Embarrassment of Corpses, An by Alan Beechey Read Free Book Online Page B

“Consume that quickly. I have a job for you.”
    While they ate, he told her briefly about finding the body the previous morning, omitting the more distressing details—including his murder theory. She took it well, pausing only once to bow her head and rub at her eyes. Then she put the plates onto the draining board—the sink was full of cellophane-wrapped chrysanthemums—and led him into Random’s study.
    Sir Harry’s reluctance to travel had left him totally dependent on research for the background and color of his adventure stories. As well as a remarkable collection of reference and travel books, he also kept newspaper and magazine clippings and his own copious notes on every subject that appealed to him. Much of Random’s credibility as a writer came from these files, which he used as an extension of his prodigious memory. He knew exactly where to find the single fact or observation that brought an unfamiliar setting to life, such as the way a smoldering mosquito coil in Trincomalee smelled like a mix of frangipanni and mineral oil (noted in a 1958 National Geographic ), how the tintinnabulation of metalworkers provided a sonic backdrop to a chase through a Tunisian souk (a Berlitz pocket guide), or what poisons could be masked by the sickly taste of candied banana offered by a street vendor in Chiang Mai ( Good Housekeeping ).
    Over the years, the material had grown until it filled several metal filing cabinets and well-stocked bookshelves, all crammed meticulously and neatly into the little study. But now all the drawers were open, and manila files windmilled from them at crazy angles, as if the cabinets were playing poker with oversized cards. Other files had been pulled out and lay on Harry’s huge desk, on the chair, and on the floor.
    â€œBurglars?” Oliver asked cautiously. Lorina’s black cat, Satan, who had been sleeping in a makeshift nest of papers, peered at them suspiciously.
    â€œJust me,” Lorina replied. “I’ve been looking for Daddy’s will.”
    â€œWell, you’ve nothing to worry about. He rewrote it last year, and I was a witness. Everything goes to you.”
    â€œWhy did he rewrite it?” she asked with a frown, tickling Satan under the chin. The cat stood up, hoping that food was to follow.
    â€œHe cut your half-brother out, I’m afraid.”
    â€œThat was mean of him. I suppose that makes Ambrose my financial responsibility.”
    â€œHave you heard from Ambrose?”
    She shook her head. “But it wasn’t really Daddy’s will I needed,” she explained, changing the subject pointedly. “I was looking to see if he’d left any instructions for a funeral service, and I assumed it would be with his will. You know what’s in here better than I do—I never took much notice.”
    â€œToo busy picketing American missile sites,” thought Oliver, as he glared round the room helplessly. “Okay,” he said aloud, “your father probably kept his private stuff and his story research separate. Do you know where the personal files are?”
    Lorina shrugged, a move that showed off the chevron of her well-exercised deltoids. “There’s a lot of papers about his own life in the desk.”
    Oliver pulled open the lower left-hand drawer of the large oak desk, which was stuffed with hanging files. Colored plastic tabs revealed the subjects. He flicked through the cardboard hammocks, his fingers moving like the legs of a demented heron. Satan, stretching front legs and back legs in turn, goose-stepped over to sniff at Oliver’s shoes.
    â€œAlphabetical order,” Oliver commented, reading the hand-lettered tabs. “Identity cards, inoculations, international publishing rights, jewelry, jury duty, kitchen appliances, knighthood, laundry, legal actions, library membership, life insurance, loans, Lorina…Want to see what he kept about you? It’s quite a