‘And that is?’
‘Murder.’
‘That’s a very dramatic assumption, Jo.’
‘I don’t think it is. I stood at the top of the stairs she fell down. There is just no way that Rose could have got up them by herself. And why should she want to? The top floor was completely deserted.’
‘In these situations you have to think as laterally as you can. For example, have you considered that this old dear’s quality of life was such that she really couldn’t stand it any longer? Surely, the logical explanation is that she somehow managed to drag herself upstairs and committed suicide?’
‘But what about the letter she sent me? And the theatre programme?’
‘Have you brought them with you?’
‘Yes.’ Joanna rifled through her rucksack and drew out the envelope. She opened it and passed Rose’s letter to him.
Simon scanned it quickly. ‘And the other?’
‘Here.’ Joanna handed the love letter to him. ‘Be careful. The paper’s delicate.’
‘Of course.’ Simon slid it out of its envelope and read that too.
‘Well, well,’ he murmured. ‘Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.’ He brought the letter closer to his eyes and studied it. ‘Have you noticed these?’
‘What?’
Simon handed her the letter and pointed to what he’d seen. ‘Look, all round the edge there are tiny holes.’
Joanna looked and saw he was right. ‘How odd. They look like pin-pricks.’
‘Yes. Pass the programme, Jo.’
She did so and he studied it for a while, then put it back down on the coffee table.
‘So, Sherlock, what do you deduce?’ she asked.
Simon rubbed his nose, as he always did when he was thinking. ‘Well . . . there is a chance that the old biddy was off her trolley. That letter could have easily been something written to her from an admirer, of absolutely no importance at all. Except to her, of course. Maybe her lover was an act in the music hall or something.’
‘But why send them to me?’ Joanna looked doubtful. ‘Why say it was “dangerous”? Rose’s letter is pretty intelligently composed for someone who’s supposedly lost their marbles.’
‘All I’m trying to do is to suggest alternatives.’
‘And if there are no plausible ones?’
Simon leant forward and grinned at her. ‘Then, my dear Watson, it seems we have a mystery on our hands.’
‘I’m convinced that Rose wasn’t mad, Simon. I’m also certain she was terrified of someone or something. But where on earth do I go from here?’ Joanna sighed. ‘I was thinking that maybe I should show this to Alec at work, see what he thinks.’
‘No,’ Simon said firmly. ‘You haven’t got enough yet. I think the first thing you have to do is establish who Rosewas.’
‘How on earth do I do that?’
‘You could start by going down to the local cop shop and spinning the same story you spun to Muriel, about being the great-niece just back from the land of koalas. They’ll probably point you in the direction of the morgue, if she’s not already been buried by her family, that is.’
‘She told Muriel her family were all abroad.’
‘Someone must have taken those tea chests away. The police may well have traced her relatives,’ Simon pointed out.
‘Even if they have, it seems odd that those rooms were swept clean within forty-eight hours. Besides, I can hardly go down to the police station in search of an aunt whose surname I don’t know.’
