This Private Plot by Alan Beechey Read Free Book Online Page A

BLESSED PLOT WOULD BE COVERED UP FOREVER? I KNOW WHAT’S BEEN GOING ON. BUT YOU DON’T WANT OTHERS TO DIG UP THE PAST, DO YOU? SO LET THIS BE OUR LITTLE FAMILY SECRET. I WON’T TELL IF YOU WON’T TELL. ALAS, MY SILENCE ISN’T FREE. THERE WILL BE FURTHER COMMUNICATIONS.
    â€œI found it here, on his desk, as if he’d just opened it,” Culpepper told them.
    â€œNo envelope?” Effie asked.
    Culpepper shook his head. “I checked the wastepaper bins and the dustbin outside. But maybe the paper was slid through the letterbox just like that. Perhaps the blackmailer was scared that we could get a DNA trace from the dried saliva on an envelope.”
    â€œNot in these days of self-sealing envelopes,” said Effie, “and blackmailers aren’t usually worried about the authorities. If they’ve calculated everything correctly, their victim is going to pay up to keep his secret safe from the world, including the cops.”
    â€œThen I’d say there was a serious miscalculation in this case, Sergeant Strongitharm,” replied Culpepper. “Whatever ‘blessed plot’ Breedlove hatched in the past, the merest hint that someone has rumbled it caused him to end it all.”
    â€œPlease call me Effie,” she murmured, and Culpepper remarked in turn that his first name was Simon. “But there was no suicide note from Breedlove?” she asked.
    â€œNot on paper. On the other hand, parading up to the Shakespeare Race, dangling himself from the old village gibbet—it’s almost a suicide note in performance.”
    â€œI wonder what this ‘blessed plot’ was,” said Oliver, speaking for the first time since reading the blackmail letter. He held onto the folder, eyes constantly scanning the capital letters.
    Culpepper shrugged. “We may never know.”
    â€œWhy? Won’t the blackmailer tell us when we arrest him? Or her?”
    There was another unspoken communication between Culpepper and Effie. “Arrest him?” she repeated.
    â€œThis blackmailer was the cause of Uncle Dennis’s death,” said Oliver, tapping on the plastic cover of the note that continued to hold his gaze. “How shall this bloody deed be answered?”
    â€œCause or not, it was unintentional,” said Culpepper, gently taking the note from Oliver. “Breedlove’s suicide is the last thing the blackmailer wanted. No money to be made from a dead victim.”
    â€œBesides,” Effie said, resting a hand on Oliver’s shoulder, “how can the police trace this blackmailer, now that Breedlove’s dead? All we have are the contents of an anonymous letter and a sample of some heavily disguised handwriting.”
    Oliver was silent, still staring glumly at the letter in Culpepper’s grasp. Effie took her hand away.
    â€œOliver, the person who killed Dennis Breedlove was Dennis Breedlove,” said Culpepper. “He took his own life rather than face up to something he’d done in his past. Any police investigation into why he was being targeted for blackmail is bound to turn up some unpleasant truths about your friend. Maybe they’re best left buried.”
    He placed the letter carefully in his manila folder and began to gather up the notes and papers that had escaped across Breedlove’s desktop. Oliver closed his eyes, lost in thought.
    â€œTell you what,” Culpepper added, trying to break the tension, “I didn’t look behind this bureau for the phantom envelope. Could you help me move it?”
    The two men dragged the large, wooden desk several inches from the wall, cockling the well-worn carpet. Culpepper produced a pocket torch and shone it into the space. Among the dust-balls and cobwebs, there sat a bright nest of paper clips, some moldy candy wrappers, and a length of telephone cord. The only piece of paper was a yellowing cutting from a printed book, which had clearly lain behind the