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

Petrella saw Chief Superintendent Watterson.
    He said, “It’s about these anonymous letters. I know now who’s been sending them.”
    “Can you prove it?”
    “I think so. If you look at these lists you’ll notice two odd things. The first is that the accusations aren’t vague and general. They’re all quite definite. Some of them are silly things. Some dishonest. Some bordering on the criminal. In fact, just the sort of things you might expect a solicitor to hear about from his clients in the course of a day’s work.”
    Watterson grunted. He had no great opinion of solicitors. Tiresome people who cross-examined policemen and threw dust into the eyes of magistrates.
    “The second thing is that no one except Mrs. Key has had more than two or three. And she must have had nearly a hundred.”
    “You mean that all the others were cover for the attack on her?”
    “That’s exactly what I mean.”
    “And the object?”
    “The object,” said Petrella, “was to finish her. And it succeeded. The letters were written, and the envelopes were typed out by a Miss Eileen Fairweather. She is secretary to young Mr. Mellors, junior partner in Mellors and Rapp. I’m told that she was a conscientious girl, and sometimes stayed behind to finish Mr. Mellors’s letters. This gave her the run of six different typewriters in the general office. She used different machines, and different envelopes, so that Mrs. Key would be bound to open the letters.”
    “Clever.”
    “Too clever. She didn’t realise that the print of a typewriter can be identified as certainly as a fingerprint.”
    He laid six sheets of typing paper and six envelopes on the table, and said, “Central are quite definite about it. There’s not the least room for doubt. Those envelopes were typed on the six machines in the office of Mellors and Rapp.”
    “Why did she do it?”
    “She did it for forty thousand pounds. She’s engaged to Ronald Blanshard, who is Mrs. Key’s only surviving relative, and inherits that sum under her will. She just couldn’t wait for the old lady to die in the natural way.”
    Watterson brightened up. “That’s better,” he said. “That’s something a jury will understand.”
    “I’m afraid it won’t come to a jury.”
    “Why not? It seems a clear enough case.”
    “A case of what?”
    The Chief Superintendent started to say something, changed his mind, and said, “Hmm. Murder? Manslaughter? Conspiracy to procure suicide? I see there might be difficulty there. What about demanding money with menaces?”
    “She was careful never to ask for money.”
    “Public mischief then? Misuse of Her Majesty’s mails?”
    “That’s more like it. A fine for a first offence.”
    “It doesn’t seem adequate.”
    “It will be quite adequate,” said Petrella grimly. “Once her name is mentioned in the papers, there’ll be fifty people round here after her blood.”
    Watterson considered the matter. He said, “Do we charge Blanshard as well? Do you think he was in it?”
    “There’s no direct evidence against him, but we’ll soon know, won’t we?” When Watterson looked puzzled he said, “As soon as the truth comes out. If he was in it with her, you may be sure he’ll stick to his guns, brazen it out, and marry her. They’ll have to move away and live somewhere else. But they’ll go through with it. On the other hand, if he didn’t know about it, he won’t touch her with a barge pole. He’ll refuse to have anything more to do with her. He’s got no other course open to him.”
    Here Petrella was wrong.
    Three days after the preliminary hearing in the Magistrates’ Court had been adjourned for the defence to consider the technical evidence, a patrolling policeman found Ronald Blanshard’s little car parked in a quiet turning behind Woolcombe Park. Eileen Fairweather was in the front seat. She had been shot through the head. Ronald was slumped over her. After killing her, he had shot himself. He had used a