The Lamorna Wink

got?” He looked neither to right nor left but headed toward the dead man and set about his preliminary examination.

Again, there was the sound of tires on gravel, a car coming to a halt, and running feet, and Melrose Plant stood in the doorway of the red drawing room, his coat over his bathrobe, feet still in leather bedroom slippers.

“Ah, no.” Plant turned away.

Thus far she had said nothing, but for some reason, perhaps because it was such a sad little understatement, Matron began to sob. Another woman, smaller and older, patted her shoulder and started crying herself. Morris Bletchley said something to the small old woman about bringing in coffee for everybody.

Melrose Plant looked around this room where he and Tom had been talking seven or eight hours ago. This poor boy, he thought, was talking about the miracles that had occurred at Bletchley Hall. Melrose had been astonished that Tom had actually looked happy. Maybe that was enough of a miracle right there.

Melrose looked across at Macalvie, who looked back. Melrose shook his head.

Macalvie asked how many cases they had here at the Hall at present and was told there were a dozen. “That’s all we can accommodate,” said Matron.

“Are they bedridden? That is, could any of them have been out of bed, moving about?”

Morris Bletchley said, “Several could have. I mean, we have some that are ambulatory, of course.”

“Then I want Detective Sergeant Wiggins to go room to room; I certainly imagine everyone’s awake at this point with a dozen police tearing up the flower beds. You don’t have to worry about his upsetting anyone unnecessarily. If you’d just show him where, Mr. Bletchley?”

Moe Bletchley nodded and left with Wiggins and Matron. Macalvie dispatched PC Evans to the grounds.

“What’s hard to understand,” said Dr. Hoskins, putting away his instruments of life and death and getting up so the ambulance attendants could move the body to a stretcher, “is why anyone would shoot to kill a man who was in the final stages of AIDS. Poor chap was going to die soon anyway; why would anyone try to kill him?”

Melrose said, his voice thick, “I don’t think anyone did.”

Both Hoskins and Macalvie turned to look at Melrose.

“It wasn’t supposed to be Tom. He wasn’t the intended victim. It was Morris Bletchley.”

Dr. Hoskins shut his bag briskly. He was a man who dealt with the body in situ, not the body out of it.

Macalvie nodded. “When can you-”

“Tomorrow morning. Early. I’ll talk to you then.” Dr. Hoskins bowed slightly to Melrose and left.

Macalvie looked at Melrose, waiting.

“It’s the wheelchair. It’s Morris Bletchley’s.”

“Bletchley? He doesn’t need a wheelchair.”

“No. But he uses it, he says, so as not to present a picture of too-perfect health to these terminally ill patients.”

A voice behind them said, “He’s right.” Morris Bletchley took a step forward, as if they all stood for inspection. “The bullet was meant for me. No end of suspects for that. Probably keep you busy for years, Commander Macalvie.”

Macalvie stared at him. “Not this time, Mr. Bletchley.”

37

They were sitting now, but not comfortably. Macalvie and Melrose were on one of the dark red velvet settees, Moe Bletchley on the other. PC Evans was still on the grounds, helping with the search for forensic evidence.

“Everybody’s seen me in that wheelchair; they know it’s mine.”

“Including visitors?”

Moe shrugged. “What visitors had you in mind?”

With a thin smile, Macalvie answered. “What visitors have you in mind?”

“No one. Few people come here, Superintendent; terminal illness isn’t very tempting.”

“Nursing homes aren’t popular with family and friends either, even if the illness isn’t terminal.”

“No,” said Moe Bletchley, looking sad.

No sadder than Melrose felt. What they were talking about, the failure of people to come to cheer you just when you were really sinking, made him think of Tom and Tom’s parents. On the other hand, there was his sister, Honey, a young lady Melrose would like to meet. Probably would, too, at the funeral.

“Late at night, though, Mr. Bletchley, would someone expect to see you sitting up?”

“Why not? I never go to bed before midnight anyway. I’ve been known to sit in just about any room at night, reading or just thinking. So, yes, there’s a high probability of finding me sitting alone at night.”

Macalvie nodded. “Okay. Anyone in particular you can think of who’d want you dead?”

Bletchley was silent for a few moments, then shook his head.

“Why not?”

“What?”

“Why can’t you think of anyone, since you’re convinced the bullet was meant for you?”

Morris Bletchley looked straight at Macalvie but offered nothing.

Macalvie’s gaze was blue and unblinking. His hands, stuffed in the pockets of his coat, seemed to be pulling him forward on the settee. “Come on, Mr. Bletchley, you’re a billionaire. Are you telling me you can’t think of anyone in your will who might be eager for a hunk of your money?”

Bleakly, Moe smiled. “A number of them. But I don’t see the Sailors’ Home killing me for it.”

“Who has the most to gain?”

“My son, Dan, naturally. Now that the grandchildren are gone.”

“And your daughter-in-law.”

Moe Bletchley said nothing.

“As I recall, you’re no big fan of Karen Bletchley.”

“That’s right. Nor is she fond of me. I don’t think that means we’d shoot one another.”

“Oh, you might not shoot her. Why don’t you like her?”

Moe shrugged, as if it should be obvious. “I think I told you that night. She married Dan for his money. I know it.”

“How?”

“Commander Macalvie, if there’s one thing I can sniff out at a thousand feet it’s someone who’s in love with money. She was here, incidentally.”

“When was that?”

“Three days ago. She stopped by to see me.”

“Is this something she often does?”

“No, never. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in over a year, but that was in London. She doesn’t come back to Bletchley. I’ve seen Dan a number of times, but without Karen. That’s why I was surprised.”

“What was her reason?”

Moe looked over to the window through which the shot had come, but Melrose thought he was merely looking at blankness-the black sky, the blacker trees. “She said she wanted to see Seabourne again. She said she was trying”-he rubbed his eyes as if to bring something into inner focus-“to come to terms with Noah’s and Esme’s deaths. Well, I don’t have to remind you-”

“No, you don’t. But why now? Especially since the house is leased to a stranger. Didn’t she know it was taken by Mr. Plant, here?”

“Yes. She’d been to see the agent, Esther Laburnum, who handles the property for me.”

Macalvie leaned forward. “Mr. Bletchley, doesn’t it seem strange to you that she’d show up, first time in four years, just when all these other things are happening?”

Moe looked off toward the black glass of the high windows again. “Yes, I guess it does.”