Death of a Cozy Writer

“No. And if she knew about it, it certainly would remove one of her motives-the profit motive. But not all of them. There’s revenge, for a start. As to Ruthven’s death-Could anyone be as indifferent to a husband’s affairs as she pretends? But there’s no sign any of them had a clue what was going on with that will.”

“‘Who profits?’”

“All of them, except Lillian. We’re back to square one.”

“Not quite, Sir. Here’s the background on that Paulo fellow. I took his statement and all, after both the killings. No better than he should be, was my impression.”

St. Just flipped through the report, again bleeding red in the margins with Fear’s commentary.

“He’s been involved in the usual town-and-gown fracas. Broke a bloke’s nose once in a fight over a woman. Mostly seems to specialize in receiving stolen goods, with a little small-time drug dealing thrown in for good measure. Clean the last few years. Still…”

“Yes, I rather thought we might find something there,” said St. Just. “I think it’s time I had a chat with the staff, don’t you? Meet me over at Waverley Court when you’ve done here. My apologies to Emma, but we’ll be working late.”

***

Mrs. Romano and Watters were seated at what appeared to be customary positions at a large wooden table in the center of the kitchen.

Murder in the manor house seemed to have had a rejuvenating effect on Watters. His rheumy eyes strained to twinkle, like stars behind a cloudbank, as he sat bolt upright, hands folded expectantly. He looked like a wizened schoolboy awaiting a question to which he might have the correct answer.

Mrs. Romano, on the other hand, seemed less delighted to see St. Just: perhaps wanting to be of use in catching whoever was responsible, but fearing-or so St. Just interpreted her nervousness- her son’s involvement. Had she or he any idea of the kind of money they would enjoy with Sir Adrian out of the way? Was it enough for Mrs. Romano herself to do the old man in?

Looking at her handsome, still-youthful face, he somehow didn’t feel money would be an overriding motive. Passion, yes. Killing to defend her young. That type of crime. Cold-blooded killing for money was a different crime, and a different type of murderer. Still, three hundred thousand pounds-a total of six, for both her and Paulo…

She looked at him warily. It was Watters who seemed to have something he wanted to get off his chest.

“Them boots,” he said. “I told that young copper, someone else used them boots of mine. Put them back wrong, too. He took ’em away. You want to see?”

More out of politeness than anything, for he had seen Sergeant Fear’s meticulous report on them boots, he followed Watters into a utilitarian mud-cum-storage room between the kitchen and the kitchen garden. Here among the raincoats, scarves, and assorted outdoor gear stood several well-worn pairs of green, black, and bright yellow wellies.

“I left them just here,” he said, pointing to an empty spot in the row of shoes, evidently a collection of paired sizes and colors that had gathered in no particular order over the years. “When I came to use them the next day, after Sir Adrian was killed, they was mixed in-tossed in, like-with the others. I would never of done that. Mrs. Romano is most particular. I put them boots away careful like and then the next day they was all tossed about.”

Watters peered up at him to make sure he was taking all of this in. St. Just nodded.

“Right there, they was.”

“Yes, Mr. Watters. That was really most helpful of you to notice that. It would seem whoever killed Sir Adrian borrowed your boots, to obscure his or her own tracks. The ice makes it impossible to say for certain who might have borrowed the boots, and there were no prints on them, but forensics are still running tests.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Watters, pleased at the acknowledgement of how he, single-handedly, was helping solve the case, but at the same time deeply affronted. “Pure evil, ’tis, whoever done that. Trying to make it look as if I had sommat to do wit’ it.”

“Or just finding the boots handy to cover their own shoeprints. You, yourself, heard or saw nothing on the night of either murder- leading up to either murder-that would help us?”

“I was snug at home, thank the Lord. Mrs. Romano didn’t hear nothing either, did you?” He turned to her. “Not until she found him, Sir Adrian. She ain’t been right since, have you, Mrs. R.?”

“For the love of God, Watters. Do be quiet.”

“Yes, well, thank you so much, Mr. Watters. I can’t tell you what it means to us to have the active cooperation of the public. If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll have a word with Mrs. Romano alone.”

It took Watters a moment to realize he was being asked to leave.

“She had nothing to do with it, no more than I done,” he said.

“I just have a few questions. Mrs. Romano was in the house more often than you were.”

While that was patently untrue-from what he could tell, Watters spent most of his time hanging about the kitchen-the old man gathered his things and with a supportive little wave at Mrs. Romano, took his leave.

“He means well, Inspector. And it was a nasty trick to try to involve him, whoever did this. Watters wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

He had to agree, it was difficult to picture Watters worked up to a murderous fury. He sat down in Watters’ place across the table and regarded her.

“You’d worked for him a long time, Sir Adrian, hadn’t you?”

“I knew him for years. Decades. I never thought I would live to have such a shock, finding him like I did. Poor man, he did not deserve this. No one does. Ruthven, either. Whoever did this is wicked and cruel. I will not believe…”

She stopped, evidently fighting back tears, her mouth working.

“Not believe what, Mrs. Romano?” he asked gently, willing her to look up from the tea cup that held her enthralled.

She raised her fine eyes to look at him squarely.

“I’ll not believe any of them did this,” she said evenly. “It’s monstrous. Cold-blooded. And what did it gain them? He was an old man; he would have died soon enough, anyway.”

“Maybe someone just couldn’t wait.”

She nodded. Clearly she had been thinking along the same lines.

“Were you aware that both you and your son were mentioned in the will?”

“Paulo? Paulo, as well? No. No, I had no idea, no expectations. Not for either of us. That would have been wrong, to even think of it. Paulo had no idea either,” she added, staring at him unblinkingly, willing him to believe.

“Three hundred thousand pounds. Each.”

“Buon Dio.” Her hand flew to her heart. “No.”

“Not as much as was left to his family, of course.”

“Of course,” she said hastily. “Of course. Of course not. Three hundred thousand? Six hundred thousand for us? Are you sure?”

“He was a wealthy man, Sir Adrian.”

“Wealthy. Si,” she said. “In some ways. He had so much, but… Inspector, I have something to ask of you.”

“Go on.”

“I would ask you this: Do not tell Paulo about this money. Money like that, it can ruin a man, but especially-Let me be the one to tell him.”

Nodding, not even knowing why, St. Just saw no harm in agreeing.

As if making the decision as she spoke, she said slowly:

“I will return to my country. Sir Adrian, he must have known: That is what I most wanted. To be with my family, to live my old age where it is warm.”

She might have been speaking of her people or the weather. As he watched, the tears in her large almond- shaped eyes escaped. She made no attempt to wipe them away, crying as openly as a child.