‘Eef I can makesmallstatement.’ The wee Russian pushed his way to the front of the crowd. ‘Friday night, I see Meester Bradbury-Scott trip and fall down all the stairs. Was terrible accident. Very shocking to me.’
Agatha Beresford stepped forward, clutching her husband’s hand. ‘No, it was us. He robbed Mortimer of his chance of an OBE!’
Susan’s boss nodded. ‘Man was an absolute stinker of the first water.’
A voice from the back: ‘Hear, hear!’
‘Actually,’ Mr Reeves shook his head, pulling himself up to his full half-sooked lollypop-height, ‘it was me that killed the chap, and me alone. I shan’t say why, but it was a matter of honour. I’m responsible, not this good lady!’
Agatha beamed at him. ‘Oh, you aresweet, Hugo.’
It was a proper sodding garden party in here.
Roberta thumped her boot heel into the carpet again.‘Enough of the “I’m Spartacus” bollocks! It doesn’t matter how much of a shite he was, you don’t get to kill him!’
Everyone looked at her like she’d just crapped in the punchbowl.
Then the lights flickered a couple of times and the library was plunged into darkness again.
Idiots! Why did she always have to work with idiots?
She turned to PC McKinnon. ‘No’ now, you snot-brained sheep-shagging halfwit!’
‘It wasn’t me! Generator must’ve run out of diesel.’
Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith sat forward in his armchair, leaning on the head of that silver walking stick of his, eyes glittering in the dark like a rat’s. A razor smile clear in his voice. ‘You seem to have an embarrassment of confessions, Detective Chief Inspector. And you can’t arresteveryone.’
‘You bloody watch me!’
A hard, white circle of light burst into the library, sweeping across the carpet till it found Roberta, making her glow like she was centre stage. PC McKinnon shuffled in after it. ‘Erm, thereisanother option. If you’re interested?’ He let his torch beam drift across the shelves of books. ‘Only, after you were banging on aboutMurder on the Orient Express, I found it in the library.’ The torchlight came to rest on the crime section. ‘I skiffed through to the end, cos, you know, not really my kind of thing, but I thought... maybe... we could do what Hercule Poirot does?’
How wasthata reasonable suggestion?
‘Hercule...?’ She thumped him. ‘This is real life, Constable, no’ a Golden-Age crime novel!’
‘Ow!’ He backed off a pace and the torch focussed on her again. ‘No, butmaybeI saw a broken window round the back of the property when I was looking earlier? Sowhat ifsomeone broke into the hotel Friday night, under cover of the storm,and murdered Sir Reginald? Then, you know, hung his body up on the statue, and disappeared off into the night before the bridge collapsed?’
Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith’s voice stalked out of the darkness, dragging its pink scaly tail with it. ‘Or, perhaps, he disappearedasthe bridge collapsed? Meaning his body’s been washed downriver and out to sea, where it willneverbe found. Hmmm... But what about Nairn’s confession?’
McKinnon’s torch found him in the darkness, the beam wide enough at that distance to illuminate most of the VIP section. ‘Maybe no one needs to see it and we can chalk it up to a lonely old man going a bit dotty with all his stuffed weird animals in the woods?’
Lady Bradbury-Scott dabbed at her eye with a hanky. ‘So tragic.’
‘You know,’ the little Russian’s voice chipped in from the gloom, ‘now I am theenking about it, maybe Inotsee Meester Bradbury-Scott make fall. Maybe I seeshadowy figurein middle of night?’
‘Ooh,’ Mortimer Beresford nodded. ‘Yes, I thinkIsaw that too.’
Then Weird Janey sidled into the torchlight, one hand raised like she was needing a pee. ‘I’m sure the sound of broken glass woke me up. Must’ve been about... three in the morning?’
A man’s voice: ‘You know, that’s just what I remember: smashing glass, three a.m. Coming back to me, bright as day now.’
And before you could say, Lying Bunch Of Utter Bastards, they were all at it, nodding and murmuring in the darkness about how they all remembered the exact same thing.
Roberta bared her teeth again. ‘You can’t just—’
‘I wish to alter my statement.’ Lady Bradbury-Scott did that regal thing with her chin again. ‘Reginald never came to bedthat night, because he was out... having relations with that floozy parlourmaid of his.’ She pointed at Weirdo Janey. ‘Her.’
‘Hoy!’ The redhead’s cheeks flushed hot pink. ‘I’m a Residents’ Hospitality-Experience Manager, not aparlourmaid.’ Didn’t deny the floozy bit, though.
