Big smile. ‘I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here today.’
Standing in the doorway, McKinnon gave her a cheesy grin and two thumbs up.
Ah, maybe he wasn’t such a bad wee lump after all?
‘As you know—’
‘Oh, do speak up!’ Bloody Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith shifted in his armchair. ‘I can’t abide mumbling.’
Rotten fusty old sod did that on purpose.
She started again, louder and harder this time. And more than a little hacked off. ‘As you know: Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott was murdered at some point between the weddingreception and half four Saturday morning. We believe he probably died from a blow to the back of the head.’
A Mexican wave of fake-startled-gasping rippled through the crowd.
Lying bastards.
‘A blow to the head that—’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ Lord Fusty-Bumcrack thumped the tip of his walking stick against the floor. ‘This is all immaterial. Albert Nairn was a hardworking and conscientious gamekeeper, but he snapped and for some reason known only to him, decided to kill Sir Reginald. It – was – in – his – suicide – note.’ Saying it slow and clear, so the silly old police officers could understand.
She gave him a cold smile. ‘If you wouldn’t mind hudding your wheesht for five minutes, Your Lordship, maybe you’ll find out why it’snotimmaterial at all. In fact, it’s very materialindeed.’ Stared him down till he sat back in his armchair again.
‘Very well, proceed.’ As ifhewas the one in charge here.
‘Sir Reginald was killed by a blow to the head, right here.’ Roberta tapped herself on the noggin, right where she’d found the broken-Easter-egg bit on the body’s skull. ‘This implies his killer came at him from behind. Hisleft-handedkiller.’ She did one of those theatrical hand gestures, as if she was introducing a magic trick. ‘And would anyone like to guess if Albert Nairn was left-handed or right-handed? Anyone? He wasright-handed, unlike our killer.’
This time the shocked gasping sounded a lot more authentic.
‘Our killer who set Albert Nairn up, and probably killed him too. Made it look like a suicide so we’d stop investigating. They thought they’d planned for every eventuality. They thought they’d got away with it. But our killer made onefatalmistake.’ She left a pause – one hairy bumhole, two hairy bumholes, three hairy bumholes – milking it. Quick glance tomake sure PC McKinnon had his finger on the switch. Then, ‘A killer who I can now reveal to be...!’
McKinnon switched the lights off, plunging the room into darkness.
A scream rang out from the crowd, followed by another one, then the ringing crash of something metal hitting the floor, and the high-pinging-crackle of shattering porcelain. Which set off more screaming.
Exactlyas planned.
‘Lights, Constable!’
They flickered on again... but everyone was still right where they’d been before the lights went out. The only thing that’d changed was the tray of tea things wasn’t on the coffee table any more – it was spread in jagged shards all over the tartan carpet, bits of cake everywhere.
‘Oh.’ She frowned at what was left of the teapot. ‘Now, you see, that should’ve worked.’ Then at Sergeant Moore. ‘It always works in crime novels.’
Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith banged his stick on the floor again, just to make surehewas the centre of attention. Poncy show-off. ‘Are we done with this ridiculous charade, now?’
Were they hell.
‘Simon says, “Everyone who’s left-handed: stick that sinister paw of yours in the air.”’
Not a single hand went up.
So Roberta put a bit of force behind it. ‘Come on, folks, SIMON SAYS!’
Finally, hands reached up above the crowd. Only three of them, though. The VIPs at the front just stared at her – like she needed scraping off the sole of their shoes. Well, that was about to change.
She grinned at them. ‘Think fast!’ Then pulled the jar of hand cream from her pocket and hurled it at LadyBradbury-Scott in a perfect flat arc, heading right for that prissy mug of hers.
Her Ladyship flinched back, hands curled in front of her chest, oh God, it was going to smack her right in the—
