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  ‘It hasn’t got us any further, though, with finding out where Foster lives, has it?’ Hugo asked, suddenly downcast again, as he remembered the real reason they had contacted the legal firm. ‘And with the old man gone, it looks like a dead-end for us, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ replied Lady Amanda, then made a noise that sounded very like ‘ping’.

  ‘Whatever’s up with you, Manda? Do you need basting, or something?’ This was Hugo’s attempt to alleviate the mood of gloom that had settled over him.

  ‘What a pair of dolts we’ve been!’ she suddenly exclaimed, her face breaking out into a broad grin. ‘Register of Electors,’ she declared. ‘We must go to the library at once! That’s where we’ll learn what we need to know.’

  ‘Can’t we leave that till tomorrow?’ begged Hugo, whose limited store of energy had just registered empty.

  ‘All right! But, first thing, mind you. Sparrow fart! Stupid o’clock! We want to be there as the library opens, and not nearly lunchtime. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed!’ concurred Hugo, with a sigh of relief.

  Chapter Twelve

  At breakfast the next morning, Lady Amanda stated, ‘I bet there was something in that jug of Pimm’s, or in his glass.’

  ‘You think it’s the same chappie, killing again?’ enquired Hugo.

  ‘I do,’ she assured him. ‘I’ll bet they discover enough poison in his system to have killed a herd of elephants. Our young Mr Williams may have spotted something odd, put two and two together, and unknowingly signed his own death warrant.’

  ‘How?’ asked Hugo briefly, his mouth still half-full of scrambled egg.

  ‘He knew, as we do, that that young chap was somehow mixed up in Reggie’s affairs. We also know that this Del was left hardly anything in the will, but still attended both the funeral, and the wake, with the reading of the will. I wonder how he explained his presence to young Mr Williams. Why should someone, who hadn’t nursed the deceased for some time, be interested in attending his funeral, especially as there was nothing in it for him?’

  She paused for a few seconds. ‘What if he got wind that Foster had been posing as Reggie’s nephew, at the home? I mean, it’s quite likely, isn’t it, if young Mr Williams went to take possession of Reggie’s bits and pieces, him having no living relatives, that someone might have said something to him about how nice it was, that Reggie’s nephew got in touch with him again, just a few months before he died?

  ‘In fact, I remember hailing him as Reggie’s nephew, at Reggie’s house. I wonder if young Mr Williams overheard, and became suspicious about Foster? Lord! Then, it could’ve been me who got him killed. What a ghastly thought! But I do think this was done by the same hand. The modus operandi is the same.’

  ‘You’ve got a point there, Manda.’

  ‘And if Mr Williams mentioned something, or questioned Foster about it, he would definitely have put himself in danger, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘By George! I think she’s got it!’ exclaimed Hugo, unconsciously echoing words from Pygmalion. ‘We’ve got to bring this bounder to justice!’

  ‘Quite right! He’s killed twice now, and he won’t hesitate to kill again.’

  ‘I rather think you ought to go and speak to that policeman again, Manda. This is getting very dangerous.’ Hugo’s concern for her safety shone out through his eyes, and behind that was discernible a deep concern for his own safety, as well.

  ‘Tommyrot!’ she exploded, showering the table with toast crumbs. ‘What, go to that man and be humiliated again? Be treated as a batty old lady who has delusions? I won’t, I say! We’ll wrap this up ourselves, and then hand it to him on a plate, and watch his embarrassment, as he realises that I was right all along; that’s what we’ll do.’

  ‘Well, we’d better go carefully. I’m quite happy with my cashmere overcoat, and don’t want to be measured for a wooden one, anytime soon. We’ll need to tread very carefully. I know the word ‘carefully’ is probably not in your vocabulary, Manda, so I suggest you go and look it up in a dictionary, after breakfast.’

  ‘Cow poo, Hugo! Doggy doodles! He who dares, wins!’ she retorted emphatically.

  ‘As long as it’s not “he who dares, dies”!’ was Hugo’s somewhat waspish reply.

  Finding an address at the library for Derek Foster took quite some time, but nowhere as near as long as it could have taken, had they not had a stroke of luck. Lady Amanda had decided that, if they looked at the Belchester map, they could look at the relative positions of the nursing home, Edwards’s Nursing Services, and the address of the residual legatee of Reggie’s will. As she pointed out to Hugo, he wouldn’t want to be too far away from either place, if all this was pre-meditated.

  Unfortunately, although Lady Amanda had made a note of the name and address of the main beneficiary of the will, she had carelessly written it down on an old envelope she had found lurking in her handbag, and she had cleared out said handbag, only the night before, as it was getting rather full with things like apple-corers, screwdrivers, tape measures, corkscrews and the like. The envelope would now be residing in the waste paper basket in the drawing room.

  ‘Thank goodness Beauchamp won’t empty it, this being his nominal day off, when he does nothing that isn’t absolutely necessary,’ she said. ‘Let’s note down the street names that are possible, taking into account the other locations, and see if we’re fortunate enough to come up with anything.’

  They sat themselves at one of the library tables, and began their search; the next two hours being filled with such comments as: ‘I didn’t know he was still around’ ‘I thought he’d moved away’ and ‘I could have sworn she was dead’. It may have been tedious, but, in some ways, it was a little like a walk down memory lane.

  ‘I say, guess who’s moved into that big house near the cathedral’, ‘I never thought his son would leave home’. They carried on in this manner until the librarian himself came over, and asked them, please, to observe the rule of silence, and they hunted on with only the odd squeak of recognition, as they came across familiar names from times gone by.

  It was half-past lunchtime, when Hugo made a sotto voce exclamation of triumph. ‘Got the wretch!’ he whispered across the table to Lady Amanda. ‘I’ll just make a note of the address, then we can get out of here, and go and get something to eat. I’m starving!’

  An extremely loud and long drawn out ‘Shhhhhh!’ carried across from the desk to their table, the sibilance alerting other users of the reference area, that someone was in trouble, so, putting away their notepads and pens, they gathered themselves together and made as dignified an exit as they could manage, under the stern and disapproving eye of the librarian, who was thoroughly fed up with them.

  They were worse than the children that came in, in his opinion, and he was glad to see them leave, at last. His haven of tranquillity had been invaded, for over three hours now, by those two inconsiderate bodies, and he hoped they didn’t intend returning in the near future.

  Once outside, Lady Amanda did her level best to jump up and down with glee, but with only a modicum of success, given her age and weight, and Hugo, who understood how victorious she felt, simply nodded his head vigorously, in agreement with the sentiment.

  Before she could speak, however, he pre-interrupted her. ‘No, Manda! Not today! We have to plan this carefully. Our lives could be at stake.’

  ‘Well, at least we can discuss it when we get home,’ she replied, her bottom lip stuck out in disappointment.

  ‘We can discuss it as much as you like, but we mustn’t rush into anything perilous. As there’s probably not a lot of it left for me, I find myself very fond of life. I’d hate to do anything that would hasten its end, and I’m sure you feel the same way.’

  ‘Spoil sport!’ she retorted, sticking out her tongue at him in frustration and defiance.

  ‘We’ll tackle this with the greatest of caution, or not at all!’ declared Hugo, standing his ground, and feeling the very first tr
aces of the development of a backbone. ‘Now, let’s find the Rolls and get back for lunch. My stomach thinks my throat’s cut!’

  Given that all three of them had arrived home well past the usual hour for luncheon, and that it was, technically, Beauchamp’s day off (he had already driven them to the library and back) the manservant did a pretty slick job of serving them a simple lunch, with the minimum of fuss or delay.

  ‘Now you see why, if I do decide to sell the lot, and beetle off to the Caribbean, I’d take Beauchamp with me. Apart from the fact that he’s worked here all his working life, I’m so used to him now, that I feel I really couldn’t manage without him.’ Lady Amanda was purposefully avoiding the subject of what their next actions should be, with regard to hunting down this double murderer.

  However, it wasn’t so easy to pull the wool over Hugo’s eyes as she thought, and he pierced her with a steely gaze, and said, in as commanding a voice as he could summon, ‘I know what you’re up to, and it won’t work!’

  ‘I’m not up to anything, Hugo. Whatever do you mean?’ she asked, innocently, but not fooling her old friend for a minute.

  ‘I know you, of old,’ he stated. ‘And I’m going to keep an eagle eye on you, for the rest of the day. If I catch you sneaking off anywhere on your own, you’ll have me to answer to. You’re not young and fit any more, you’re old and vulnerable, and you’d better wise up to that fact, now. I don’t want you taking any unnecessary risks. After all, if anything happened to you, where should I live?’

  This last, apparently selfish question, he had asked with the idea of goading her out of her habitual recklessness, and bringing her back down to earth, by making her think of someone else’s welfare, for a change, and not just the opportunity (and risk) of covering herself with glory. It was all very well, her wanting to show up that inspector, but not at the expense of her own life. That would be a hollow victory, indeed.

  She sighed. ‘You’re a fussy old woman, Hugo, but you do have a point. I promise to do nothing without consulting you first. OK?’

  ‘Show me your hands, Manda,’ he ordered, scrutinising them minutely, when she held them out for his inspection. As she looked at him quizzically, he added, ‘Just checking, to see that your fingers weren’t crossed!’

  At that point, Hugo toddled slowly off to ‘wash his hands’. Giving him sufficient time to reach his destination, Lady Amanda uncrossed her toes (sneaky old baggage that she was) and made her way to the wastepaper basket, where she retrieved the discarded envelope with the name written on it, scanned it briefly, and slipped it back into her handbag, where she could access it easily.

  After their meal, Lady Amanda settled innocently in the drawing room with the local paper, which was never delivered to Belchester Towers until the day after it was published. As was her habit, after scanning the front page, she turned straight to the announcements to see who had been hatched, matched, or despatched. Her eyes devoured the columns eagerly, until she came to one entry, which made her shout out in surprise.

  ‘Whatever is it, old girl?’ asked Hugo, who was wandering through his copy of the Daily Telegraph without much interest. ‘Been bitten by something?’

  ‘It’s in the Deaths column!’ she nearly shouted. ‘We’ve got the rotter!’

  ‘What’s in the Deaths column?’ asked Hugo, wondering whose passing could have elicited such excitement from her.

  ‘Richard Churchill Myers of six Wilmington Crescent, Belchester, died peacefully in his sleep – let me see, ah! – Thursday night, at home, after a long illness. Will be missed by his loving nephew, Derek Foster. That was the day after the will reading! The evil little beast!’

  ‘Whatever are you on about, Manda? At least he was someone’s nephew.’ Hugo still hadn’t quite caught up with events.

  ‘Myers!’ she declared. That was the name of the chap who inherited the bulk of Reggie’s estate. It says in here that he’s just died, and his nephew’s only our chappie, who seems to like eliminating anyone who gets in his way, concerning his acquisition of money.’

  ‘And you think he murdered his real uncle, too?’

  ‘Of course he did! It’s as plain as the nose on your face. First he bumps off Reggie, so that his estate goes to this Myers chap, Foster’s uncle, then he does away with this uncle, who’s probably not got any other relatives, if his nephew posted the death notice. And, in between, poor young Mr Williams gets wiped out. He probably only got a whiff of what was going on, and tackled him, in all innocence, about it.’

  ‘Well, I never,’ exclaimed Hugo. ‘We’ve got him! Can’t we just hand him over to the police now?’

  ‘Over my dead body!’ said Lady Amanda.

  ‘That’s rather what I’m worried about,’ parried Hugo. ‘Just report him, and leave it at that.’

  ‘But there’s not enough evidence. I can see exactly what happened, now. I reckon he was nursing old Reggie at home, until he went a bit gaga. I surmise that Reggie and that Myers chap must once have been good friends, and we know Reggie had no relatives to leave anything to, so he must have made his will in this old friend’s favour.’

  ‘This is all surmise, you know. You may be completely wrong,’ Hugo said, hoping to temper her enthusiasm with a little common sense.

  ‘Rot, Hugo! You know I’m right!’ She rolled right over him like a verbal steamroller, and continued, ‘If this blighter nursed Reggie, he’d probably have found out that he was leaving a bundle to his uncle, who was probably already ill – it says here: after a long illness.

  ‘Well, what if his uncle took a turn for the worse, and he thought Reggie would probably outlive him. He’d need to do something about that, wouldn’t he? And what better action to take, for his own evil purposes, than to remove Reggie from the equation? The money would then go to his uncle without question, uncle dies, and Bob’s your uncle – sorry about that! – and Foster would cop for the lot.

  ‘The only fly in the ointment was young Mr Williams, who smelled a rat, so he had to be removed as well. For all we know, Foster might have hurried his uncle into the next world as well, getting impatient to be a relatively rich man, leading a life of leisure.’

  ‘Why don’t you just tell all this to that Inspector Moody, Manda, and let him do the sniffing around?’ asked Hugo, demonstrating that he, at least, had some common sense left.

  ‘Because nobody but us, and presumably young Mr Williams, suspected anything in the first place. It was only because I found that cocktail glass in Reggie’s room, and smelled the spilt stuff on the floor, that I thought there was something fishy about his death. As far as the law’s concerned, Reggie died a natural, peaceful death; young Mr Williams just slipped away due to his age; and the Myers chap, having been ill for a long time, won’t even have a post mortem.

  There’ll be no trouble with the death certificate, because he’d had a long illness: probably cancer – it usually is, these days. So they’ll just cremate him, probably; the same with young Mr Williams, and nobody will ever be any the wiser, if we don’t do something about it. You remember what Williams said about Foster – that he wanted Reggie cremated, and not buried, but – thank God – he was buried, so we could still force an exhumation.’

  ‘Aren’t you running just a bit ahead of yourself there, Manda?’ asked Hugo.

  ‘I don’t think so, Hugo. Somebody’s got to sort out this mess, and it might as well be us. Nobody else is interested, and until we can provide adequate evidence that crimes have been committed, nobody will listen to us.’

  Hugo managed to keep Lady Amanda in check by suggesting that she give him another lesson in taming the trike, and this distracted her for a while, but during afternoon tea, she was back at the ‘trouser leg’ of the murders again, like a Jack Russell with a rat.

  ‘You never actually gave me the address, did you, Hugo, old boy?’ she pumped him, like a car nearly out of petrol and desperate for fuel.

  ‘What address is that, then, Manda?’ he replied, playing the innocent.
/>   ‘You know darned well what address I’m talking about. Don’t be obtuse,’ she retorted, a growl creeping into her voice.

  ‘The address of my house for the estate agents?’ he asked, without hope, but more as a distraction and time-waster.

  ‘The address of that Derek Foster that you found this morning.’ Anger was making her sound like a furious cat, disturbed at its food.

  ‘Can’t seem to remember where I wrote it down,’ Hugo parried, knowing he wouldn’t win, but hoping he might distract her sufficiently so that she was put in a foul enough temper to forget what her original purpose had been.

  ‘You wrote it in the little section at the back of your diary, where you always make notes. You haven’t forgotten at all. You’re just doing this to rile me.’

  ‘It’s working then!’ Hugo commented, noticing the rise in the pitch of her voice as he continued to prevaricate.

  ‘Hugo!’ she shouted. ‘Give me that blasted address!’

  ‘All right! Keep your hair on.’ Reaching into his trouser pocket, he produced his diary, flicked to the back pages, where he made a note of anything he particularly wanted to remember, and read: ‘Eleven, Mogs End, Belchester. That’s to the south of the city, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. It runs off Lumpen Lane, cutting through to Rag-a-Bone Road. It’s only a sort of alley, really, and the houses are just a few tumbledown old cottages; should have been condemned and demolished years ago, in my opinion, but then who am I to contradict the nosy-parker preservation societies that seem to proliferate today?’

  ‘Satisfied now?’ he asked, putting away his diary.

  ‘Absolutely! We’ll go tonight!’

  ‘What do you mean, we’ll go tonight? Go where? Why? This all sounds a bit iffy to me.’

  ‘We’ll go and scout out the house – make sure he lives there – that sort of thing. It’s only a little tidying up. We need to be absolutely sure of our facts, before we can take this investigation any further,’ she explained, in the most rational of voices, as if it were perfectly normal to go skulking about at night, trying to see into people’s homes, before getting them arrested for what was now triple murder.