The Young Widow by Cassandra Chan Read Free Book Online Page B

house, by the side entrance. It was a long room, with wide windows looking onto a terrace, which in turn led down to the garden. On the wall opposite the windows was a fireplace with a small scalloped table to the right of it. At the farther end of the room stood a large rolltop desk accompanied by a modern desk chair on rollers.
    Annette indicated the table beside the fireplace. “This is where the tray was.”
    Carmichael glanced at it and then at the desk; Berowne’s back would have been turned to the table while he was working. His eyes rose to the mantelpiece and encountered a small porcelain vase with a bunch of dead daisies in it.
    Annette followed his gaze. “Oh!” she said. “I don’t know how that got left there. Only, of course, I told Mrs. Simmons not to bother with this room until Daniel Andrews was sure he was finished with it.”
    â€œPlease leave them, Mrs. Berowne,” said Carmichael as she began to reach for the vase. “Can you tell me who usually provides the flowers for this room?”
    She looked bewildered. “Well, no one does. I put some flowers in that vase, but that was more than a week before my husband was killed. Someone must have seen them and instead of just throwing them out, they decided to replace them. Kitty, I suppose, or Maddie.”
    â€œYou think these are not the original flowers?” asked Carmichael.
    â€œOh, no.” She shook her head. “Mine were lilies of the valley.”
    She clearly did not see the import of her words—the poison had been described to the family only as “an alkaloid”—but all three men glanced sharply at her and then at the vase.
    â€œIs it Kitty or Miss Wellman who does the flowers in the rest of the house?” asked Carmichael.
    â€œUsually either myself or Maddie. She would probably be the most likely person to have changed these. Or Marion might have brought them over,” she added doubtfully.

    â€œDo you remember which flowers were in the vase the day your husband died?”
    â€œWell, it must have been these, mustn’t it?” she said. “No one’s been in to change them since then.”
    â€œBut you don’t really remember seeing them?”
    â€œWell, no,” she answered, frowning in thought. “No, I can’t remember one way or another. Is it important?”
    â€œProbably not,” said Carmichael cheerfully. “We just like to get to the bottom of any little anomalies.”
    While this conversation was taking place, Gibbons was looking over the desk. It stood open, revealing neatly organized pigeonholes, an immaculate blotter, and a pen and pencil set. The Surrey CID had already taken and gone over the papers and correspondence Berowne had been working on when he died. They had all seemed to be in order and, so far as anyone could tell, nothing was missing.
    Bethancourt had drifted over to the bookcase, which covered half the wall beside the desk, and was idly examining the book spines. Now he moved over and nudged Gibbons.
    â€œLook there,” he murmured.
    Gibbons looked. Halfway along one of the middle shelves was the same book on poisons that Bethancourt had consulted the evening before, along with two others on forensics and firearms.
    Gibbons raised his eyebrows. “That’s interesting,” he said. He turned. “Sir?”
    â€œExcuse me, Mrs. Berowne,” said Carmichael. “Find something?” he asked as he came up to the two younger men. Gibbons nodded a the bookshelves.
    â€œAh,” said Carmichael. One bushy eyebrow rose. “Yes. Gibbons,” he added in a low voice, “I think perhaps you should run out to the car and bring in some evidence bags.”
    â€œYes, sir,” said Gibbons.
    Bethancourt remained behind, still hovering beside the bookcase,
but watching Annette Berowne from the corner of his eye. Her manner—even when she had mentioned the lilies of the