More Deaths Than One by Marjorie Eccles Read Free Book Online Page B

shade of puce, euphemistically called claret, were hardly the most felicitous choice for soft furnishings, and it seemed to Lois they’d dominated most of her waking thoughts – and some of her nightmares – for weeks. All the braids and fringes had had to be custom dyed to get that exact shade of purple-red to go with the brassy yellow of the gold, while finding a suitable fabric for the chairs to tone down all that glorious Technicolor had been next to impossible. The cost of the specially woven, quite hideous, carpet had been hair-raising. She’d seriously considered refusing the commission – after all, her reputation was at stake – until common sense prevailed. But now it was almost completed, thank God, and the client over the moon and that was nearly all that mattered.
    She put coffee to brew while they discussed Myra’s next batch of work, then she brought out the delicate Chinese red silk for the lampshades Myra was to cover to complement several pairs of already-finished curtains. Myra raised scandalised eyebrows while commenting on the price of the trimmings for the curtains, which had cost almost as much as the fabric itself.
    â€œAt this rate they’ll have to set up a subscription fund to pay for the new stage curtains down at the Gaiety, when we we get around to doing them,” she remarked.
    Lois poured the coffee, Myra added sugar and milk to hers and settled for a gossip. “Terrible thing about that shooting, isn’t it?”
    â€œWhat shooting?” Lois picked up her own coffee cup and took a sip.
    â€œHaven’t your heard? Some poor bloke shot himself in his car up Scotley Beeches. Name of Fleming, Rupert Fleming.”
    The cup slid from Lois’s grasp and coffee poured in a dark stream right across the Chinese silk.
    â€œOoh, that’s done it,” Myra said.
    Lois seized a cloth and dabbed distractedly at the dark stain and succeeded in blotting most of it up before it spread too far. With trembling fingers, she picked up the scissors, snicked the selvedge and tore off the ruined half metre. “It could’ve been worse. Where ... did you hear about this, this shooting?”
    â€œOn the late news last night, and on the radio this morning.” Myra stared. “Here, you didn’t know him, did you, love? Oh God, I’m sorry ...”
    â€œNo, I didn’t know him,” Lois lied.
    Myra looked at her shrewdly but said nothing more.
    When the rest of the silk had been safely parcelled up and Myra had gone, Lois collapsed onto the nearest chair.
    Rupert Fleming? She had let a demon into her life when she let him in, of that there was no question. But suicide?
    Rupert?
    Kite was still feeling peaky the next day with the aftermath of his cold, but the harder he worked the better he felt, he decided. He set himself to find out what he could about Georgina Fleming’s affairs, managing to muster up a surprising amount of energy. By late afternoon, when Mayo had returned from the inquest which had, as he’d fully expected, been adjourned for further police enquiries, he was able to tell Mayo first that the shotgun’s owner had been traced, and secondly that he had the information Mayo had requested about Georgina Fleming.
    The shotgun was registered in the name of John Culver, residing in a house by the name of Upper Delph, adjacent to Fiveoaks Farm and not much over a mile from Scotley Beeches.
    John Culver, Georgina Fleming’s father.
    Mayo heard the news with interest. “Long-standing feud finally resolving itself? Is that what it is?”
    â€œIs it going to be that simple?” Kite returned.
    â€œIt usually is, isn’t it?” As with most murders, its solution probably lay in the obvious, with someone in the family, some relative, or someone known to the victim being responsible. “Never neglect the obvious, laddie. It was his gun.”
    The big question in that case being what had John