Getting Involved
It was not at an amusement park or a police station 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. She was surprised when they stopped without warning.
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 enthusiastically. She got a brief sniff from them as well, but they could not stop jumping up to Scott as if he was a good friend they had been missing all this time.
He turned to Ailsa, one hand on a dog's head to keep it under control. "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 was a point in its favour. She might be able to leave Ailsa here without worries. "If anyone asks, am I your sister?"
He laughed as if that was very funny. "You could try that."
"But it won't work?" she deduced quickly. "Just where exactly are we?" There was something he had not told her. It gave her pause to think he might be living here with his wife. That was silly of her. Why should he not have a wife? She swallowed. How could she be so disappointed at the mere thought? She was a fool.
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, which was stupid. He might still have a wife elsewhere. 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. It might be his mother, but it might also be a close friend who was not related to him at all.
"How do you do, Miss Maxwell?" said the woman politely.
Margaret was not surprised at being recognised. 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 correction, so it had to be right.
"And this is..." said Mrs. Scott in a welcoming manner, 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. Mummy too?"
"Come in. I'll make you some tea." Mrs. Scott thought it best to draw the attention away from the fact that they had not told the girl, who sounded bright and curious enough to take an interest in where she was taken. 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, although 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.
She had wondered about the mother, but she had not asked Iain any questions about her. Seeing her now explained a lot. Margaret Maxwell was a pretty woman, of course, and she could well imagine that she would need a special treatment. 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. She was not a dummy.
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. You wouldn't tell them. 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. Some of Margaret had definitely rubbed off on her.
"Are we too much for you?" Margaret sparkled when he did not say more. She laid her arm around her clever girl.
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," she said as she handed Margaret a cup. 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 not a father who could take care of the girl, she supposed that had to be connected. Many people would wonder about the existence of a Mr. Maxwell 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, but it did not reveal whether she wanted there to be a Mr. Maxwell 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.
The woman had a good point about unprofessional behaviour. He was not supposed to betray any of his personal opinions when he was working. Apparently his opinion had been displayed so clearly that Ms Maxwell had become defensive enough to tell him the truth about her niece. 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. She must have said something that had seemed inconsistent with her situation.
Iain never could pass up the chance to point out inconsistencies, though -- not unlike his opponent. That was very interesting. She wondered if they considered this trip to his mother professional. Miss Maxwell seemed to have her doubts about it.
"Margaret," Margaret 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. These urges 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."
Mrs. Scott settled herself more comfortably, preparing herself for a thorough analysis and interrogation of her guest, without either of them being disturbed by her son. He was undoubtedly a great distraction to Margaret, who would then be prevented from satisfying her hostess' curiosity. Could she please be intrigued when Iain brought home a woman and a little girl in the middle of a case?
"Are you Mummy's boyfriend?" Ailsa inquired without fear as they ascended the stairs. He had said he was there to carry her suitcase, but that was not where his involvement had stopped. They had got into his car and now they were at his mother's house and apparently only she was going to stay here and not Margaret. Nobody had said that yet, but it was all too obvious. Margaret had not brought a suitcase.
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 a criminal."
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 -- daughter when Margaret needed permission to leave and niece when she had wanted to stress someone else had been irresponsible.
"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 Mummy?"
"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. She was staring at him expectantly.
Ailsa was exasperated. "Do you think you're clever or something?" she repeated what Maggie often asked her. It was the perfect question when you no longer knew what to say.
He could not help grinning at her attitude. "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. "Mummy said she was too."
He inhaled and bit his lip. He had to be tactful here. He did not think the girl 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." He was still wondering about Margaret and her involvement. He should really ask her about Suspicions.doc.
"No, so she's like Miss Marple?" That was someone who was not with the police and yet always solved murders.
Scott winced in horrified amusement. "Miss Marple was old!" And she knitted. He was afraid to ask if Margaret knitted.
"But she's always smarter than the police and they always ask her to help."
He shuddered, still thinking of Margaret as a grey old lady. "Well, yes...shall we go and look at the rooms?" Saying anything positive 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. He did, but he should not.
"All right."
Margaret found herself alone with Scott's mother. She felt she had to clarify some things now that he was not there, lest Mrs. Scott should get the wrong idea about her, like Randall. "He didn't tell me where he was taking us. I told him I didn't know what to do with Ailsa other than bring her to where I was staying 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 really sorry if it's inconvenient to you." She hoped he had asked his mother first and not forced her to put up with Ailsa. "If you don't want to have her I will just take her with me, whether he thinks that advisable or not."
So Iain had said he did not think it advisable. Considering that he had told her he was staying in a house with someone who was a murderer she tended to agree with him. It was not a good playground for a curious little girl who would explore.
She understood the feelings of the mother, however. "Not at all. I don't mind having her. I heard you would not have given your assent if you had known he was going to send her to his mother?" That would explain why Iain had not told her.
Margaret 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. Other people might think that I'm not being investigated because I get along with the police, when I have really not committed the murder. Even DS Randall was suspicious of this trip."
Mrs. Scott was acquainted with DS Randall, but she did not say so. "You don't want any special favours."
"Definitely not. No matter that I didn't do it, allowing his impartiality to be called into question in a murder case is so unwise." It complicated the issue that she was the recipient of the favour and that she had had no choice.
"Or uncomfortable?" His mother smiled. If Margaret could say Randall was suspicious they had obviously had a chat about this, because Randall would never have kept silent about that.
Margaret closed her eyes for a second. That was something she would much rather not discuss and the best way to deflect questions was to ask them. "Do you often have to do this for him?"
"Never. Do you?"
So much for asking questions. She got them right back. "No, never. My life is not usually disorganised by unexpected events. I'm usually able to anticipate situations that have to do with work. She's at that school for a reason. I'm sorry about this."
There was no need to apologise for this situation. If Iain had gauged it correctly, this woman had nothing to do with the murder. His mother counted on that. Margaret would not do that to the girl. "Does your daughter have special needs?"
"No, I don't believe in special needs," Margaret said dryly. "One of her friends was dropped off once at our house with a two-page instruction manual. I won't do that to you. Ailsa will eat what she's given and she'll do what she's told. The only need she has is to ask people tricky questions, but she is used to being reprimanded if she steps out of line. I won't be angry if you do."
"That sounds as if I'm in for an easy time."
"Yes, she's very easy. I'm the one who needs to be handled with care." Her words were accompanied by a self-deprecating grin.
Section Seventeen
"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. They had not stayed too long after Ailsa had chosen a room. Now was not the time for family visits. He had to get back to work and he could start right now.
"Hmm. Something boring." 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. There had been some smirks back and forth that had been highly untrustworthy.
"Nothing critical?"
She laughed. "No, that wouldn't be its goal. No one would believe that, would they? My reputation is pretty bad when it comes to judging other people." They would not think she was capable of having an objective or even positive opinion on anything.
"So you can be nice about other people?"
She was going to say it was a rude question, but then thought that would not exactly be an example of niceness. "Interested in them, certainly. I could be nice about you, I suppose. But only if you solved the case," she added when the topic felt too close to becoming 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 was a vain hope, but she clung to it, if only to prevent herself from telling little white lies.
"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 that 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. She was almost ready to star in Arthur's project.
"Sounds cliché," Scott commented with little regard for Margaret's feelings.
She had brought that upon herself and she gave a resigned sigh. "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, rather than said he was clever. "I generally take the opposite of people's opinion. They have a tendency to think too well of themselves in this regard, if they're not too modest. If we take the other guests ... I don't know if there's anyone among them with a proper self-image. The men all think too highly of themselves and I'm not too sure about the women, but wonderful they are not."
He did not care if they were, especially not the men. "Are there any known liars among them?"
"Clarissa, whose real name is Ethel. But that's probably not a ground for murder, nor really a lie. That's her parents' fault."
"Ethel," he mused. She had told him that before. "No. It doesn't seem important."
"Nigel probably knew that anyway. They go a long way back." Maybe even to before she had become Clarissa, although that sounded more like a teenage decision than an adult one.
He repeated his question. "No other liars or criminals that you know about?" Giving him one snippet of useless information might be an attempt to distract him from asking about the more useful information that he knew she possessed.
A mere suspicion of lies was not enough. She could not tell him about suspicions and she had told him that before. "I don't know them well enough to say that with absolute certainty. I go by impressions."
Scott knew she was not telling him all. "Impressions might help me." His patience was going to run out soon.
"I'd make an absolute fool of myself if I told you what I was thinking. You'd probably accuse me of being a hypocrite again and you might be right." She did not want to go through that another time. It had actually been embarrassing.
"Why?" Did it have to do with unmarried mothers again? No, that could not be. They had already covered that. A similar thing, then. Something of which Margaret disapproved, but that she was not entirely sure she was not guilty of.
"Because."
"That's no answer."
That was why she had given it, naturally. "There's no proof for what I'm thinking. The only thing I'd accomplish by telling you would be that you're going to think me incredibly odd -- and that's even the best qualification I can come up with. Look, I would have told everyone else." She would not have cared what other policemen thought of her, but she did not want this one to think she was obsessed with people engaging in immoral behaviour. She so quickly called something immoral, far quicker than most other people did.
He shook his head at that. She had a strange way of flattering people. "To return the compliment, Margaret, I would already have pulled the truth out of everyone else." That he was more lenient with her was hard to explain.
"How was the trip, sir?" asked Randall, who appeared to have been lying in wait. She popped up as soon as the car doors were opened.
"Fine," Scott answered.
They did not look dishevelled, she noted. What had they been doing? "And Miss Maxwell's business?"
"Fine," Margaret answered.
"I'm jealous of the eloquent conversation you must have had," Randall remarked. She watched Margaret flash her a smile and then slip past her into the house. Fine. If that was how they wanted it, they would get it. Did they really expect her to believe there was nothing going on if they already spoke in the same manner? And if Margaret could be amused when she was being insulted, she had to be very pleased about something else. Randall forgot that she had been amused without being pleased before. "Did it all go according to plan, sir?"
Scott locked his car. "Yes and no. I don't know any more about the case than before I left. She's singularly secretive. Could you try some time?"
"I beg your pardon?" That was not what she had been expecting to hear. She certainly would not have expected him to ask her for help with regard to Miss Maxwell's secretiveness.
It made her wonder if he had even tried to make her talk. Surely he had not been thinking that simply driving around with the woman would lead to being taken into her confidence? Men were so simplistic at times. Randall shook her head wearily and she almost clicked her tongue indulgently. She would lend a hand.
He had not known that she was going to react like that. It made him regret his request and he was certainly not going to repeat it. "You heard me. Let's go up to Hargreaves' room and have a look there."
Section Eighteen
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 him, he might have some trouble explaining it to Randall. It did not usually happen that he closely involved suspects in his investigation. She had every right to have her reservations. "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. Well, well, Randall thought. The DCI had apparently befriended Ms Maxwell on the trip. She was not surprised.
"I'll sit on the bed -- after you've searched that -- and keep myself available for consultations," Margaret said sweetly. "Unless DS 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 of the Detective Chief 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 that she was guilty of what was pointed out to her. She had been observing him. "Oh Sergeant! How could I ever refute that?" Nobody would believe her if she did, so why should she even try?
"I don't know if you want to try." Randall was a little surprised by the frank admission.
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. They were not talking about the case at all. They were giggling. There was nothing about the case that warranted giggles, although there was all the more about him that did.
"Sorry, sir." Randall blushed. She remembered he wanted to know about the case and not whether Miss Maxwell had the hots for him.
"Miss Maxwell stays on the bed." He turned back into the bathroom, fully counting on her to follow them.
"Sure." Margaret followed him into the bathroom. "I'm an obedient little woman." She could read between the lines.
"Good. That's how I like it," he said. 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. He would not have pulled it towards himself, if only because one did not ordinarily do that with CD players. They would test some things out nevertheless. "Randall. You said you liked Jacuzzis. Get in."
"Right now?"
"Yes, I won't turn the taps on. Sit the way Hargreaves was found." He wanted to see if that gave him any ideas.
Randall stretched out in the bath, facing them. "He would have to have seen the murderer approach, sir." That was the first obvious conclusion to be drawn.
"Yes. And there's no space for CD players behind you," he observed the small ledge that could at most hold a shampoo bottle. "Even if it wouldn't have been madness to put something there in the first place. Ever been here, Miss Maxwell?"
"No. Why should I?" She looked vaguely insulted at the question. She would not have been in a man's bathroom. What was he trying to find out?
He shrugged. Nigel might have given her a tour of the house, for all he knew. She did not need to have been in the bath with the man. "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. There were still two CDs on it. "It could be operated with a remote control that runs on batteries. As far as he housekeeper knows, the remote control has never fallen into the bath. And it was found here." He indicated the edge of the bath, which would have remained dry.
"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? It was all his. Most containers were dark blue and had For Men written on them. "And vain."
"Exactly. Why should he never drop the remote control and then pull an entire CD player into the water? Now, Randall. If I lifted the CD player and you saw me do it, what would you do?" He placed the waste bin on the table and lifted it.
"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. He was wondering how long the cord had been and how far the CD player could have been carried. "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 if you see me." Scott lifted the bin again.
"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 without falling over. The bath would have been slippery. "He wouldn't have managed, sir. And you -- I mean, the murderer -- would have been blocking the way."
What Hargreaves could have done was make the murderer drop the CD player on the floor beside the bath. That had not happened. Either he had been slow to react or the murderer had been very fast. "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 bathroom. Why should he lock it and why should people walk in?" he asked.
"To kill him? Someone did. You just asked me if I'd ever been here. Maybe someone else has. But if you suggest the murderer was already here, you're suggesting that she was female." Nigel would not have had any men in his bathroom with him.
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.
He tried not to roll his eyes. "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 or any other man. 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 rule 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. She had been voicing thoughts he might have had a few seconds later. It required some getting used to.
"What has that got to do with bathrooms?" she asked immediately, looking suspicious.
"I thought you might have sought refuge in the bathroom." And the thought had just become a little more plausible.
Margaret looked surprised. "How do you know I did?"
Randall got out of the Jacuzzi and sat on the edge, interested in what was about to unfold. The man had finally mustered up the courage to ask. He did not deserve be disappointed by hearing something he was not going to like.
"I thought you might have gone to take a bath instead of stayed to listen." The sounds seemed to have bothered her. One did not go over to ask if it could stop in such a case, but one might try to get away.
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." Margaret 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?"
"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. Not long before dinner." There was a faint blush.
So at that time it might have been Symonds or Sebastian Hargreaves as well, Scott thought, since they had just gone upstairs. It could have been any of the men, but he was certain that Margaret knew who it had been. "Who was it and when did it stop?"
Randall thought that was a stupid question to ask if Margaret had just said she was in the bathroom. Did he think she had gone to check every five minutes?
Margaret gave Scott a disgusted look. "I went into the bathroom for a reason. By the time I had a sore back from sitting with my back bent 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 twenty minutes was all the episode might have lasted. "But who was it? I can't ask him if you won't tell me."
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 because you questioned all of us and if you have to ask me about this, I'm assuming that they didn't tell you themselves."
That was true, but he had had no idea that she would so quickly realise that and refuse to answer on that account. "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 and proving that I'm not lying, something you still don't appear entirely sure of. 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. She had no idea what sort of mess she would land them in if she divulged this secret.
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 and would know this is important, 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."
"People here are so reluctant to speak about others -- and you in particular."
"I know it's no use to you, but it is called discretion. What would you think of me if I told you all sorts of untrue facts and suppositions about others?"
"I'd think you were very helpful."
"Don't do to others what you wouldn't like them to do to you. I'm sorry." She tried to smile, but failed. It was becoming harder to hold back, but she could not go back on her word. That was always important to stick to.
"You don't apply that in all cases. It's not fair. You get yourself involved -- you interfere! -- with my investigation. You use your extra knowledge for it and you won't share it." He kept his voice calm in order not to sound pathetic.
The way he put it, it was indeed not fair. Margaret had to give him that. She was a stickler for fairness. "I'll share it with you if it's cross-evidenced." For the moment he would have to be satisfied with that. It was the best she could offer.
Scott did not give her a very kind look.
"If you don't like me that would be something I could live with," she said in response to his look. "But I have to like me for me to live with me." It was imperative that she stay true to herself, instead of giving in and complying with any request from an attractive man as if she were some kind of compulsive flirt -- anything but that.
She had always kept her own counsel. The desire to share secrets now was making her nervous. And Scott was the innocent victim of that. She felt sorry for him. It was not his fault. He was merely in the wrong job at the wrong time.
"You're so annoying," he said very evenly. Perhaps insulting her would help. Her refusals were becoming boring.
Margaret's eyes flew wide open. "Are you allowed to say such things?" She had no idea how to interpret his words. If only he had used an angry tone or something recognisable. Now he might be angry, but he might equally well not be affected at all. It was always so difficult to tell with this man. She looked at Randall, but the girl was only smirking. "I'm glad at least one of us is enjoying herself."
Scott wisely did not look at Randall to see how she was enjoying herself. He kept his eyes on Margaret. "Yes, I am allowed to say that to you. What if I have evidence that would back up your supposed suppositions, but I haven't told you about that evidence? You could wait forever for your cross-evidencing -- what sort of word is that anyway? If you know anything you're obliged to tell me. What if another murder takes place just because you're a stubborn fool troubling yourself with self-imposed ethical restrictions?"
"I'm not pestering you on purpose," Margaret said, more gently than she was used to. She almost panicked at the tone.
"That doesn't make you any less annoying." Did he have to fall to his knees and plead for her to speak up? He was never going to do that.
"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 with fake cheerfulness 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. "Perhaps he had annoyed someone."
"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. Perhaps she should lock them in the bathroom and force them to talk things over.
"Or they went out with the rubbish yesterday," Margaret suggested pessimistically.
"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?" Perhaps he was punishing her for not speaking up.
"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, as well as a curiosity that could not be suppressed.
"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." DCI Scott had a right to question her intentions and his suspicions were not far off the mark. She was planning to snoop around a little. It was not every day 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. When he had returned 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?" That would have opened a fine can of worms. He should have thought of that beforehand and he ran a hand through his hair in concern.
"No, of course not." She realised he was not answering her question about Margaret's reason for leaving. She should not have asked brought up two topics at the same time. "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 her point, 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. She valued discretion. That was unfortunately all too clear.
Randall felt annoyed. She had already asked and not received an answer. "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 and she would be making a fool of herself for wanting to know.
"It's not important to the case. What did you find out here?" It occurred to him that perhaps Margaret's knowledge was about something that might not be important to the case either. He was doing to Randall what Margaret was doing to him. It did not feel all that pleasant.
Randall 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. Margaret had no reason to annoy her by not telling.
She should concentrate on the case now. "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, especially if she made it sound as if she was implying something.
"Preferences with regard to the park," Scott repeated suspiciously. "Please clarify." He wondered if he wanted to hear this.
"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. It was no wonder that he had guessed Margaret had fled to the bathroom upon hearing sounds in the room next door. He might have done that too. It was as if this was a fact of life they would rather not know about. Knowing about it and accepting it did not mean one was also participating in it, however.
"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 and not at all done together.
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, to another woman especially.
"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, the first of which were years ago."
"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. That would have made it very easy to take advantage of Nigel's routine.
"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.
Section Nineteen
Margaret had thought she would start with the room of whoever was most likely 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 and then jumping 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 in search of her. "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 and found Margaret was not there.
"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. Anna would not dare and Sebastian felt no inclination. "Is she?" That was not the impression she had received. The first who would tire of Margaret Maxwell would be Margaret herself and not the ones who paid her.
"Yes. Just doesn't know it yet, I guess. Ask Arthur. He's got this really grand show and Margaret wants it, but he's not going to give it to her. I think I'd do better with the public, don't you think?" Poppy stood up and twirled around in her bikini. "People like blondes. For that show she's doing now it doesn't matter, but for other shows the public wants someone young and pretty. Like me."
Anna had got bored or warm, because she had jumped into the pool. Sebastian followed her and Randall kept an eye on him to see if he could keep his hands off a young girl. Somehow she was not convinced of that. "So you would like your own show?" she asked Poppy, adding ambition to the list of motives.
"Daddy said I could have one if I did my best."
"How was he involved then?" Randall wondered whether that was a remark calculated to make her think that Daddy had not been in Poppy's way at all, or even to make her think that Poppy regularly did her best.
"He had the money."
It would be significant if that summed up all he was to Poppy. They knew about the money angle from Arthur Moss. His account would be more trustworthy and there would not be any need to hear Poppy's version. It was predictable, too. Randall switched topics. "We noticed that -- he spent quite a sum on his bathroom. Why did he have a CD player there?"
"I guess he liked music." Poppy became more cautious. "Why else would he have one?"
"Do you have one in your bathroom?"
"No, but is it forbidden? Hundreds of people have it."
"No, they do not." Randall had never heard of the practice, but she would deny it even if she had.
There was an indifferent shrug. "Oh well. I don't know how poor people live."
And she did not want to either. Randall nodded. She was not so sure she could believe Poppy about the CD player. It would have given her an excellent idea for murder. She visualised Poppy in her bath, plotting the method. She could be sitting here with a murderer. Contrary to Scott, she did not think someone could be too pretty to be a killer. An inheritance was a great motive, even for the visually well-endowed. "But you'll never be poor with such a father."
There was a smug smile on Poppy's face. Then she dropped her sunglasses and jumped into the pool, joining Anna and Sebastian.
For three people who never stirred from their sun beds they were suddenly very active and keen on swimming. Randall mentally compared escape mechanisms. Margaret had fled to the bathroom -- these three jumped into the pool when there was something they would rather not hear or talk about.
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. It was dangerous to admit that he had indeed allowed her.
"Because of her family life." Edwin did not want to say too much either.
"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 before 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? I, for one, wouldn't protest if you made an exception and you did allow her to go. Though it's too late now, I expect," he said, after glancing at his watch.
"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 initially assumed about many of the guests here. "I cannot make any exceptions."
"I suppose theoretically you cannot," Edwin agreed, although he frowned at the idea of leaving the girl to fend for herself. Perhaps Margaret had arranged for someone else to pick her up. "I understand. She would understand that too, 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 and she was not at all difficult." Not about that, no, but he was not very keen on hearing that Edwin could talk to her as if he was some sort of very close friend.
Symonds looked surprised. "Well, have I ever! That's quite a feat, Inspector. You must have let her go if she was satisfied. Not at all difficult? My compliments to you."
Compliments? Scott had never thought that handling Margaret adequately was worthy of compliments. It had not been very difficult. "Although ... she is being very difficult about other matters. Perhaps you could ask her why she refuses to tell me all she knows."
"She won't talk?"
"Not about everything." Although it was personally useful to know Ailsa was Margaret's niece, it did not advance the case at all.
"She didn't do it," Edwin said to be helpful.
"She may suspect who did."
"Don't we all," Edwin muttered. "But we may not care to pursue the thought because it would confront us with the fact that we've been wrong about a person, seriously wrong. Don't we all think we're good at picking friends?"
So Edwin was afraid of the truth and he preferred to live in denial. Of course he could be lying and it needed not be a close friend of his. Scott was not sure the same excuse applied to Margaret, not with regard to the identity of the murderer anyway. If she was living in denial it was only with regard to the fact that she ought to tell him all she knew. "That's all useless to me. People's selfish motives for keeping silent and their personal delicacies are unimportant when it comes to the case."
"I know. It's your job to make our lives difficult."
"Do I have to start arresting people before they realise they should talk to me?" he asked with a considerable amount of exasperation in his voice. "I know everyone is on holiday and this murder is a nasty inconvenience. It's even more inconvenient that the police want to question the guests when they prefer to lie in the sun. I'm so sorry to be a nuisance and to spoil their holiday, but someone ought to wake up to the fact that a cold-blooded murder has been committed in this house."
Edwin could not help but remark how much he sounded like Margaret at her worst and he grinned. "Come on, Scott. Don't expect her to give it to you all at once. You heard about the girl. Patience about the rest." Given their similarities, he had no doubt that Margaret would tell him at some point.
"If that was supposed to be encouraging, it failed."
Edwin paused before going into the lavatory, his hand on the doorknob. "Sorry. You know, you can't expect us to wonder on our own who killed Nigel. It's not our job to do that and to break through all of our mental barriers on our own. It's undoubtedly going to cost you some effort to force us. We are all humans who do not face our fears."
Scott went into the study and looked around himself. 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. Visitors would not let themselves in and if they walked around the house and passed by the pool they would be seen.
He stared. There was only one entrance. He had just come in 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 a person was not seen, especially if you 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 you 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 a person from curious eyes. It was just as easy to climb out. Before Scott did so, he hung over the windowsill 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 went 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.
Section Twenty
DCI Scott muttered something under his breath 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 no longer ask about them. She was glad he did not shout. The last thing she needed was people seeing them get up from a flowerbed. 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 window.
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 and see them.
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 in the park.
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." That was more a provocation than a real lie. 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 ... er ... 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," he reminded her gently.
"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 for prints."
He knew she 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." That was what she was getting at.
"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 him 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." He nodded again. Some women took it much too far.
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, not thinking he had literally grasped her. "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 merely 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 in the only way I could." He spoke quietly, but he 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, but some untruths slip past nevertheless." 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.
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