Roberta blinked and there was His Lordship, treating Sergeant Moore to an imperious sneer.
Fitzroy-Galbraith folded his arms. ‘Did he have any enemies?Reginald? Enemies?’
God, the landed gentry loved the sound of their own voices.
She sat up. ‘Any chance you can answer the question instead of repeating it?’
‘Did Reginald have any enemies? Well, Albert Nairnkilledhim, so I’m guessing he probablydid!’ A haughty sniff. ‘What a stupid question. You don’t get tobean MP without knifing people in the back, and you certainly don’t get tostayone without knifing even more. Then burying the bodies. And pinning the blame on someone else.’ He marched over to the window and stood there with his back to the room, staring down at the kitchens. ‘Half the village hated him, and the other half loathed him. He played them for idiots with thatSkirivour Goldmine Association thing. Notjustthem, I’m sorry to say.’
Ooh, now they were getting somewhere.
‘He play you?’
‘I am Lord Oliver William Fitzroy-Galbraith,’ the words hard and clipped, ‘no oneplays me.’
‘If you didn’t like him, how come you let him have his daughter’s wedding here?’
The old git tutted, like it was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. ‘Do you have any idea what the upkeep on a place like this is? Running an ancestral pile is crippling; the arrangement was purely financial.’
‘Didn’t look like that during the speeches, Friday night. Looked like the two of you were total BFFs.’
A short and bitter laugh barked out into the shabby room. ‘A wise man knows when to grease the wheels, Detective Chief Inspector, especially when they belong to your local MP and the man has discretion regarding... certain planning applications, grants, funding, and initiatives.’
So she’d been right: friends close, enemies closer.
What was it Susan had been going on about at dinner last night? Holiday homes and high-end villas?
Evenmoreinteresting.
‘Oh aye: “planning applications”?’ Roberta raised her eyebrows. ‘Care to elaborate on that?’
‘No, I would not.’
The carriage clock on the mantelpiece ticked, getting louder as the silence stretched. Rain battered the window.
Sergeant Moore cleared his throat, pen poised and ready.
But Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, scowling down at the kitchen and its mushroomy extractor-fan outlets.
OK...
She settled into the couch again. ‘What about affairs? Wee birdie tells me our boy Sir Reggie was a bit free and easy where he tossed the old family caber?’
That got her an imperious sniff. ‘I’ll leave the Sergeant to answer that one, I don’t lower myself to backstairs gossip.’ He checked his watch. ‘Now, if there’s nothing else, I have more important things to do than waste my time with your puerile questions. Albert Nairn killed Sir Reginald: you have his confession. This matter is nowclosed.’ A long thin finger came up and pointed at the door. ‘You may go.’
Aye, that’ll be shining.
Sergeant Moore stood, but Roberta stayed where she was.
‘Quick question for you: if you could describe Sir Reginald in one simple phrase, what would it be?’
Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith turned, nose in the air. ‘“Caveat emptor” springs to mind.’
‘Ah.’ Moore nodded. ‘“Let the buyer beware...”’
Yes, thank you Dictionary Corner.
Roberta stood. ‘No’ “salt of the earth”?’
