The Man with a Load of Mischief by Martha Grimes Read Free Book Online Page B

his last effort.
    Oliver now asked, with a deprecating laugh, “Who was it said, ‘If I want to read a good book, I’ll write one’?”
    Probably you , thought Melrose, turning his attention back to the moose.
    Simon Matchett tried to act the part of the perfect host, though Melrose knew he held Darrington in contempt. “That’s an interesting theory, Oliver. Someone with a grudge — but, surely, he would have to be psychotic.”
    â€œWell, good God, he must be in any event, to go drowning people in beer and stuffing them up on wooden beams. The point is, these two men were perfect strangers to Long Pidd; now what possible motive —”
    â€œYou mean, we’ve been saying they’re strangers,” put in Melrose, a little fed up with their assumptions masquerading as facts.
    They all looked at him as if he’d just pulled out a snake from under the table.
    â€œWhatever in the world do you mean, Mel?” asked Sheila. Melrose watched as she put her hand over Matchett’s. Even old one-track-mind Sheila, who would gladly kill half the village to keep Oliver, could not resist this gesture.
    â€œI think he’s saying that someone in Long Pidd must have known them,” said Simon, lighting a cigar. He got it going and then said, smiling, “So who do you think did it, then?”
    â€œDid what?”
    Simon laughed. “The murders , old chap. Since you seem to think it was someone in our fair village.”
    Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? Now he would have to go along with the little game. “You, probably.”
    They made, the group at the table, a rather nice little frieze: hands stopped in midair, mouths dropped open, as if the hinges had stuck; drinks paused at lips, cigarettes dangled. Indeed, the only one not locked into the still was Simon himself, who was laughing. “Marvelous! I could have been upholding the honor of my female guests, protecting them from the vile advances of Small.”
    Melrose wondered at Matchett’s facility for driving an insult round the bend and having it come back a compliment.
    â€œI find your sense of humor revolting, Melrose,” said Agatha.
    â€œIt’s always worse on an empty stomach, dear Aunt.”

CHAPTER 6
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 22
    D etective Chief Inspector Richard Jury and his companion, Detective Sergeant Alfred Wiggins, alighted from the 2:05 from London into a cloud of steam, on the other side of which came forth a figure, spectrelike. When the steam cleared, the figure formed itself into Constable Pluck of the Northamptonshire constabulary.
    As he stowed Jury’s scarred valise in the rear of the bright blue Morris, Pluck said, “Superintendent Pratt’s waiting for you in Long Piddleton. He asked me to apologize for not meeting you personal, sir.”
    â€œQuite all right, Constable.” As they drove out of the station and into Sidbury, Jury asked, “Have you come up with any ideas as to why the body of Ainsley was stuck up there over the clock?”
    â€œOh, indeed, sir. It’s obviously a maniac doing these murders.”
    â€œA maniac, is that it?”
    Wiggins sat like a stone in the rear seat, his nose-blowing testifying to his still being among the living, for the time being.
    They came to a roundabout clogged with traffic, but thisdidn’t deter Pluck, who scooted right in, nearly sending a Morris Mini to an early death in the rear of a Ford Cortina. Seeing the blue cone on top of the police car, the horns pulled their punches. “Near miss, that was,” said Pluck, implying it was everyone’s fault but his own. Then he took the Sidbury-Dorking Dean Road. Once beyond the twenty-five-mile-an-hour limit, Pluck hunched over the wheel, drove the speedometer up to fifty, and passed a lorry rounding a curve. He barely missed a black Mercedes coming from the other direction. As Jury brought his white-knuckled hand back from the dashboard,