so that meant that the room was empty in all likeliness, but people might come in. She cast worried glances at the room.
Scott would like to hear what was going on, but she was unusually silent. He had expected her to tell him haughtily to mind his own business, but instead she said nothing and she seemed unable to speak. That was strange. He lightly squeezed her waist. "Margaret?" If there was something up there that had shaken her, another dead body for instance, he would like to know.
She inhaled audibly. "Not here. I have a lot to tell you, but not here." They were too exposed here. They should find a place that was more shielded. Whoever had come into Anna's room might step out onto the balcony.
There ought to have been something that had prepared her for the shock of finding herself held, even if it was as lightly as this. It was an innocent gesture and if performed by someone else she was sure she would not be so affected. Margaret hated herself. She really ought to get more practice in being touched. It was far too unsettling this way and she could not tell him that.
"The rose garden?" he suggested. It was a relatively secluded place where they could not be seen from the house. The hedges surrounding it would hide them from view from anyone else in the park as well. On top of that Randall had told him that it was Margaret's favourite spot.
Seated on a bench in the rose garden, Margaret could begin her tale. She had recovered enough by now to speak more or less calmly. "I thought I'd search some rooms," she began matter-of-factly, in case the Inspector would not share her opinion that this had been a logical and necessary thing to do.
"Because that's what people do, don't they?" he nodded.
"I knew you wouldn't be angry." He had looked a little angry at first, but she now ascribed his frown to concern.
"So you thought of my reaction before you went ahead?"
"How could I not, after you told me not to do anything illegal? I figured I could start with Anna, since she looked to be glued to her sun bed and the other two were in engaged in activities they might consider continuing elsewhere. And because I didn't know if you were going to search all rooms at some point, I thought of the gloves in order to prevent fingerprints. That brings me to my first interesting find -- one of the two packages was missing from the first aid kit." Margaret looked at Scott in anticipation. He was always too calm. He did not become angry, but he did not become excited either. He should find this significant. "Well?"
"Interesting," he agreed flatly.
"You're so…dull!" she complained. "Tell me it's significant."
"But it might not be." The first aid kit might have lain there for ages and the gloves might have been removed ages ago as well. Unless they had gone missing in the past two days, he could not consider it important at all.
"Inspector!" Margaret cried in frustration.
"Iain."
"That doesn't make you any less frustrating. Besides, Iain lends itself much less to cries of exasperation. It sounds like a whine." And it was too familiar. She should at all costs avoid that.
All he did in response was raise his eyebrows very slightly. "The gloves need not have been removed in the past few days."
"Nothing else seemed used. Do you have one of those kits yourself? All you ever use is plasters. This was a new kit. No one had even used the plasters yet. I did not leave any fingerprints, so you might have the kit tested."
He knew he would not let the matter rest until he promised to do what she said. "All right. And then?"
"I checked Anna's bathroom -- nothing. I had just found her diary in the dresser when I heard Poppy in the hallway, so I had to leave the room in case it was Anna she was talking to. I didn't get to see who it was, of course. Now this was also interesting. Anna has been meeting one N in the past few weeks, usually Thursdays or Fridays."
"N for Nigel."
"Or Norman, Noel, Nathaniel. I suppose it's a bit too much to expect all suspects to socialise only among themselves as if no other people exist, but if Nigel's diary indicates the same…"
Scott did again not look impressed. "Then Anna has been meeting Nigel. It might be bona fide. Randall has the diary. I'll ask her."
"How can Randall work with you?" Margaret asked, in a faintly plaintive voice. "If someone else makes a discovery you treat it as if it's nothing."
"You don't come very far if you focus too much on one option," he said, but there was a hint of laughter in his eyes. Then it disappeared and he looked serious. "I thought something serious had happened up there because you couldn't speak. You didn't find a corpse?"
She looked the other way for a few moments and then turned back. "Listen," she said as if she was instructing in an important matter. "I didn't hang up there in order to be caught. That has to be the oldest trick in the book." She did not like it that she had unwittingly manoeuvred herself into a position that others might seek out with a transparent purpose.
That was the usual Margaret again. He could not withstand the temptation to smile. "Not in my book. What kind of book have you been reading? The oldest trick is something completely different."
"The second oldest then. Anyway. I did not hang there in order to have someone catch me. That was a --"
"-- risk you were taking." Scott nodded.
"Actually, no. I'd have preferred not to be caught by anyone."
"You would have preferred to hurt yourself instead."
Honesty was as always the best option. Only the unreasonable would not allow her to have her own fears and discomforts. Her eyes dared him to find fault with hers. "I was a bit shocked at finding myself in your grasp."
"I see," he replied. "Well, I don't, but there's no need to explain that if you don't want to."
"I'm not too fond of being touched. Wait, that's not true," she corrected as she remembered hugging Ailsa. "It just doesn't happen very often, that's all. Does that sound silly?" To some people it must. Some people touched everyone all the time. It was just not her thing. Perhaps someday that would change. However, it was not that she disliked it. It was just that it unsettled her. There was a difference, but would he understand? Would he even care to know? She should never have told him this.
He could simply say no and she might not believe him. It was impossible to just say no to someone like Margaret. She would want arguments and explanations, but he would try to give her those. "No, it's not silly. It's very understandable, but --" She had to know there was very little he could have done for her without touching her, what with her being suspended from a balcony and his having nothing else to help her with except his hands.
"Why?" she asked immediately. "Why is it understandable?" Some people would think she was too cold, too insensitive or too frigid.
He smiled because he had been correct. She wanted an explanation. "Your attitude is such that people assume you don't need any touching. You're verbally unbeatable and highly critical. It's not inviting. I, too, thought you would tell me to mind my own business when I helped you." He spoke quietly, but did not sound unfriendly. "Even though I have no reason to fear your tongue, I still expected you to say that for a moment. But you didn't. I don't find you very daunting, Margaret."
"Damn," she said humorously. "Life is safer when people do. I find you daunting, though." See? She was already abandoning her serious tone and becoming flippant to hide the fact that she was talking about something difficult.
"Oh, not me -- merely the effect I have on you."
"You only speak if you have something impressive to say, don't you?" she asked, feeling disconcerted. He was right, of course. It was the effect he had on her. She was the one who could not handle it well, for some reason or another.
He did not want to undo that effect by uttering something unimpressive like a denial. "You know what I mean."
"Yes, I know what you mean. I wish I didn't." She wished he was not forcing her to re-evaluate her personality and her reactions to people. She would never get out of those never-ending circles of knowing she should improve, but also knowing why she was doing what she did.
"I'll stop the torture -- for the moment."
"Are you torturing yourself as well?" Margaret wanted to know. It would only be fair. She suspected that he might, because otherwise he could never be so insightful.
"Identifying and facing my fears, yes. But I take my time. I don't bite off more than I can chew. At least, I try not to. I sometimes find too much in my mouth anyway." He stood up. "Now, let's walk around and discuss the case. I won't offer you my arm," he smirked as an afterthought. "Don't worry."
Margaret grinned in spite of herself. That was actually something she would be able to handle, after having given it several minutes of consideration, naturally. Not right away. She stuffed her hands in her pockets nevertheless, encountering the gloves. She would deal with those later. "So, about that offer…I don't think I should call you Iain in front of the others, should I? I'm still a murder suspect, after all."
"Hmm. All you're guilty of is not telling me everything you know." But calling him Iain in front of the other guests might indeed make them think he was giving her a preferential treatment, or perhaps that she had him wrapped around her little finger.
"You might not like me if I told you everything I suspected. I don't have that many facts. I have principles. Perhaps my principles are different from other people's, but I try to live my life as strictly as possible according to those principles. Don't say things if you don't know if they're true. That's one of them. You might be familiar with the other side of the coin."
"Which is?"
She gave him a self-deprecating smile. "Say things that are true, without…" He would be able to finish that sentence and supply the correct word or phrase.
"Without diplomacy or tact?"
Margaret shrugged. Yes, that fit, she supposed. "I try not to lie." She glanced at her watch. "By the way, aren't we late for dinner?"
"Yes, we are," he said after checking the time. It was indeed already twenty past seven -- eighteen past seven in the dining room.
Randall seated herself on the empty terrace to process the impressions of the chat with Poppy. It was quiet there and she took out her notebook to make some notes.
Poppy had tried to make her believe that Margaret supported herself financially by stealing jewellery, to no avail of course. It was unclear why she tried, as there was no proof for anything of the sort. Randall had made the appropriate, not too critical noises in the hopes of learning something more valuable. Nobody else had interfered.
Criticism of Margaret had been as incessant as it had been insane, so at last Randall had given up, because any change of topic failed in the long run and there was no assistance from either Sebastian or Anna. The latter, she noticed, did not agree with Poppy, but she appeared too afraid to speak her mind. A disturbed glance was all she was capable of.
Just when Randall had noted down that she ought to speak to Anna alone, the girl showed up, looking a little shy. "Would you mind if I joined you?" she asked.
"Not at all." Randall closed her notebook. Perhaps there was more character to Anna that she had given her credit for.
Anna sat down, finding the young policewoman easier to speak to than the Inspector, of whose stern blue eyes she was a trifle afraid. "I just wanted to say…I don't like what Poppy says about Margaret. It isn't true. But she gets really nasty if you say so and well, she's the only other person my age here." She thought that a lame excuse herself.
"That's all right," Randall comforted her. "What else isn't true?" Liars usually lied about more than one thing.
"Oh…" Anna looked thoughtful. She lowered her voice so she would not be overheard by people passing by accidentally. "Some things sometimes. About men, or parties. She told me once that someone had asked her to marry him, but that she had turned him down, but that wasn't true at all because he told me so."
So Poppy made things up, but were they only things of a particular nature? Did she have a particular obsession? "Does she wants everyone to know how well-loved she is?"
Anna had to think about that again. "Yes, I guess so. And she would not like someone else being loved or liked. Mum said not to let her know that I have lunch with Nigel very often. Well, not anymore, I guess, now that he's dead." She grimaced.
This was the first time Randall had seen one of them display an emotion that looked remotely like sadness. It was also interesting that Clarissa had decided that Poppy was not allowed to know about Anna's meetings with Nigel, meetings that seemed to have been orchestrated by Clarissa. "Why did you have lunch with him? Was he a good friend?" The man was old enough to be her father.
"Mum said I should get to know him," Anna shrugged. And Anna dutifully did everything her mother told her to do. "I assumed he was a particular friend of hers."
Or he had been one some twenty years ago? Randall wished she could note this sudden thought down. It would certainly be a significant development in the case if Anna turned out to be Nigel's daughter. According to Margaret Anna was illegitimate. Anna did not know much herself. That was evident. Clarissa obviously knew the truth, but what had Nigel known and what did Margaret know? She was aware that she was running ahead of things here, but the matter was very, very worthy of special consideration. Whoever had had a motive for wanting Nigel dead depended on whoever had known about Anna.
Clarissa had known, but it would not have been to her advantage to murder Nigel before he came to know about it himself and he could support Anna financially. One did not remove a potential source of income.
Margaret stood nothing to gain from the knowledge at all, if she possessed it. She had probably picked up on shreds of information and drawn her conclusions. Randall doubted whether Margaret would be able to sketch a clear picture.
To Nigel it might have made a difference, because he might have remembered Anna in his will. And that, Randall assumed, was a bad thing for Poppy -- if Poppy had known. Suppose Poppy had known. She would not have liked it and that was an understatement. She would not have embraced Anna as a sister, but she would have considered it a serious threat. Clarissa seemed to realise that, so it was unlikely that she had ever told Poppy.
There was no telling what Nigel had done. He had always supported his daughter. He might even have thought it would make her happy to have a sister. Yet so far there had not been any indication that Poppy held a grudge against Anna, or that she treated her like a sister. They lay in the sun with the same people, but that was all. Neither Anna nor the men might have noticed a subtle change in Poppy's behaviour, though. Randall had not found them to be overly perceptive.
That Anna was Nigel's daughter was nothing but a very wild guess, but so far it made sense to Randall. She had to better than this to convince the DCI, she knew. It might be useful to bounce the idea off Margaret first.
"Is it time for dinner yet?" Anna asked when Randall did not speak.
Randall blinked. "Oh. Yes, it might be," she said after looking at her watch. It was just about a quarter past seven. They walked to the dining room, but there was no time to discuss anything with Scott before dinner because of all the other people around. Everything would have to wait until later, but she signalled to him that she had to speak to him.
The advantage of having two extra guests at the dinner table was that the same old topics were not rehashed and that people tried not to speak about acquaintances that Scott and Randall would not be familiar with. At least, that was how it appeared to Margaret. How polite, she remarked soundlessly to herself.
She herself was too busy studying Anna for a resemblance to Nigel to participate in the conversations. She had studied Anna before, but her Randall's suspicions had given her curiosity new impulses. Anna looked a lot like Clarissa, that was all. It was hard to imagine that there had also been a father contributing to her genes. It was much the same with Ailsa, Margaret thought. Thank goodness. The physical resemblance between the sisters had ensured that Ailsa might just as well have been a daughter of Margaret's.
After he had asked her such difficult questions in the beginning, Poppy had avoided the Inspector and she had succeeded. The fact that he had been too busy with other things to seek her out, had restored her confidence. She began to see him as a man again and those required a special approach. "Are you a Scot, Inspector?" she inquired.
"I am." He had thought that it was pretty audible where he came from.
"Do you ever wear kilts?"
He could foresee where Poppy was heading. The question became very boring after the second time it was asked, which was amazingly early in a Scot's life, he would wager. "No, I never wear kilts."
"Why not? Because they really wear nothing underneath?"
"I have better things to do than to look under a man's skirt," he answered. "But perhaps Miss Maxwell, as a fellow Scot, can shed some light on the matter?" Margaret might take over the conversation and get him off the hook. She was better with such queries, he assumed.
Margaret made a choking sound. "I cannot." She did not know what happened in practice. Like Iain, she had had better things to do than to ask, check or even wonder about that.
So Margaret did not care to come to his rescue or she could not. It was up to himself then. "Neither can I, though I plan to get married in one." He could easily say that. There was nothing definite about a mere plan.
"With or without underwear?" Poppy persisted.
"That depends on my wife," he said with a perfectly straight face.
Although he had not looked at her when he spoke the words, Margaret had trouble breathing. She could not think of Iain with another wife. Was that jealousy kicking in? Margaret disliked it that she should fell prey to such base emotions. She should be relaxed about this and not feel at all threatened at the mere thought of another woman, when the man had never even confessed to having any special regard for her.
Scott saw a rather disapproving frown. He wondered if she disliked kilts, or perhaps kilts with nothing underneath. He was determined not to say any more on the subject.
After dinner Randall wondered whom to speak to first, Scott or Margaret. Her dilemma was solved by Arthur Moss, who monopolised Scott with weighty arguments as to why he should be allowed to leave. "Miss Maxwell?" she said discreetly, seeking the other woman out as they left the room.
"Yes?" Margaret had planned to go upstairs to phone Ailsa, but she could postpone that for a while. Ailsa would not be going to bed in the next half hour yet.
"I have several questions to ask you."
"Oh? Well, fire away."
"The DCI told me to ask you why you had to go away today," Randall whispered.
"He didn't want to tell you himself?" Margaret smiled at his discretion. "That's nice of him. Follow me."
Not understanding, but curious, Randall followed her to her bedroom, where the laptop was switched on. She watched as Margaret clicked around in her main documents folder. The picture of a brown-haired, smiling girl appeared on the screen. Randall guessed her to be about ten years old. "Your daughter?" she asked in surprise.
"Sort of. Someone had to pick her up from school today."
Randall examined the picture. The girl looked a lot like Margaret. How come she was only sort of a daughter? "And Scott couldn't tell me, because…"
"I'd like to keep my private life private. There's a child involved." She showed Randall a few other photos. "She should grow up with positive attention and I don't think she should read about people focusing on the fact that she was unwanted by her mother who gave her away because a baby didn't fit into her life. That was my sister, by the way."
"I was already wondering why she was only sort of your daughter if she looked so much like you. She's a very pretty girl. Have you taken care of her for long?"
"Just about since her birth. My sister died less than a year later and there was never a father, so I'm all Ailsa has left." Margaret closed the windows with the photos, fearing she had gone on for too long already. "What was your other question?"
Randall related her conversation with Anna and the suspicion she now had. "I thought I'd tell you first before I tried it out on Scott. It might be too far-fetched for him. I fear I've used up all my speculative credit with my suggestion that you heard Nigel cheat on you with Clarissa and you then went to murder him."
"I beg your pardon?" Margaret cried. She and Nigel? What sort of an insane idea was that?
"Yes, that was Scott's reaction too," Randall snickered. "I'm sorry." If Margaret was very insulted she could always explain she had only suggested it to aggravate her boss and that Margaret had only been a victim of that wish.
"But you didn't really think…" It was too ridiculous for words. Actually it was not, but she had to suppress them, because they were none too complimentary and one should never speak ill of the dead. "Enough of that. Urgh. Let's think of your idea. I've just been telling the man I would only relate facts, not hunches. He told me all I was guilty of was not telling him everything I knew, but really I don't know, I only suspect."
"I thought you might," Randall said in satisfaction. The fact that Margaret had suspected the same thing, almost made it true. They would not both be seeing ghosts.
"Let's assume it's true. If Poppy knew about it, she has a motive. Her position as the heiress might be challenged if Nigel had planned to split his fortune among the two. I don't think she would have liked that. So we have to find out if Poppy knew."
"Shouldn't we first find out if Nigel knew? If he didn't know, there was no reason to want him out of the way because he would not have done anything about it."
"True. Clarissa could certainly not have wanted him out of the way. And it sounds as if Anna didn't know a thing, which is totally Anna."
"We'll know what's in the will tomorrow," said Randall. "I expect it might be crucial. You know Clarissa better than I do. Is she the kind to want the best for her child? The kind that would kill?"
"To be honest, I've never paid that much attention to her. I doubt that she would kill. She and Anna lead a comfortable enough life as it is. Unless Nigel was paying them and he threatened to stop the payments, I don't see why she would want him killed."
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