Petrella at 'Q' by Michael Gilbert Read Free Book Online

keeps in a drawer at home.”
    Petrella said, “And her husband?”
    “He was in the R.A.F. He was shot down on a bomber raid.”
    “But how could she possibly be blamed—”
    “Read them for yourself,” said Ronald.
    They were detailed, ingenious and horrible masterpieces of innuendo and spite. And they all said the same thing. “You drove your men-folk to the war. They didn’t really want to go. You talked them into it. Whilst you sat safely at home, they were torn to pieces by shrapnel, burst apart by high explosive, burned. Think of your husband, trapped in that bomber, roasting to death as it went down into the sea. Are you satisfied with the results? You’ve got all the family money now, you selfish barren bitch.”
    “Why on earth did she keep them?” said Petrella. “Why did she ever open them at all.”
    “That was the devilish part of it,” said Ronald. “They all came in different shapes and sizes of envelopes, with different sorts of typing on them. She couldn’t avoid seeing them. Unless she refused to open any letters at all.”
    “There were telephone calls, too,” said Mrs. Oldenshaw. “When she was alone here, in the evening. Whispering things to her.”
    Petrella swung round abruptly on his heel. He said, “I’ll take all these letters. I see she kept some of the envelopes. I’ll take them as well.”
    Back at Patton Street he found Sergeant Ambrose with a heap of papers on the table in front of him.
    “Eighty-five to date,” he said, “and more coming in. All handwritten in block capitals. All the envelopes typed.”
    Petrella said, “I want them analysed. By recipient, by the subject matter of the threats, by date, by post mark, and by typewriter. Get all the envelopes up to Central. They’ve a man there who can tell you the make of machine from a line or two of typescript. I want the answers as quickly as possible.”
    He walked out of the room as abruptly as he had come into it. Sergeant Ambrose stared after him. He had not seen Petrella angry before. However, it was the sort of job he enjoyed and he set to work quickly and neatly.
    Petrella made a telephone call to Central to make sure that the expert he wanted would be available and then paid a visit to the offices of Messrs. Mellors and Rapp, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, who had an office in the High Street. They were the largest firm in Riverside South. They did most of the police court work in that area. The senior partner, Mr. Charles Rapp, was tall and thin. He knew Petrella and received him without delay, in his private room, a centre-point of calm in a maelstrom of clacking typewriters, buzzing telephones and hurrying clerks.
    “There’s no reason you shouldn’t know about it,” he said when he had grasped what Petrella wanted. “As soon as we can get probate, a will becomes public property. Mrs. Key’s will was very simple. She left a sum of forty thousand pounds to her nephew and only surviving relative, Ronald Blanshard, provided he survives her by one clear month. That’s put in to avoid double death duties. Anything left over after payment of debts and duties and this legacy is to be invested in an annuity for her companion, Mrs. Oldenshaw.”
    “Will there be anything left?”
    “Oh yes. I should think so. Possibly as much as ten thousand pounds. It should provide a comfortable little annuity.”
    Petrella phrased his next questions cautiously. He knew that he was treading on delicate ground. He said, “Have you ever met Ronald?”
    “He did come in here about a year ago I think. To make his own will. He’s an architect, I believe. He seemed a very nice young man.” Mr. Rapp cocked a tufted eyebrow at Petrella.
    “Oh, very,” said Petrella. “I happened to run across him when I went round to the house. Do you know if he’s married?
    “I fancy not. But I believe he told me he was engaged. I seem to remember warning him that when he got married, it would invalidate his will, and he would