Embarrassment of Corpses, An Read Free

now be heard above the steady rush of the water. Oliver Swithin, crouching over Sir Harry’s body, looked up.
    â€œRather a convenient coincidence,” he remarked.
    â€œAll right,” said Urchin huffily, “the CID will need to check to see what time the water came on, but as a theory, it’s no worse than yours, which posits the existence of a murderer for which we have no evidence. The principle of Occam’s Razor would say mine’s the more likely explanation.”
    â€œReally,” replied Swithin casually. “Then how do you explain this?” He unbuttoned Sir Harry’s sodden jacket and flung it open. On the starched front of the dead man’s dress shirt were a series of blue lines—a straight line drawn vertically, crossed twice by two semicircles, like a double-ended trident. “That wasn’t there the last time I saw him.”
    The ambulance swerved into sight, slowed to mount the curb, and coasted toward them, scattering the slow-witted pigeons. A moment later, a crowded police car also made the turn from the Strand.
    â€œYou realize what you’re saying,” said Urchin hastily, as several men in belted raincoats clambered out of the car. “You’re saying that a murder has been committed, and you are the only person known to have been in the vicinity at the time of death.”
    â€œWell, yes, I suppose so.”
    Urchin tucked his notebook into the breast pocket of his tunic and placed his hand grandly on Swithin’s shoulder.
    â€œIn that case, Oliver Swithin, alias O.C. Blithely, I arrest you for the murder of Sir Hargreaves Random. By the way,” he added quickly, as the ambulance team descended on the body, “can I have your autograph? It’s for my nieces, you understand.”
    ***
    Unlike Police Constable Urchin, Detective Superintendent Timothy Mallard had seen it all during his thirty-five years with the Metropolitan police force, and the deep creases etched into his forehead showed how much of it had challenged his dogged belief in the basic decency of the human animal. Otherwise, he appeared younger than his age, which was closer to sixty than fifty. His milk-white hair, which showed no signs of thinning, always looked a fortnight overdue for the attentions of a barber, and his handsome features were decorated with plain spectacles and a slightly rakish mous­tache. Tim Mallard’s slim frame, military posture, and remarkable vigor continued to win him decent roles with his local amateur dramatic company, the Theydon Bois Thespians, and also discouraged his superiors at New Scotland Yard from starting conversations that might involve the word “retirement.” (Through a clerical oversight, which had muddled Mallard’s personnel file with the criminal record of a video bootlegger from Streatham, the system had so far failed to pension him off.)
    The superintendent was currently rehearsing the role of Banquo for the Theydon Bois Thespians’ autumn production of Macbeth , and, although resentful that this wouldn’t involve any swordplay, he was comforted that the character’s early death would allow him to play a “blood-baltered” ghost in the third act and a ghastly apparition in the fourth and still get to the local pub before closing time, if he didn’t wait around for the curtain call. (The audience rarely did.) He was pleased to get such a large part; it was a standing joke in the company, which was exclusively Shakespearian, to give Mallard roles that slyly reflected his profession, such as the Con­stable of France, Snout, Pinch, or Paroles. (Alas, not Dogberry yet.) For the current production of Macbeth , he had narrowly avoided being cast as the Bleeding Sergeant.
    On this scorching bank holiday Monday morning, Mallard would much rather have been sitting under a tree learning his lines in his North London garden than standing in a cell in Bow Street police station