Design for Murder Read Free

There were bright cushions scattered around, small glass-topped tables, and a number of modern paintings. The wide windows gave a view across the grounds of Haslop Hall towards the trout stream that meandered through the valley bottom. Beyond the perimeter wall, the wooded Cots wold landscape undulated into the misty distance.
    Tim was pacing restlessly, surveying the room with a con tempt he didn’t trouble to conceal. Very faintly, we could hear a murmur of voices coming from the studio. The police doctor would have arrived, I guessed, and a photographer and all the other specialists needed at the scene of a murder. I had heard at least five more cars arriving in the courtyard.
    Though I encouraged Sir Robert to drink the brandy, it did nothing to restore his colour. He seemed on the verge of col lapse, and I was scared that he might suffer another heart at tack at any moment. I wished it were possible to make this less of an ordeal for him, but what could I say? What could I do? I sat beside him on the sofa and waited helplessly. Tim continued to prowl about, sometimes stopping to stare out of the window. Water draining off the roof was gurgling round a bend in the guttering, and every now and then a gust of wind spattered droplets against the glass panes.
    Presently there came sounds of activity in the corridor out side. Probably they were searching the flat for signs of an intruder. Sir Robert seemed not to have heard, but Tim and I glanced expectantly at the heavy mahogany door, whose panels were carved in a riotous tumble of cupids. Oliver had acquired this door in payment of some obscure debt when a house built as a love-nest by a rich Victorian roué was being demolished. I watched the gilt handle dip slowly, and the door opened to reveal P.C. Bailey.
    “Er, excuse me, Miss Yorke, but Detective Inspector Grant would be obliged if you’d step along to see him. He’s in the dining room.”
    As I rose to my feet I glanced anxiously at the crumpled figure of Sir Robert. I heard Tim say gruffly in answer to the unspoken doubt in my mind, “I’ll be here with him, Tracy. Don’t worry.”
     

Chapter 2
     
    Neil Grant was alone in the dining room. He had established himself in the carver’s chair at the head of the oval mahogany table, a large notepad set out in front of him. He rose as I was shown in, and motioned me to the chair opposite him where I faced the light from the window.
    “How is Sir Robert taking it?” he enquired.
    “As you would expect for someone with a bad heart. It’s been a terrible shock.”
    “I’ll try not to keep him too long,” Neil said, as he sat down again and took out a pen, “but I wanted to talk to you first. I imagine you were as close to Oliver Medway as anybody.”
    There was a suggestion in his tone that I didn’t like, and I reacted sharply. “Just what do you mean by that?”
    Neil regarded me blandly, his sandy eyebrows raised. “You were his assistant, weren’t you? Working alongside him day after day, you must have come to know the man pretty well.”
    “I suppose that’s true,” I acknowledged, only partly mollified.
    “Right. Well now, there is no obvious sign that a search was made—either of the body itself or of the premises. So can we, for the moment, rule out theft as a motive for the killing? You haven’t noticed anything missing?”
    “No, nothing is missing as far as I can see. At least, not in the studio. I can’t really say about here in the flat.” I glanced around me quickly. “It doesn’t look as if anything’s been stolen, and the lounge seemed the same as usual when I was in there just now.”
    “You’re familiar with the flat, are you?” he said, making a few rapid notes in shorthand.
    “Well, yes. Oliver never tried to keep the studio entirely separate from his flat, so I’ve been in here quite often. Most days, though, I only came through to make coffee in the kitchen, and to use the bathroom.”
    “I see.” Neil nodded.