Cannington Inquires: A Prime Murder Book 2

by William Hanson

Cannington is called upon to follow up the suspicious death of the former Prime Minister, Lord James Teal, who dropped dead in the middle of a speech at his own party, in his house in the Cotswolds.

Cannington Inquires: A Prime Murder

Dramatis Personae

(Alphabetically listed)

Dr Richmond Cannington – Gentleman detective

Chief Inspector Alex Lenton – Police detective

Frank Dent – Chief government security co-coordinator

Rt-Hon Harriet Hodge MP – Education Secretary

Sir Arthur Jacobs KCMG – Secretary to the cabinet

Mrs Elizabeth King – Wife of Dr King

Dr Robert King CBE – Retired doctor, husband of above

Rt-Hon Nigel Philips MP – Secretary to the home department Rt-Hon Lord James Teal KG – Former Prime Minister

Lord George Trumpington-Fowler – Shop owner, husband of below

Lady Veronica Trumpington-Fowler – Editor of Paradia, wife of above

Benjamin Cannington – Nephew and godson of R. Cannington

Mrs Elizabeth Foreblanks – Resident of Little Marlow

Rt-Hon Edward Mansal MP – Prime Minister

Sir Robert Sutherton – Resident of Little Marlow

Sir Julian – Civil Servant

AC Kevin Wallace – Assistant Commissioner, Metropolitan Police

Chapter One

Socialising at the Spa

The doors to the shop had just closed for lunch. Ten seconds later they were opened again to let the owner in. Lord George Trumpington-Fowler was today wearing a green coat over his pin stripe suit. He was a weak looking man, dressed in powerful clothes. The umbrella was taken from him by a junior assistant and placed in the chrome umbrella stand behind the counter. Passing the shirt rack, the owner stopped. He took out a blue shirt, thought about buying it but then returned it to its original place.

"Hello Sir." said an eager for promotion assistant. The reply was a feeble excuse for an answer.

"Hullo." It was not necessarily what he said, but how he said it, that made it so pathetic.

"Looking tired today, don't you think?" whispered a junior member of staff to his colleague.

"Being married to that woman anyone would be. I'm surprised he hasn't done her in yet." As their boss came nearer to them, they hurriedly continued to tidy the shelves.

Fowler's of Jermyn Street was the leading gentlemen's outfitters in the country. Each year their profits would increase from what they had made in the previous annum. Royalty, celebrities and members of the government had all bought something from the shop. One of the past Prime Ministers, Lord James Teal, was the store's most regular customer. Every Tuesday afternoon he would visit the shop. It was Tuesday today, hence why George Trumpington-Fowler was there inspecting that all was in order. The outfitters would open their doors to the public (and Lord Teal) at two o'clock. Many were surprised that the ex-Prime Minister didn't mind mixing with the 'ordinary folk.'

Once again, the doors to the shop were opened. Lady Veronica Trumpington-Fowler had arrived. She was a forbidding woman who wore all the latest designer fashion. Today she wore her white suit with black hemming. Although no one could argue that it was not fashionable, they could not deny the fact that it did not make her any more approachable. Veronica was the sort of lady who power dressed; she had a voice to match.

"George!" Marching in to the shop she cried out for her husband. "Do you know what the driver just said to me?" The lady was having one of her famous tantrums. Her husband sighed and patiently asked what exactly had caused so much of a palaver.

"What dear?"

"He said that I looked like an ice-lolly with a lot of dirt around it." She was much taller than her husband, so Lord George always felt he had to be careful. "Ice-lolly!"

"I'm sure he meant you looked like a Fortnum's lolly darling." This un-helpful comment caused even more tears to flow from Lady Veronica. "Would you like to help me inspect the upstairs?" asked Lord George carefully as if he was speaking to a three-year-old child. He got a sniffle as a reply.

"Yes." The two of them, together with the army of shop assistants, climbed the stairs to continue with the inspection. He could already tell that this was going to turn out to be one of those eventful days.

The white and black chequered floor was undergoing its routine polish. Tuesday was a very uneventful day within government circles. This gave the cleaning department the ideal opportunity to buff and shine the most identifiable surface within the walls of Number Ten Downing Street. Only a few people could be seen in the entrance hall. Frank Dent, the chief government security co-ordinator, was going over the roster with the policeman stationed on the inside of the door, and the secretary for education was standing waiting by the fireplace, admiring the picture of horse guard's parade. She was a plump woman who waddled around the place. Her white hair was in a neat bob that stopped at her neck. Today's choice of clothes was very similar to the choice she made on every other day of the week: a blue jacket and matching skirt, white blouse and purple shoes. Satirical magazines often compared her to a plum.

"Is he coming or not?" Harriet snapped to the now un-occupied policeman. She was waiting for the Home Secretary, Nigel Philips. Together, they were going to launch a campaign on the naivety of youth in society. "The press are being kept waiting, this will only damage our reputations."

The policeman spoke into his radio, attached to his lapel. "Alfa-nine, this is Delta-two. I have the Education Secretary in the lobby; she wants Mr Philips to come down and meet her. Please advise. Over." Under a new top-level security protocol, no one, unless the Prime Minister had granted them a special pass, could wander around Downing street. Only a few people had been given one: the home and foreign secretaries, the security guards and the PM's family.

After a short pause, the reply came.

"Roger that Delta-two. He's on his way. Over out." The sound of the click as Alfa-nine hung up echoed around the lobby in an eerie fashion. Moments later, the Home Secretary emerged through the double white doors, opposite the main entrance.

"Harriet, sorry to keep you. Prime Minister was again bending my ear. Are the cars ready?" He grabbed his coat from the stand and slid it over his body. The main door opened and several cameras flashed at them as they stepped into the black cars. They rushed past the reporters, through the gates, sped around the tourists and drove on to the conference centre.

"Ready?" asked a nervous Harriet.

"Just about," replied her interlocutor, who was flicking through his speech. "Remember to avoid any questions on our childhood or the chancellor's daughter. Oh, James is going to be there for the press. He says he is quite keen on the scheme." Harriet looked blankly at the Home Secretary.

"James?" she asked. "The Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster?"

"No. The former Prime Minister." Nigel looked annoyed at her display of ignorance. "You should know him, you were junior Home Office minister at the time." The car began to slow down.

"Yes, alright. You were a junior at the Foreign Office, weren't you?" The Education Secretary was not a very bright minister.

"Correct." The both of them stepped out of the vehicle and were greeted by various officials.

"And that is why, this government is committed to our war on young naivety. Thank you." The audience were prompted to burst into applause, as a press secretary, who had been standing next to the podium, ushered the ministers into a backroom to debrief them on the speech. No question and answer sessions had been scheduled due to time restrictions. The Home Secretary was being rushed off to a near-by hotel to meet up with an old friend. Meanwhile, Harriet Hodge lingered behind to wait for the journalists to disperse. The queue of desperate reporters and cameramen surrounded the minister's car. Several policemen had to push them back to gain access to the vehicle. Nigel Philips tried to avoid questions from the press; he found them so intrusive and they always asked the same old question about cabinet loyalty.

The hotel Mr Philips had chosen for the meeting was a quiet and luxurious hotel in Kensington, famous for it's spa facilities. His friend was waiting for him in the foyer. Pillars of marble and granite surrounded the room, and the reception desk was stuck in the middle of the lobby. To one side of the hall was a small television monitor that stated the weather and latest headlines for London. Next to this was a mahogany table offering the hotel's brochures and various leaflets. One of them caught the friend's eye. He picked it up and browsed the three pages. Big purple letters filled the front cover; 'Massage and spa services menu.' Inside, it contained detailed information of all the different types of treatment you could inflict on yourself. 'Classic Euro-Aroma Deep-Cleansing Facial', 'Equilibrium Signature Facial', 'De-stress Eye Treatment for Puffiness.' The list went on.

Finally, after ten minutes of waiting, Nigel Philips arrived. At first, he could not see anyone in the lobby except the hotel staff; however, after looking to his right, he saw the back of a gentleman. The man was wearing a dark navy suit, which fitted his body like a glove. It was not too long on the trouser length, the sleeves showed only a smidgeon of cuff and the silver and blue cuff links.

"Cannington!" he called from the doors. "So sorry I'm late." The gentleman who had been perusing the pamphlets turned in shock to see the Home Secretary stride towards him. If there was one thing that Cannington hated, it was people shouting with joy in public places.

"Nigel, good morning. Was there any need to shout quite so much?" he asked as graciously as possible. They shook hands amiably and moved into the nearby lounge.

"Drink?" Mr Philips asked, offering Cannington the drinks menu.

"Mineral water please." The menu was placed down. "Tell me Nigel, how are you finding the Home Office?"

"Well, it's alright. A bit of a pain though, there is so much to do. I often take six or seven boxes home with me on the weekdays" He paused. "I suppose I shouldn't complain too much. It was I who wanted to go into politics, no one made me. And how is life with you?" Before Cannington had time to answer, the waiter arrived to take the drinks order. After the brief interlude, Cannington started.

"Going alright so far. Only been up here for a few days. I saw a brilliant performance of La Traviata last night at Covent Garden."

"Really?" said Nigel. He paused, having nothing further to say on the matter and then changed subject. "I heard about the case in Little Marlow. Well done." Cannington became rather flustered and embarrassed at this.

"Well, I – I mean – thank you. Although, I am trying to forget about it. The whole incident was very harrowing for me." The waiter delivered the drinks. The Home Secretary had ordered a Bloody Mary, which Cannington thought rather risqué for someone of his position at twelve o'clock in the afternoon.

They talked about various topics of general concern for some minutes. They got through more of the same drinks. At one o'clock, Cannington decided that four Bloody Marys was quite sufficient for his present company and thought he had better excuse himself and escort Mr Philips out of the building and safely back to the Home Office. Luckily, the car that had brought the minister to the hotel was still outside.

"I shall see you soon, Nigel." Again, they shook hands.

"Bye, Canny!" called his friend. Cannington winced, shut the car door and waved as it drove away. He hoped that Nigel did not have any major engagements that evening.

Chapter Two

The Invitations

Row after row of linen lay before Dr and Mrs King. The collection was vast and stretched from synthetic to Egyptian cotton. The options were endless. An eager assistant approached the couple to offer her help; however, it was declined. The elderly couple had more or less settled on cotton.

"Happy?" asked Dr King to his spouse.

"Yes." She sighed. "Now all we need to do is stock up on light bulbs. They are on the ground floor." The pair proceeded to the lifts. As was true with most of the lifts in Harrods, the bronze plating reflected the people standing inside. Dr King looked slightly smaller than the five foot ten he actually was. He was tempted to think that the reflected image of his wife showed a much prettier version. However he quickly rubbished the idea and gave his wife an unexpected, to her, kiss on the cheek. The lift soon halted and the current passengers left and made way for a new set.

"I'm so sorry. My fault." Dr King exclaimed. He had just bumped into a well-dressed gentleman who was going into the lift.

"Please, do not trouble yourself. Good day." Cannington walked in, and pressed the button for the food hall. Although he was more accustomed to getting his food from either the local shop or Fortnum and Mason's, he had decided that he should explore the wonders of Harrods's vast food hall.

However much the hall had to offer, he could not seem to find any place to buy clotted cream for his scones. After his little shopping trip, he was to visit some more of his London friends and thought it would be polite to take something as a present. His next appointment loved scones. Whilst still trying to find the cream, he tripped over a trolley that had been left there by a shelf stacker. Although he had not fallen over, Cannington was extremely shaken by the incident. In a fit of fury, he marched over to the counter and demanded to see a manager.

"I – I dunno if he is available, sir." mumbled the assistant behind the check out desk. "Sorry."

"Well, please find out if he is because I could have injured myself." Cannington was shaking with rage; however, the customers behind him wanting to be served were even more furious. One woman tapped Dr Cannington on the shoulder and slurred,

"Alright Grandpa, calm down." He swirled in indignation and started to retort, but was interrupted by a blunt "Now hop it, we want to be served." Cannington took exception to this, tried to think up a crushing one-liner with which to retaliate, failed hopelessly and left in silence. Several other members of the queue laughed as Cannington marched away. This was to be the last time he shopped in that food hall.

The room was decorated with fine eighteenth century art, sculptures and busts of previous political figures. Large wooden panels clad the walls of the Cabinet Secretary's office. A spacious wooden desk was placed at one end of the room, and sofas and chairs at the other. Ms Brigstow knocked and entered the room, holding some white and brown envelopes.

"Your afternoon post, Sir Arthur." She handed the mail over to the Cabinet Secretary, Sir Arthur Jacobs. He was a distinguished gentleman, a not quite your average mandarin. His hair was black and shone with hair shaper. Whilst he was just above the usual age for a Cabinet Secretary, he did not look his fifty-nine years.

Ms Brigstow left, closing the door behind her. Arthur Jacobs shifted through his mail, placing all-important letters to one side. This was to ensure they got the most urgent attention. In the less important pile lay a small white envelope with a hand written address on the front. The handwriting was one that Sir Arthur could recognise immediately. He quickly tore it open and read what was inside.

'Arthur, Lord James Teal at home for his seventieth, RSVP.' The writing was a mixture of typed and plain handwriting.

"How incredibly kind of him. Inviting the opposition round, even after all these years," exclaimed the Cabinet Secretary. He and Lord Teal had worked together for several years as Prime Minister and Cabinet Secretary. It was actually Lord Teal who had appointed Sir Arthur. Naturally, Arthur could not refuse. He put a call through to his secretary and arranged for her to accept.

Elsewhere around London and the Home Counties, fellow close friends of Lord James Teal were receiving invitations to his party. A fellow peer, also appointed by Teal, Lord Trumpington-Fowler, showed the card to his wife, Veronica. She was not in a particularly receptive mood.

"Now what?" She snapped, throwing down her blue pen.

"We have been invited to James's party, darling."

"When?"

"Next Friday evening. Eight till ten." George Trumpington-Fowler sat down on the beige chair.

"Check the diary. It's over there." Her hand wafted vaguely to the other side of the room. Her husband got up wearily, brought the brown leather diary back, and flung it on the desk. The effect of the flying diary made Veronica's pen jump out of her hand, leaving a line of blue ink across the draft article in front of her.

"You silly man!" she exclaimed furiously. Now that she was standing up, Lady Trumpington-Fowler towered over her husband in a very dominant fashion. "You are becoming very surly these days, snap out of it." She walked off testily, her white and pale blue dress trailing behind. George did not seem to care, much; after nine years of marriage, he had become used to it.

Chapter Three

The Party at Eight

The eve of the party for the former Prime Minister had arrived. The guests were getting ready to leave for the house in the Cotswolds. In Chelsea, Sir Arthur Jacobs was putting the final touches to his evening dress; in Surrey, Doctor and Mrs King were locking up the house whilst in Kensington, Lord and Lady Trumpington Fowler were still deciding on what to wear.

"Car ready, Frank?" asked Nigel Philips.

"No, not yet sir. Sorry about the delay. The car got caught up at its last destination. I shouldn't be too long now." Frank Dent, the experienced head of government security, tapped on his computer by the door of Downing Street. He, along with the Home and Education Secretaries and the Secretary to the Cabinet, was going along to the party. When Lord Teal had been running the country, Dent had been the personal security guard for the Prime Minister. They had formed a close bond and understanding. Frank felt it a privilege to be invited, although he did wonder if the invitation was there to protect his former master and not for him to enjoy the party too much.

Finally, after a whole hour of waiting at Number Ten, the black car arrived to take them to the party. The journey would take around three hours, so they had decided to bring along some literature for their entertainment. The secretary for the Home Department had brought along Charles Dickens's, 'Great Expectations', the Cabinet Secretary had decided to read Shakespeare's 'Much Ado About Nothing', Frank Dent had an Ian Fleming novel, whilst the Education Secretary browsed through editions of 'Hello.'

"Doctor Robert and Mrs Elizabeth King." announced the waiter, who stood by the white double doors that led into the drawing room. The husband and wife walked in. They were the first to arrive as Mrs King never liked to be late. Their host greeted them cordially, as was his usual fashion. His white silky hair bounced as he walked across the room.

"Good evening Robert. Liz, how radiant you are looking this night." He shook hands with Dr King and kissed Liz twice on the cheeks. Mrs King, giggled embarrassedly. "Well, do come in. Snacks are around the place, those are particularly good." He pointed to some olives on the bureau. "Drinks. What can I get you?" The couple placed their orders. Teal turned to relay the order to the waiter, however there was no sign of him. Mildly annoyed at this, the Lord exited to go and locate the lazy server.

Fine art lined the beige walls. On the surfaces, there was photograph after photograph, all of them showing James Teal either shaking hands with someone or standing outside a famous building or monument. Above the fireplace was a big painted portrait of Lord Teal and his late wife. Dr King walked up to admire the accurate and life-like painting. He stood looking up for some time, thinking about his friend's legacy.

"A good artist." Dr King called. He got no reply. "Darling?" His wife heard this time.

"Sorry. What did you say?"

"Good artist." He said once more to his wife who was still devouring most of the olives that her host had pointed out. She agreed and walked over to get a better view. "We should get our portrait done, it would look good in the hall." he continued.

"A little over the top, perhaps." said Mrs King thoughtfully.

"No, I don't think so." He sighed and continued in a whisper. "God, she wasn't very attractive."

"Who?" questioned Liz King who had turned away to check on the olive supply.

"Her!" he called, pointing to Lady Teal. "Lovely woman, lovely dress sense, ugly face."

"Robert!" She hit him lightly on the arm. "You can't go around saying that. Although I never met her, I'm sure she was a great wife and a very attractive lady." His wife moved away and sat down. James Teal re-entered the drawing room proudly holding a tray with three glasses on it.

At half past eight, the Trumpington-Fowler's arrived. Lady Veronica had finally decided on a pale pink dress – which was the one she had originally intended to wear. Soon after their arrival, the government team arrived. Frank Dent, the two ministers and Cabinet Secretary. All the men were in dinner jackets. Harriet Hodge, the education minister, had put aside her usual purple suit and changed it for a bright pink evening version. This made her look like a giant raspberry.

Lord Teal passed each guest in turn, stopping to have a five-minute chat. Nigel Philips was the first one to be hauled in to mass conversation. "Tell me Nigel, do you remember that crisis in Burma we had?" he asked in a reminiscing fashion.

"Yes, James. I do. You handled most of it though." Nigel knew very well that Teal had done nothing of the sort and he, a mere junior Foreign Office official had been the instigator of the relief plan.

"Well, I suppose I did really." replied a very pleased seventy year old. "And the change of policy for Uganda? Brilliant." Nigel Philips was growing increasingly tired of his host and replied with an ironic,

"A master stroke." He managed to escape by excusing himself to make a phone call in the lobby.

Next up to be interrogated was the Cabinet Secretary.

"Arthur! So good of you to come. Are you enjoying it?" Teal asked cheerfully.

"Yes I am, Lord Teal. Wonderful." Sir Arthur sipped his wine.

"Almost as good as that party at Buckingham Palace. Do you remember that?" chortled the host.

"Oh yes. You made that speech."

"Yes, yes. That's the one." He laughed. "In front of all those world leaders, and the Queen. God bless her and Philip. You will be pleased to hear that they are both in fine form. Philip is giving me a guided tour around the great park, next Wednesday as a matter of fact." He gazed at the carpet, smiling. Sir Arthur at this point decided to go and get some fresh air. He thought it was getting a little stuffy in the drawing room.

"Liz, are you enjoying yourself? – I am so sorry my dear lady." James Teal had turned so quickly to speak to Mrs King, that he knocked the giant raspberry that was Harriet Hodge into one of the items of furniture. Doctor King helped the woman to stand up again. She seemed very perturbed by the incident but soon forgot about it. After shaking the incident off, Teal continued to speak to Mrs King. "I have to say it again, you really do look beautiful tonight." She blushed but did not speak. "Your hair is styled differently tonight too. You know, if you had it in a sort of – well, I mean, you'd look like," he stopped in embarrassment. "Never mind. It is lovely as it is."

"Sandwich?" She grabbed a plate that had just made its way around the room.

"Yes please. I think I will have one of the cucumber variety." He took one and started to nibble on the sandwich.

"I shall have the same." She passed the tray to another guest and ate her sandwich, licking her lips afterwards.

"I think I ought to say a few words now, excuse me." Lord Teal walked to the fireplace and began to speak; he did not realise that the sandwich was still in his hand. "Ladies and Gentlemen. Friends. Thank you all for coming to my seventieth. I am very grateful to you all. You know, addressing you in this way reminds me of the time that I was making my charter house speech at," He stopped suddenly. His hand jerked quickly to his mouth. The guests did not quite know what was happening but Lord George Trumpington-Fowler took control.

"Are you alright, James?" he asked almost unnecessarily. It was several seconds later that the reply of,

"No" came.

"Put him on a sofa, someone. Make way." He moved to help the former Prime Minister towards a sofa. All the men had swooped in to help Lord George. Once on the sofa, the unprecedented spasms continued and worsened. Being a general practioner, Dr King (who knew that Teal was an anaphylactic) asked someone to find his epi-pen. Lord Teal was just about able to gag,

"There. Bureau." Harriet Hodge, who had a secret desire to be Health Secretary, dived across the room to reach the bureau and began to search for it.

"Lord Trumpington-Fowler," called the doctor urgently. "Call nine nine nine." On these instructions, Trumpington-Fowler fumbled in his pocket and eventually pulled out a mobile telephone, only to discover that it was out of range. The wonders of modern technology.

For several more minutes the wild fits of Lord James Teal continued. Numerous incoherent cries came from the man; nobody could work out what he was saying. Lord George placed a pillow under Teal's head. Another cry.

"What did he say?" asked Lord Trumpington-Fowler.

"I don't know." Said a guest.

"It sounded like butter!"

"No, it must have been 'better'. George put the pillow under his head, he must have been telling us that it was better." Veronica smiled proudly at her ingenuity. Yet another shrill shriek came from the dying man. They guests turned to Veronica for her interpretation of this one. "Enough?"

The surrounding guests did not quite know what to do, but then Sir Arthur had an idea.

"There's a landline in the hall. I'll go." He rushed out of the room. Other guests flapped around trying to look as if they were helping in one way or another; instead, they created a lot of unwanted panic. After a few long minutes, Lord Teal screamed out and finally stopped moving. The room went quiet. No one dared say anything. They knew what had happened. Doctor King, his hand shaking slightly, placed two fingers on Lord Teal's neck, waited, moved to his wrist and looked up before speaking in a sombre tone.

"Time of death, nine o'clock and forty nine minutes."

Chapter Four

The Mug

A tall official stood next to the double doors that led into the cabinet room in Number Ten Downing street. Richmond Cannington was walking around the room admiring the view out of the window. He had been waiting for several moments until a bell sounded and the official started to speak a quick, well practised, monotone, a passage which obviously had been learnt straight from a handbook.

"When you meet the Prime Minister we ask that you do not: shake his hand; address him by his name unless you know him personally – which you do not; do not ask about his career, family, friends or any current or past government policy," He paused for breath, "don't offer him any drink, food or nicotine item unless they have been registered thirty six hours in advance with his private office. It is forbidden to take any kind of animal, weapon, electrical item into the cabinet room. Finally, please do not sit until you are asked to and don't scratch the table." With that, he opened the door and Cannington walked in.

The cabinet room was large and painted in an off-white colour. As was true with most of Downing street, pictures had been hung around the walls. Two large pillars supported the ceiling from the end of the room where the doors were; book cases could also be found aligning the wall.

"Hullo, Dr Cannington." said the Prime Minister, who had stood up to great his guest. "Please sit down."

"Thank you, Prime Minister." Cannington would have normally asked how he was at this point but, as it was forbidden and considered a faux pas, he refrained and instead, smiled.

"I hear from the Home Secretary that you – oh I'm so sorry, would you like a drink? Coffee, tea, water, orange juice?" asked the PM.

"Coffee please." The Prime Minister lifted the receiver of one of the several phones and asked for two coffees to be sent through.

"Where was I? Ah yes, I hear from Nigel that you are quite good at solving murder cases. You do still believe that James Teal was murdered, don't you?"

"Yes. From what I have read and heard, albeit very little, I do think it was not a mere coincidence that his epi-pen was removed." At this point the coffee arrived on an antique gold and red tray. A mug was placed in front of Cannington and similarly, in front of the PM. Cannington was offered sugar which he did not accept but asked for the milk jug. The Prime Minister took the sugar bowl and placed five sugars in his coffee and once the milk was free, poured the remainder of the milk into his cup.

"Right. So, you do think it is murder. That only really leaves me to ask if you would accept taking on this case." Cannington obliged with a faintly satisfied smile; obviously Nigel had recommended him with great tact. The Prime Minister continued. "You will be working alongside one of the Metropolitan's top officers." He laughed to himself. "Chief Inspector Alex Lenton. We are using some one from Scotland Yard because of who it was. You understand?"

Cannington nodded. "Of course, Prime Minister. I shall be only too happy to do this. Does Chief Inspector Lenton know that I have been assigned to the case?"

"Naturally. Whilst you can't arrest anyone, because you are not a member of the police, I have given you equal rights et cetera. But the law rests with the Chief Inspector. I think you two are both going to meet up at Lord Teal's home this afternoon."

After engaging in some light banter about the weather (as any other subject was forbidden) Cannington was shown out of the room and subsequently out of Number Ten.

The afternoon in the Cotswolds was very different from the morning that Cannington had just spent in London. The bitter wind howled as the grey clouds loomed over his head. A red hatchback was parked in the drive; no one was in it. Cannington presumed that this was the vehicle of the police detective. He parked his Mercedes next to the car and got out, nearly scraping the door as he exited.

The front entrance was wide open, so he decided that it was acceptable just to walk in. As he did so, a white coated man, clearly from Forensics, strode out of the drawing room and greeted Cannington civilly.

"Hello, you must be that detective bloke. Go on in. Lenton is waiting for you."

He smiled and walked off. Bloke! How Cannington despised that word. Nevertheless he entered the room of the murder.

"Good afternoon. May I be directed to Chief Inspector Lenton?" As he addressed the young police officer standing before him, she turned around. The face struck a chord with Cannington. He recognised it, but from where?

"Certainly." The policewoman stood still and looked expectantly at him.

"Well?" he asked impatiently.

"Well what? I am Chief Inspector Alex Lenton." she said smirking.

"No. No, Alex is a…but I thought you…. I want Alex Lenton. Stop joking please." Although Cannington was continuing to disbelieve what the lady was saying, he was beginning to realise the horrible truth. "I, well, you see…" he stuttered in a manner that was very unlike his usual one. Eventually, he found his strength and said, "But you're a…you're a woman!" Lenton, who up until this point had been laughing, took this astute comment with great offence.

"So what? Does that mean that I can't do my job as well as a man?" she asked aggressively, now merely inches from Cannington.

"No – but it's the former leader of the country that has been murdered, I just thought…" He could go no further as the chief inspector had walked off in a huff. Cannington could tell that this investigation was going to prove interesting. Trying to repair his working relationship with her, he followed her into the hall. "I'm Doctor Richmond Cannington." he said sheepishly.

"That's nice. You already know who I am, shall we start the investigation now?" she retorted.

"I suppose so. Do we have a list of suspects?" asked Cannington hurriedly.

"Yes, I do." Lenton said tartly. "Do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do not. I was hoping you could let me copy it."

"Tut-tut, were we not taught at school not to copy other people's hard work?"

"Yes, I was." replied a tight-lipped Cannington. "Please?" he changed his tone of voice to say this.

"Alright." She handed him a typed piece of paper showing all the people who had been present at the party, smiling with deep satisfaction. "I have arranged to speak to the Cabinet Secretary this evening at eight."

"Eight!" exclaimed Cannington in mild despair.

"Yes, eight."

"Where?"

"Some address in Whitehall." she returned.

"London, at eight o'clock! I have only just come down here." He was now showing signs of major irritation.

"Off we go." Chief Inspector Lenton exclaimed cheerily, ignoring his obvious annoyance.

"Off we go!" Cannington mimicked his colleague, tempted almost to skip behind her like a young child. Instead he gather his dignity around him and followed in his usual fashion.

Chapter Five

A Fright in the Night

The civil service's exclusive club was only a few doors down from the Department of Work and Pensions. Alex Lenton sat on an old maroon leather chair with a clipboard full of paperwork. Both she and Dr Cannington (who also sat in a similar chair) were listening to Sir Arthur Jacobs, the Cabinet Secretary. So far he had not told them much to help them, merely expressed how "deeply upset" he was and what "a loss for the country" the death had been.

Sir Arthur stood by a large, rectangular window that overlooked the street below.

"Well, how can I help you both?" he asked. The two detectives looked at each other to see who was going to answer first. Begrudgingly, Cannington let his female colleague pose the initial question.

"Where were you when the attack on the deceased happened?" Cannington thought this a very foolish question to ask; however, he stayed silent and waited for the reply.

"In the drawing room. I saw most of the whole thing. That's where I stayed until the ambulance had left. After that I went back home." He had a smooth, silky voice that seemed to glide as he spoke. The Cabinet Secretary now sat down in front of his company.

"You say, 'most of the whole thing'. Why only most?" asked Cannington curiously.

"I had to go out of the room to phone for the ambulance, but when I tried to use the telephone in the hall, the line was cut." He finished.

"Cut? Interesting. Did you go out on your own initiative?" Cannington had begun scribbling away in his black note book.

"No. Doctor King asked me to go and find the landline." Sir Arthur summoned a passing waiter and ordered drinks for the three of them. Cannington asked for a mineral water, Sir Arthur a whiskey and Chief Inspector Lenton ordered a beer. Cannington grimaced as he heard her ask for such a drink. In his view, woman did not drink beer. In fact, he disliked anyone drinking beer.

"Do they come in mugs?" joked Cannington to his fellow male.

"You've seen the Prime Minister, haven't you?" smiled Sir Arthur. Lenton wondered what they were going on about but continued with the questioning.

"Had you noticed anything particularly weird about Lord Teal's behaviour on that night?" she asked.

"Not really. He was going on about all his achievements, how he had met certain people or got this or that. Quite annoying." The Cabinet Secretary replied honestly.

"Finally, how did you come to know the deceased?" Chief Inspector Lenton said thoughtfully.

"He appointed me as Cabinet Secretary in his first year of office, after my predecessor, Sir Frank, retired. We had previously worked together, only very briefly, in the Home Office. Anyway, I ran the country with him for well over six years." Expecting that the interview had concluded, Sir Arthur got up to show his guests out, but Cannington had not finished.

"What time did you arrive at the party?"

"Around nine o'clock." came the reply. Both satisfied with what their interview had produced, Chief Inspector Lenton and Cannington said their farewells and left in silence. After leaving the building, they arranged to meet the Home and Education Secretaries the following day at noon. They parted with a hardly civil and forced goodbye, on both sides.

Nigel Philips sat behind his large, modern, Ikea desk while Harriet Hodge (today in a lighter shade of purple) sat at an angle from the desk, facing their interrogators. They both looked extremely nervous. Ms Hodge was taking deep breaths whilst the Home Secretary clutched a whiskey.

"Well, obviously we liked the guy. He gave us our first government job. I was sent to the Foreign Office and Harriet, was a junior home minister. James was our friend." Nigel stressed the last point and nodded to his colleague in agreement. "We didn't kill him. Did we, Harriet?"

"Well I didn't, Nigel." She said with a cocky smile. Cannington took note of this remark. He paused to think about what he had just heard.

"Why did only a few of the cabinet go? I understand from my research that a total of seven cabinet ministers were given a job in the Teal administration." asked Cannington in an intrigued tone.

"He preferred us the most," started Mr Philips but was interrupted.

"Well, he preferred me the most actually." Hodge smiled complacently. "His autobiography is very flattering, you know? I was there as a personal friend, while Nigel went on the PM's instructions. To represent the rest of the cabinet and himself. The PM had another engagement in the south of Spain." The Education Secretary was looking extremely smug. Cannington could see that Nigel disagreed with the statement entirely, but asked the next question before it got bloody.

"At what time did your car turn up at the house?"

"Around thirty-five minutes past eight." returned Philips.

Lenton seized her opportunity to speak. Up until now, she had been worried that Cannington was controlling the interview. "Who was in the car with you, Ms Hodge?"

"Nigel, Sir Arthur and the security person, Fred Dank – something like that." Harriet Hodge replied.

"Dent. His name, is Frank Dent and he is the head of government security." Mr Philips said mater-of-factly

"Why did he go?" exclaimed Lenton, who obviously knew him and thought little of him.

"He was personal guard to James Teal when he was in power. They were very close." Harriet Hodge now got up from her chair and poured herself a drink, much to her colleague's annoyance. After all, it was his study and his drinks cabinet. Ignoring his discomfort, she returned to her seat. Cannington seized his opportunity to reassert his authority.

"What happened exactly when he started to choke?" he asked firmly.

"He collapsed, we men moved him onto the sofa," Once again, Philips was interrupted by his colleague.

"Then I was asked to find his epi-pen," Hodge started excitedly. "But when I looked, it was gone." Cannington received an eager glance from Harriet, but he simply gave a curt smile and noted the point down.

"So the papers were right then!" Lenton exclaimed when safely out of ear-shot of the two ministers. "I thought they were."

"About what?" said Cannington.

"About the cabinet divide. I read it!" She seemed pleased at this.

"My dear woman! You – we, saw two of the twenty something cabinet ministers. The papers that you speak of, in your case probably The Independent, if you can call that a paper, mean half of the cabinet or something a little more dramatic than two. Anyway, I think we should cancel tomorrow's meeting with Frank Dent; I need to look around the house for clues and ways of committing the crime before we do anything else." Cannington went to leave, but was called back by Lenton.

"Well we are here in London anyway, we might as well finish the London group off before we start anything new. Oh, and there is the Trumpington-Fowlers."

"Dent tomorrow, Trumpington-Fowlers later. Good day." He walked to the edge of the pavement and waited for a taxicab. Presently, one came. "Hyde Park Mandarin please." he told the driver. The taxi sped off through a mix of London streets. Cannington wondered about the surrounding buildings, passing people and objects en route to the hotel. Various salubrious establishments along the way he had already visited. These included The Ivy, The Savoy and Simpsons. This evening, he was to experience the cuisine of a new Italian restaurant. Unfortunately for Cannington, it was some way away, but he was determined to walk there. He would have to pass several dark alleys and quite uncouth nightclubs, but he was prepared.

"Superb! Wonderful! Thank you so much. Good evening." Cannington shut the restaurant door behind him and left with a big smile on his face and a satisfied stomach. The evening's meal of Tonarelli caci e pepe had been a success. He would certainly be visiting Il Borghese again and recommending it to the appropriate people.

After five, cold minutes of walking, the daunting fact that his peaceful walk back to the hotel was going to be interrupted by the sights of neon signs and loud music, was enough to wipe the smile of his face. Solemnly, Cannington proceeded with his route. When he finally arrived at a particularly shady street, he picked up his pace and shot down the alley as fast as could be. Whilst doing so, he slowed down enough to read what the signs were flashing or advertising. Cannington had to shield his eyes from a large blue and pink sign that read 'Ice – a new club for youths'. "Full of riff-raff." He muttered to himself as he passed the entrance to it. All of a sudden, a deep, thuggish voice emanated from inside the club. Cannington paused to see what the commotion was. A burly man came marching out; he held a young man who was dressed in a loose fitting shirt, un-tucked and chinos.

"Get out. You're banned." bellowed the bouncer. The man had thrown the delinquent out with such force and lack of care that he had flown straight into Cannington. He was furious and concentrated so much on straightening his coat, that he forgot the half conscious youth lying at his feet. The boy groaned. This made Cannington aware of the large lump by his heavily polished shoes.

"Are – you – ok?" shouted Cannington as if he were several metres above the person.

"Oh God!" murmured the young man despairingly.

"I beg your pardon! That is not an answer fit for my question, thank you very much. I am being civil to you, offering you my assistance and all you do is…" Cannington stopped short of his rant and saw the boy rise from the ground, turn around and face him. "Benjamin! Ben?" said Cannington in total shock.

"Heya, Unk C'!" cried a drowsy Ben Cannington, nephew and godson to Cannington. With a pathetic giggle and a glance at his uncle's outraged face, Ben vomited and then collapsed on to the pavement once more.

Chapter Six

A Frosty Breakfast

The crisp summer's morning started with the hotel bedroom phone ringing to wake the guest of room one hundred and thirty three. After picking up the receiver Richmond Cannington put it down promptly, after thanking the operator for his service, and rose from his bed. The hotel room was decorated with pale yellow wallpaper and white painted wooden decoration. Light browny-gold drapes hung over the top of the king sized bed. Almost opposite the bed was a suitable sofa and an armchair. The floor was tiled with marble paving and a large, square rug lay over it, almost covering the shiny slabs. It was on this beige sofa, that Ben Cannington lay with a thin white sheet over his torso. The noise from the phone had woken him and he rose to change for breakfast.

"Breakfast?" repeated an astonished Cannington, "You think that you are joining me for breakfast. In this hotel? No, I'm sorry. Room service maybe but not in the dining room." They were both amazed at each other's audacity.

"Why not? I look alright don't I? Shirt, chinos, moderately smart trainers. I'm hardly in my day-to-day clothes." retorted Ben. Trying to avoid the matter of dress (Ben had a point), Cannington hastily changed the subject.

"Why are you up in London anyway? London is miles away from Devon."

"I was going clubbing with Sam. We took the train. It's alright, Mum and Dad know." Ben's attempts to comfort his godfather were failing.

"Sam? A school friend? Where does he live?" Cannington was now irritable.

"No! Sam is my girlfriend, Sammy is her real name." The face that Ben was seeing, should have been captured and framed for posterity. It was one of utter disgust.

"And are the parents of Samantha aware that she is – was, with you?"

"Yeah, 'course. By the way, her name isn't Samantha, it's Sammy. No Uncle, she was not christened Samantha, Sammy. Come to think of it, I don't think she has been christened." He paused to think. Meanwhile Cannington could not see how Ben's parents could allow such a thing: "Going out with someone who had not been christened. Unthinkable." thought Cannington. He walked once more to the phone and placed an order for two full English breakfasts.

"Two?" queried Ben. "I thought you said that you were having yours downstairs." Cannington tried to cover up his embarrassment. It was true that he had planed on waiting downstairs, however something told him that he should stay and talk to his nephew.

"Did I? Oh well, it is too late now." Cannington started to clear the table. In no time at all, the food arrived. A smartly dressed waitress pushed a trolley to the table and loaded it promptly. Cannington had left the room to wash his hands whilst this process took place. The waitress soon finished and asked Ben to sign for the meal. As Cannington returned he halted suddenly as he saw Ben with the pen and bill in his hand. Ben chuckled as he saw his Uncle and godfather.

"Just giving my autograph!" he cheered. Cannington grunted and started to reprimand the server.

"Now listen here, young lady. In future, I shall sign all bills." His tone was harsh but fair.

"Oh! So sorry, sir. Pardon me for saying, but I think your son could manage." This was not the right thing to say to an aggravated Cannington.

"He is not my son, he is my godson. Good day." Cannington decided not to say that Ben was his nephew and opted for the more 'detached' of the two roles Ben had with Cannington. The waitress scampered out.

Over breakfast Cannington decided to put some of his reservations behind him and engage in conversation with his nephew. The exchange served two purposes. One was to get to know him better and the other, to draw Cannington's attention from the cement mixer mouth of his relative.

"What else have you done whilst you were in London, Benjamin?"

"Not much. I went to look at a gallery with Sam yesterday morning," Ben was trying his best to eat with his mouth shut; however, Cannington could not mistake the odd piece of egg or tomato rolling around the mouth. Nevertheless, he continued to express an interest in his nephew's visit to the art gallery.

"A gallery!" Cannington was pleasantly surprised but tried not to show it. "Which one?"

"Erm, the Tate Modern I think." Cannington's hope dropped and he continued to eat his fried bread. Ben continued. "Then we tried to get into Harrods's but we weren't allowed in, so we tried some other shop and then we hit the clubs." He grinned at his uncle.

"A riotous occasion. Does your girl-friend know where you are?"

"Yes. I texted her earlier, she has decided to go back home on the train. She should be on it by now." Cannington saw this as the perfect opportunity to get rid of Ben, for soon he would be late for Chief Inspector Lenton.

"Well, no doubt you will want to go and join her," He stood up and started to clear away the plates. "I shall drop you at the station. Hurry up please." Ben's plate (still with food on) was whipped away and Cannington started to put on his coat.

An hour later, Cannington rushed up the pavement of Whitehall, almost out of breath. "You're late," observed Chief Inspector Alex Lenton smugly; she was standing against the wall with folded arms and a glum expression on her face. She had a hard, plain face with very few unique characteristics. Even though she was a murder investigator, she still insisted on wearing her police uniform. When Cannington was in the police force, he would have investigated cases in his own clothes.

"Chief – Inspector – Lenton," panted Cannington. "So sorry. A, problem arose. It doesn't matter now, the problem, has been sent home. Shall we go in?" He pointed to the black iron gates behind them. Lenton agreed and they walked up to one of Lenton's police colleagues, who nodded and let the two of them in.

Numbers Ten, Eleven and Twelve Downing street were on their right, and the back of the Foreign Office to their left. They continued to walk. Another police officer asked their business and names at the front door of Number Ten.

"Chief Inspector Alex Lenton and Mr Richmond," started Lenton.

"Doctor!" interrupted Cannington crossly.

"Doctor Richmond Cannington, to see Mr Frank Dent please." finished the Chief Inspector.

"Thank you. One moment please." The policeman spoke into his microphone on his lapel and a few minutes later, they were admitted into the house to be greeted by a young, efficient female that answered to the name, Fiona.

"This way please." She said leading them from the hall to a yellow corridor which contained many plain white doors. A buzz of noise came from some of the open doors. The second door to the right had a silver plaque stuck to the wood. The engraved, black letters read: 'F. H. Dent – Government Security Coordinator'. Fiona knocked twice and entered, without waiting for an answer. "Two people to see you, Mr Dent." She smiled and walked out, closing the door behind her.

"Alex!" beamed Dent, offering his hand. "And you must be," he glanced at his papers, "Richard Cannytown."

"Richmond Cannington, yes." corrected Cannington.

"He's a doctor as well!" said Lenton sardonically, who had by now sat down. Slightly flustered, Cannington joined her.

Frank Dent was a small northerner who had been brought up in a working class home and had never really been told how to dress properly.

"What can I do for you?" he said, rubbing his hands and sitting back casually in his seat.

"Just answer routine questions really." Lenton said, taking out her clipboard of papers.

"As well as my own." interjected Cannington.

"Very well, fire away. Oh! I should not 'ave said that. After all murder case and all that." Frank gave a nervous laugh. For someone that was in a high position as he was, Dent seemed extremely anxious.

"No, you can say that. He was not shot."

"Of course he wasn't. Do continue." Dent had now adopted a less informal posture. The Chief Inspector proceeded with the standard questions, what time had he arrived (8.35pm); where he was prior to leaving Number Ten (in his office); where he went after the party (to the hospital and then home.)

The quick fire questions finished and by the end, Dent seemed more relaxed. There was a pause and then,

"What did you think of Lord Teal, Mr Dent?" asked Cannington.

Dent's reply was a shade too hurried. "I liked 'im very much. Great chap 'e was. Full of good ideas and all."

For a few short moments, Cannington stared at Frank Dent, wondering what he was thinking. "How long had you worked for him as personal bodyguard?"

"Er, three years I think." Dent replied.

"How did you come about being his bodyguard, Mr Dent?"

"Well, I worked for the Foreign Secretary first of all, as his body guard. I s'pose the minister had said a few good things about me as when we were repositioned, I had got the top body guard job. It's the PM that appoints us to each ministry. Although, when Lord Teal went out of office, I stayed on for three months with the new guy but I mucked up and nearly let him be killed. To be honest, I was surprised when I retained a job in the government. When the next reshuffle came of us security blokes, I had been sent to the Chancellor." Dent looked depressed at this memory but soon cheered up.

"Who did you talk to during the party?" said Cannington.

"Sir Arthur, that doctor fellow, Lord Teal and Harriet Hodge. I spoke to most people as a matter of fact, hello and all that, but those people at length. I did not speak long to Sir Arthur, we were interrupted by Lord T and then Sir Arthur went to get some fresh air." Cannington sat up. Not because of the nickname for the deceased Dent had used, but because Dent had just given him some possible evidence.

"What time were you interrupted?"

"I dunno. We had been there for around an hour or so." he replied.

"No further questions for now, Mr Dent." Cannington turned to Lenton beside him, "Any from you?"

"Not really. Please fill this is when you can please, Frank. Return to head office when you've done." She handed Mr Dent a witness statement, as she had done with all their interviewees and left together with Cannington.

"What did you make of that, Cannington?" she said.

"Nothing of much interest I think." He glanced at his notes.

"Yeah. I don't think he would have done it. I have known him for years." Lenton dismissed the idea like it was an unwanted fly.

"My dear woman, you must not let him off the hook because he is your, 'pal'. When I was investigating the Foreblank's case it turned out that the murderer was someone I had known for years. Well, to be honest, all the suspects were!" He sighed and gave a slight chuckle.

"Really," Lenton could not have been more disinterested. "and would you stop calling me 'my dear woman'. It's very patronising." Cannington took great exception in being told what to do.

"I am so sorry, Ms Lenton . I'll see you at the Trumpington-Fowler's at three. Goodbye." Cannington set off down the road, back to his hotel in a brisk and prompt fashion. Lenton, on the other hand, strolled down the pavement as if time was no issue.

Chapter Seven

An Edited Alibi

Lady Veronica Trumpington-Fowler sat in her office in Sloane Square. She was the editor of the woman's lifestyle and gossip magazine, Paradia. Lady Veronica had been the editor for four years now and before that she was sub-editor. When she left University with a degree in art, her talents took her to a post-graduate college where she studied journalism. Though her people management left a lot to be desired, Paradia's reputation as a credible source for gossip and a decent magazine had risen since she had taken over from the previous editor, who had been fired after a scandal, involving a mushroom and a short-hand typist.

At this particular moment, Lady Trumpington-Fowler was working on her editorial. In this she would sum up what her week and the rest of the fashion and film/TV industries' week had been. Her tired assistant sat opposite her scribbling away on her notepad, writing in shorthand every word that her employer was saying.

"I shall close this week's editorial by saying the following: in what has been a particularly relaxed week for the film industry, the fashion industry has been craving the new Versace home collection and wondering where all these ordinary, boring people have bought their Louis Viton suitcases." She paused and looked at her secretary, still jotting down the last sentence, "Keep up Shelia! It looks as if the chavs seem to 'chav' a lot more money than two thousand and four." She smiled at her small joke and dismissed her perspiring secretary. Moments later, her black telephone rang and Shelia's voice announced that,

"The police are here to question you, ma'am." Veronica slammed down the receiver, stood up immediately and started to panic, speaking out-loud.

"Police! Police, in here. Speak to me. Oh help. What do they want me for? Money? Blackmail? Libel? No, that's the lawyer." Taking several deep breaths to calm herself, she arranged her hair, straightened her skirt and opened the door. In the other room, together with Shelia, Cannington and the Chief Inspector watched the office door fly open and a very strained lady pop her head out and grin at her new guests. "Come in!" she called in her sweetest manner. The desired effect had not worked. Cannington and Lenton looked at each other; they had both had the same thought and walked in. This was the first time that the pair had shared similar feelings. Veronica giggled nervously as they sat down. The office was fairly small and every inch of the wall behind the desk, was covered in clippings from her magazine or others, photos of her shaking hands with famous men or women. On her desk lay a small wooden block that read: 'Lady V. K. B. Trumpington-Fowler BA.' Lenton wondered what Veronica's middle names actually were, but stopped short of asking her.

The usual, routine questions were asked. However the replies were far from dull. Lady Veronica muttered, stumbled, giggled and changed her answers several times. Cannington was not impressed and in an act of defiance, just to catch her out if she was the murderer, wrote down all the answers she had said and changed. When answering the simple question of,

"What time did you and your husband arrive?" from Lenton, Lady Trumpington-Fowler gave this reply:

"Well, I mean, it was about – no. Or was it? Let me think, he-he, maybe, eight, no, maybe even seven. Or was it half past? I didn't really look at my watch. Yes! That was why. I did not look at my watch because I had thrown it at the dog that morning. I remember now – it bit my chiffon dress. Well, does that help you?" Finally, in a breathless flurry, she finished and reclined in her chair. Both Cannington and Lenton thought this woman highly suspicious and most of all, stupid.

"No." they both said in unison. Cannington took over the conversation.

"Lady Trumpington-Fowler, I must insist in you giving us a definite time that you think your husband and your good self arrived at the house of Lord James Teal. You are only incriminating yourself by not complying to my – our, request."

"I see. Well, around," she paused, "half seven, I think. Yes, half past seven." Her attitude had changed totally. The voice was now back to the cold, callous tone to which her husband and colleagues were only too accustomed.

"What did you think of the deceased?" questioned Lenton passively. The reply came as a surprise. "He was an idiot, to be frank. Thought he was a hero and a world saviour. Nothing more than a liar and a cheat."

"How did you know Lord Teal, Lady Trumpington-Fowler?" Cannington had stopped writing and was intrigued by the psychology and shift of temperament.

"Through my husband. Lord Teal always came into the shop on Tuesdays, in the afternoon. That's how my husband became a Lord and I a Lady. Although we received the titles many years after he had resigned as Prime Minister, we think that James Teal put a good word in for us with the then PM." She smiled a knowing smile. Cannington wondered whether his interviewee really cared that Teal had been murdered.

"Did you notice anything unusual at the party?" Cannington's eyes were fixed on Veronica like a hawk.

"Well, not about the room."

"Other people have told us that you managed to interpret the cries that Lord Teal was shouting. Is this correct?"

"Yes. Harriet Hodge thought he shouted 'butter' but I knew it was 'better'. Then later he shouted 'enough'. I was the only one that worked this all out." A smug grin had once more appeared on the woman's face.

After a few more short questions, involving her job and movements the two of them left the office and subsequently the building. Their next port of call would be in a few days time at the house in the Cotswolds. Meanwhile, Lenton would go back to New Scotland Yard and document the day's proceedings and Richmond Cannington would pack and check out of his hotel and head back for his house in Little Marlow.

Chapter Eight

Old Faces

The once pretty and alluring attraction of Little Marlow had been lost. Ever since the murder of Lionel Foreblanks, the village had not regained its usual charisma and quality that had made Cannington move there two years ago. Little Marlow was situated to the west of Marlow and sat neatly on the border of Buckinghamshire and Berkshire.

Driving into the village brought back many fond memories and some unpleasant ones that Cannington would quite happily forget. There were very few residential houses in Little Marlow. In fact, the total was sixty seven. However, opposite the newsagent was a large boarding school for boys; this made the total population of the village soar dramatically. When Cannington had first decided to move out of London, he had originally intended to move to somewhere in Kent. It was only down to the fact that his friend and ex-colleague, Henry Stevenson, had persuaded him to live here, that he had changed his mind.

The nearby estate agent had shown Cannington three properties that would suit his needs. 'River View' was the first Cannington was offered and after looking round, however attractive the view was, there was an unmistakeable smell of Indian curries. He put this down to the local Indian restaurant (which did take-aways.) Secondly came the thin but large house, '4 Fulton Mews.' The downside to this house was the fact it had a small garden, and Cannington specifically wanted a large garden that he could work on as he had had to put up with only a small patio whilst living in London. Last but not least, was the house he currently lived in. 'The Elms' stood proudly on the bottom of the hill. It was the only house in the area to boast three bay windows and had a garden of just under an acre. Within the walls was a tastefully designed kitchen, a spacious drawing room and sitting room, a comfortable study, a small but sufficient hall, a luxurious dining room, four bedrooms and three bathrooms. As soon as Cannington set eyes on the building, he fell in love and moved immediately.

In the two years he had lived there, Cannington had made his unique mark on the house. Everything was organised beyond belief and he never had any difficulty finding anything. The irony was, that when ever one of his friends or family came to stay, they would spend five minutes looking for something that Cannington could instantly locate.

When he returned home that evening, Cannington went, without delay, upstairs to undress and change into his night clothes. After doing so, he turned on the radio, sat in his favourite chair in the drawing room, drinking a small glass of elderflower cordial, and listened to the programme. The room was decorated to the highest taste. The walls were papered in a light cream colour and two comfortable sofas were positioned neatly amongst the other items of furniture. The thing that drew the most attention when visitors visited, was the large bookcase that housed two hundred books on crime, history (predominantly British and military) and the 'forgotten wars'. It was only five minutes in to the radio programme, when Cannington sat straight up in his chair and hit the radio's power button, forcing the voice of the smooth talking woman to cease. "Libby 'bloody' Purves!" he exclaimed. And with that, he went to bed.

The following morning, Cannington awoke with a start. The telephone was ringing beside his bed and throughout the house. Quickly he glanced at the clock and saw it was ten thirty in the morning; he had overslept. Slightly flustered he almost shouted a breathless, "Good morning. The Elms, Richmond Cannington speaking."

"Oh, good. You are back. Richmond, it's Elizabeth Foreblanks."

"Mrs Foreblanks!" Cannington was now fully awake. "How nice of you to call."

"Thank you. I was wondering, could you join me for dinner this evening? I was thinking the King's Hotel, in town. They have refurbished their restaurant and I think we should see if it is an improvement. What do you say?" Her voice rang with anticipation.

"I would be delighted, Elizabeth. Shall we say, seven thirty at the hotel?"

"Yes. I shall see you then. Good bye." She rang off. Cannington smiled. The meal would be a nice break from investigating the murder of Lord Teal. Mrs Foreblanks was an old friend who had been widowed suddenly; Cannington had investigated her husband's murder and this had been his first private case as a detective. He rose from the bed and walked into the bathroom, showered and then changed into a light pink, striped open necked shirt and cream trousers.

"Good morning, Henry." he said to his cat, who had just pressed himself against Cannington's legs. Henry was Cannington's second cat, a handsome and dignified pet who always greeted his master in the morning. Cannington moved into the kitchen and started to prepare his breakfast. Today, as usual, he would eat a bowl of muesli with extra sugar and two pieces of white toast, coated in apricot jam. Cannington had enjoyed this breakfast for just over five years. He had once tried a new cereal called 'Corn Slices'. Sadly this proved a little too different and alternative to his liking.

That afternoon, Cannington was to venture out into Little Marlow to complete his weekly grocery shop. However small the village might be, it certainly had good services. Walking down the exclusive Fulton Mews, Richmond Cannington saw a car he recognised driving towards him. It began to slow down and pulled in to the side of the road, right next to Cannington. The window of the long, silver car dropped down slowly and a beaming, yet somewhat dissipated face appeared.

"Cannington!" cried the man joyfully. Cannington was so taken aback by the sudden turn of events, that he did a double-take before he registered who it was.

"Sir Robert, how good it is to see you." The Suthertons were a wealthy family of three, who lived at the top of Cannington's road, Hill Lane, in a large and grand house, named, 'The Manor'. Sir Robert and Lady Georgina had only one son, a teenager; Matthew was the only child of that age that Cannington found interesting and intellectual. "How is you son, Matthew?" he asked, now at the level of the car.

"Coming along nicely. He has taken up polo now, he is hoping to make the local team when he is old enough." Sir Robert gave a pleased smile and brushed back his hair. "How about meeting us all for a spot of tea, later this afternoon?"

"I'm afraid not, for I am dinning with Mrs Foreblanks. Perhaps next week, Saturday?" Cannington really wanted to see his friends from the Manor, but with the Teal case and other engagements, it was difficult.

"Very well, we are at the village bazaar in the morning, but shall we say, four?" said Sir Robert. Cannington agreed promptly, bid his farewell and continued on his journey to the shops.

There were only a few small shops in Little Marlow, so for the majority of his shopping, Cannington would travel to Marlow town. Located on the main street was: an antique shop; a small bookstore; a grocer; a bakery and delicatessen. As he walked along the high street, he saw some acquaintances and people he had met once or twice. The Browns from number two; Reverend Shelia Dinsley and a neighbour of Cannington's, Kingsley Shingler. Kingsley was a tall, dark, wiry man with messy grey hair that looked as if it could do with a wash. His old sports jacket was threadbare and worn; infact, Shacklebolt had never been seen in anything different for the past two years (except on special occasions.) He lived a good distance away from 'The Elms', but was still the reclusive neighbour of the tidy and efficient Richmond Cannington.

The grocery store was full of people who were buying their vegetables for the coming days. A small queue had begun to form outside the shop. Cannington had never known it this busy. Patiently, he decided to wait in line. He admired the near-by river until something that one of the women in front said made his ears prick. Pretending to admire the pineapple, Cannington started to eavesdrop.

"I know, ever such a nice man I was told. A bit pompous, but wouldn't hurt a fly. The funeral is next Friday." One woman stopped as another took over the conversation.

"Do you remember when he signed that document about Uganda? What an uproar there was! He might have been nice, but he was extremely stupid." Cannington hated people speaking ill of the dead. Quickly he interrupted the three ladies. He had never seen any of them before, so presumed they must be tourists. The villagers got very upset during the summer, when non-residents of Little Marlow would come to visit. Not only did they clutter the place up, but they also made queues for the shops longer. Deliberately trying to draw attention to himself, Cannington coughed (almost too hard, he nearly choked.)

"I see you know about the death of the former Prime Minister, James Teal. I don't think it wise yet alone polite to speak injustices and dredge up his faux pas. After all, Lord Teal is now dead and he cannot be here to defend himself." The second lady looked quite shaken by this, whilst the first (the larger of the gaggle) decided to argue the point.

"And who, might I add are you to say anything on the subject? Perhaps a friend?" She gave a sardonic smirk.

"No. I am merely a staunch traditionalist who believes that such courtesies should be upheld." He had nearly said that he was investigating the murder, but remembered just in time, that Chief Inspector Lenton had taken the decision not to tell the press that Teal had been murdered. This was something that Cannington had disapproved of most highly. Ignoring the infantile sniggers from the ladies, he marched off into the distance.

"How is The Grange?" asked Cannington politely to Mrs Foreblanks.

"Alright thank you but I have had to dismiss our new butler, Gannon. He wasn't really suited to the quiet country butler role. In fact, I wonder if he is suited to any butler role." She gave a small titter. "I am thinking of selling it actually, the house that is."

"Why?" Cannington could see no reasons why she would want to do such a thing.

"I am rattling around in the old place and I never really liked it in the first instance. Lionel always said I would love the house, but I never have warmed to it. You are not thinking of moving are you, Cannington?" Cannington found this a most peculiar question to pose.

"Not really. I have viewed a few places around Epsom and Ewell, but I think I shall stay in Little Marlow."

"Well, if you wanted to stay here, why not buy The Grange?"

"Me? Buy your house?" Actually, Cannington did quite like this idea. He had always admired the Foreblanks' house. "Maybe." The pair paused for a minute before starting a new conversation.

"So, what are you working on now, Cannington?" asked Mrs Foreblanks. They were sitting opposite each other at a small, rectangular table which was dressed in a white table cloth. Elizabeth Foreblanks was wearing a very elegant dress made from pink silk; over her shoulders was a creamy shawl. Cannington wore his favourite dinner jacket and black tie.

"Another murder case, in London." he replied. "In fact," Cannington paused to weigh up the options and possible outcome, "it's the Lord Teal case. Please do not say a word to anyone else. I trust you Elizabeth, seeing as you know what it is like, et cetera." Elizabeth looked speechless, but soon gathered her self together and spoke.

"You mean, James Teal? The James Teal? The former Prime Minister? Murder?" Her voice rose an octave.

"Yes, I am afraid so. I have not reached any conclusions as of yet. Lord Teal was throwing a party when he," Cannington tailed off. "I'm so sorry." He had realised that it was soon after a party that Lionel Foreblanks had been killed.

"No, it's silly of me." She wiped a single tear off her cheek. "The poor man, Teal, I mean. Such a tragic life." Mrs Foreblanks was now smiling, a sympathetic smile and stared into her chicken liver pâté.

"What do you mean? Apart from the fact he was a member of Parliament?" Cannington thought he had cracked a brilliantly witty joke, but soon realised that it wasn't being received very well. His laughter subsided.

"His wife. She died in a car accident and his brother was said to have been an alcoholic and drug addict." Her tone was subdued. Cannington thought about this point and continued with his meal.

Chapter Nine

The Foreign Gentleman

Marble floors, wood panel walls and small chandeliers: the Foreign and Commonwealth Office was one of the most luxurious and grand buildings in Whitehall. Many busy officials were present in the corridor and they seemed to skate from place to place.

Chief Inspector Lenton did not know about the private meeting between a high-ranking civil servant and her least favourite colleague, Richmond Cannington. Along one of the sixth floor corridors, behind a standard, bullet proof door, sat the two gentlemen.

"It is so kind of you to meet at such short notice, Sir Julian."

"A pleasure, Doctor Cannington. I hear you wish to talk about the wife of the late James Teal." Sir Julian was dressed impeccably and almost made Cannington look untidy. The two had known each other for some time and the civil servant owed a favour to Cannington.

"Yes. When did she, have the accident? You were handling the case?" asked Cannington delicately.

"Yes. Mrs Teal died whilst in France, so the Foreign Office handled most of it. I was in charge. I can remember I was speaking to the Prime Minister at the time of the news. It was 1995 when the tragedy happened. She was driving fairly fast and crashed into a cliff; the car caught fire and well, you know the rest." Sir Julian finished and gave a small nod to Cannington.

"From what I have heard," he started, "The media had reported a rift between the Teal's. I mean, why was she in France without her husband? Also, with no security or protection?"

"Oh! The Teal's were very lax on guards and all that. Only when Teal was out of office, you understand. They would take security with them when they went abroad on official holiday and touring the UK for book promotions, but never to the local shops. They had bullet repellent glass in the home; however, they did not want a permanent guard."

Cannington said, "And their argument?"

"Well, we had heard about that a few days before. Someone mentioned to me they had rowed over their will or something similar. They did not have any children so most of their possessions would have gone to the survivor. Of course, it might not have been true. For all I or you know, they could have said goodbye to each other for the last time, as happy as Larry!" The mandarin laughed. "What interests you in Mrs Teal's death anyway?"

"Seeing as I am investigating her husband's death, it seemed wise to pursue hers." replied Cannington thoughtfully.

"Do you think she was murdered as well?" Rapping his fingers on the table, Cannington replied.

"Maybe, Sir Julian. Maybe."

Alex Lenton sat on the bonnet of the police car, tapping her shoe up and down, in a repetitive fashion. Her posture made her look particularly butch. In her view, Cannington was late. However it turned out, she was too early. Cannington arrived bang on time, as he usually did. It was his principle to arrive punctually. In his view, if people were too early, it showed they were paranoid.

The detectives were going to look around James Teal's house in the Cotswolds. After a short greeting, the pair of detectives descended on the house and walked into the hall. It was of average size for a house of the particular period in which it had been built. A medium breadth staircase was straight ahead and five doors led off to other rooms. First of all Cannington made a note of where these went. Opening each one in turn, he called out what they were to Lenton. Much to her annoyance.

"Lavatory." Cannington moved to the next door. "Dinning room. Kitchen." He crossed the hall. "Drawing room. Corridor, will investigate later – if time. Morning room." He finished.

"A what?" quizzed Lenton.

"A – morning – room." Cannington said in a patronising tone. "In Enfield, it would be a lounge."

"How did you know I was from Enfield?"

"Are you really? Well, well!" Cannington laughed to himself and strolled into the drawing room.

The room was not as lively as it had been on the eve of murder. Nothing had been touched, on Lenton's request. The pair of them made a preliminary sweep of the room before speaking. They commented on various, trivial points such as the décor and possible entry and exit points (three windows, one door.)

"Make a note of the furniture, Chief Inspector." demanded Cannington. She complied and began to write. 'Two sofas, three chairs, one long coffee table, two smaller coffee tables, bookcase, bureau, small table, clay bust of Lord John Russell.' She finished and passed the list to Cannington.

"Yes. I think I should go and investigate the bookcase and bureau further." Cannington moved towards the books but found nothing of much interest. The late peer had owned many books on politics and political history. Secondly, was the bureau. It was made of fine wood and had four drawers and a compartment, to which access could be gained by lifting down the wooden flap. Inside, was a passport, several certificates and medals. Everything was packed tightly and there was very little space. To the left of the compartment was a gap of about eight inches in breadth and fourteen in length. "Something is missing." Cannington said slowly.

'What?" Lenton moved in for a closer look.

"The epi pen, like Ms Hodge told us. Look!" he suddenly exclaimed. He bent down and plucked a piece of pink fabric off the corner of the bureau, then pocketed it. Cannington gave a melodramatic gesture and ambled over to the sofas. "What was he doing when he started to go into the spasms?" inquired Cannington thoughtfully.

"Making a speech I am told." replied Alex Lenton.

"Where?"

"I do not know. I imagine somewhere prominent. Like there," she pointed to the space where Lord Teal had stood to make his (curtailed) speech. In a most agile fashion, Cannington bent down and examined the surrounding floor. He found nothing for the first few minutes, until he moved closer to the sofa. He lifted up one of the hems and looked underneath the sofa, only for it to reveal nothing. Cannington then repeated the procedure for the other sofa.

"Got it!" he exclaimed, triumphantly waving old sandwich, as he climbed back to reveal Chief Inspector Lenton suppressing a giggle. "As I thought. I knew it would have been something he ate." Cannington lifted off one of the pieces of bread to reveal the inside. The sandwich was half eaten and brown chunks of cucumber lined the bottom of it. "Send this off to be examined, please. Let me know as soon as the results are back. I need to know what exactly this sandwich had in it."

After a few more checks in the drawing room, Cannington and Lenton changed location and inspected the hall. The first job was to check the telephone, as Sir Arthur had said it was cut. He was right. The chord of the old fashioned, black phone had been slashed near the bottom.

"Shall I check how many phones there are in the house, my dear man?" mocked Lenton.

"Yes," Cannington replied absentmindedly. "Hurry." True to the instruction, Lenton returned within five minutes.

"Two in total. Including the one you're in front of."

"How very interesting. Where is the other one?"

"In Lord Teal's bedroom. It is a white version of that." She pointed vaguely at the black telephone. "You look worried?"

"Worried?" said Cannington quietly. "No, not worried. Puzzled. Nothing quite fits as yet."

"We still haven't interviewed three of the suspects."

"Yes. But usually something fits by now. I wonder," Cannington paused and started to walk up and down the hall. "Do you think we could get all the suspects down here for a few days. They can all use the bedrooms; how many bedrooms are there again, Chief Inspector?"

"Five. Three doubles; two singles."

"Yes, we will. I shall share with Nigel Philips. The King's can go in one room and the Trumpington Fowler's in another. Sir Arthur can be paired with Mr Dent and you, Chief Inspector," He grinned, "you can have the third room with Ms Hodge."

Chapter Ten

Murder Reconstructed

The next day, all the suspects had been summoned down to the Cotswolds. Cannington and the Chief Inspector had managed to get some clothes and their toiletries; Cannington planned on keeping them all there for only two days and one night. At eleven o'clock, slightly later than hoped, the first of the guests arrived. Alex Lenton had arranged for a police van to collect the London residents; all others who lived outside the area would have to make their own arrangements. Thankfully, that was only the Kings.

"I shall never be able to lift my head in daylight!" shrieked Lady Trumpington-Fowler. "A police van, I tell you. A – police – VAN!" she shouted the last word, grabbed hold of Lord George and marched straight past Lenton and Cannington, into the house. The other guests were not quite so perturbed as Veronica Trumpington-Fowler had been. Cannington greeted them all warmly and ushered them into the hall. Only two minutes later did the Kings arrive.

"Sorry we are a bit late." bustled Mrs King.

"Yeah, traffic on the motorway. Hello," added her husband, Robert. Like the rest, they were shown the entrance and for the second time in a week, they walked into the front hall.

Cannington took charge and stood on a step to make himself more visible.

"Good morning and thank you to you all for coming at such short notice. I do hope that you realise that this is in the interest of justice." Lady Veronica made an audible whisper to Mrs King, who was standing next to her.

"Well, if we didn't turn up, we would be charged with murder." Pretending he had not heard the remark, Cannington continued.

"Today's aim is to reconstruct the fatal evening. However, this time we hope there is no death. I have asked you all to bring along the clothes you wore to the party, so we can get as close to the actual event as possible. If you could all go to your rooms. Some of you will be sharing," his eyes rested on Lenton for a moment, "the couples will have their own room. A sign has been placed on each bedroom door for who is where? Please change into your party outfit and be down here at twelve. Thank you." Cannington stepped aside and let the suspects climb the stairs and locate their room.

Most of the people who had been asked to share were not too comfortable with the idea. However, after a few carefully chosen words and diplomacy, they all settled and changed. At exactly midday, Richmond Cannington walked down the stairs in his dinner suit. Although he was not at the party, he had decided to dress up anyway and act as the late Lord Teal. Cannington stopped at the same step from which he had addressed the crowd before and spoke to the guests, who had already changed and were waiting with a mixture of tiredness and anticipation.

"Right, we are going to have the guests enter at the same time as they did. These times are written up on the board over there." He pointed to a piece of wood that he had found in the grounds and to which he had had pinned a handwritten list of the times the suspects had given him. The Kings and Lord George (who had not been fully questioned by him or Lenton) had willingly told Cannington exactly when they had arrived for this exercise.

"If you could set your watches to just before eight o'clock please, this will help. This reconstruction will be in real time. If you have to wait because you arrived at half past, you should have turned up earlier." The guests did as instructed amongst groans and mutters. Chief Inspector Lenton, who was in her evening dress, thought the idea ludicrous. But Cannington continued, oblivious to her feelings. "All people are to wait in the porch until the time they arrived. Please try and do exactly what you did that evening. Talk to the same people and so on. We have no food or drink, but plates and glasses will represent them. Thank you." He finished dramatically and glided into the drawing room.

The grandfather clock struck eight (that too had been altered by Cannington.) Doctor and Mrs King entered and moved to speak to 'Lord Teal', as represented by Cannington. Before the reconstruction started, much to Cannington's annoyance, Elizabeth King emptied her dress pockets. The minutes were quickly passing, and Cannington wanted to make sure that all timings were as exact as possible. She deposited an old train ticket stump and a savoury snack packet into a nearby bin. The doctor and his wife could not quite get into their roles (as themselves) and Mrs King kept bursting out in laughter. Gradually, she contained the giggles and threw herself into the charade. Turning to Cannington she instructed him to leave the room to get the drinks, as she had done with Lord Teal. Instead he moved to stand next Lenton at the door. He watched the couple eat the crisps together at the bureau and admire the painting.

"You were over there, Liz." whispered Dr King, gesticulating to his left. "Go!" Mrs King was unsure at this but started to change position while Cannington re-entered, clutching two empty glasses.

Around eight thirty, the rest of the guests arrived and moved into position. Cannington went round to speak to the guests in the order he had been told. He made a mental note that all of the male guests had left the room after speaking to Teal. Whether this was anything to do with the murder was a question Cannington would have to address later. The afternoon, or evening as they were pretending, moved slowly on with very little excitement.

Suddenly Cannington jumped when a stout hand gripped his shoulder. He turned round to see Harriet Hodge grinning at him.

"Did you do that to Lord Teal?" he gasped in shock.

"No," she tittered, "I just wanted to correct the story. I was standing over there, and Lord Teal turned around to speak to Mrs King and knocked me over. I was wondering if we could do that again?" Cannington did not know quite how to reply.

"I – I think not. However, I shall make a note of it. Thank you." He nodded quickly before resuming his conversation with another guest.

The rest of the party passed quickly after the incident with the Education Secretary. Cannington had performed his best dying act and observed the reactions and movements of the men and women. He had secretly been looking forward to re-enacting this scene all day. Drama had always been a keen passion of his ever since he joined Footlights in his younger days.

"Right, back to your rooms to change please. We have arranged this evening's meal, which will be served in the dining room at half seven." called Lenton, taking over from Cannington, who was brushing himself off from his 'death'. After all the suspects had left, Cannington walked over to Lenton and discussed the afternoons proceedings.

"I don't know what exactly you thought of that, Chief Inspector, but it certainly helped me. That last bit, when I died," he paused and leaned forward significantly, "very interesting. Some of it did not tally with what they have all told me – us, sorry." Ignoring Lenton's eagerness to know the facts, he smiled. "I shall see you at dinner."

Chapter Eleven

Guns and Roses

The golden sun shone through the surrounding trees and reflected on the beautifully kept lawn. Today, the guests were free to go, as long as they had been questioned by the detectives. Three people were yet to be interviewed: Doctor and Mrs King and Lord Trumpington-Fowler. Sir Arthur Jacobs, the Cabinet Secretary, had already left for London together with Frank Dent. The weather had had a positive effect on Doctor Cannington, and he had agreed to question the Kings in the garden.

"How did you know the deceased, Dr King?" he asked, with notebook in hand.

"We studied together at Oxford. He read law and I read medicine. As a matter of fact I had already met him through my late brother, before we went to University." Doctor King replied, suddenly tearful at the thought of such happy times with both his friend and brother.

"Your only brother?" said Cannington.

"Yes."

"Mrs King, how about you?"

"What?" she snapped unexpectedly. "No, I have never had any siblings." Cannington reminded her that she was not being asked how many brothers or sisters she had.

"Oh, I'm sorry Dr Cannington. Well, I knew him via Robert. I was introduced to him when we were engaged." She pointed to her spouse. "James had already been in office by then, he was just a retiring backbencher."

"Tell me what happened when Teal died."

"He started to speak to his guests and then he stopped, fell to the floor and started to scream incoherently." Said Mrs King avoiding a thistle.

"So, you both liked him?"

"Yes." The Kings said in unison.

"Did you know his wife, Dr King?" As he posed the question, Cannington made a note of the previous answer.

"Well, at first I did, before he became Prime Minister. I didn't really see him all that much when he was. We wrote and exchanged Christmas cards, that sort of thing."

"Your opinion of Mrs Teal, if you would?"

"An adequate lady. Perfectly friendly."

"Do you have any children, Doctor King?" Cannington asked all his questions absentmindedly.

"No children, but perhaps one day." Robert King chuckled and patted his wife on the side.

"It better be one day soon." Cannington did not mean to say this comment out loud as he looked at Mrs King. Trying to gloss over this faux pas, Cannington asked another question. "Do you know anything about the row they allegedly had?" Robert King paused before answering.

"Yes. Something about his will. They had a row over who got what and she got cross and drove off, to France of all places! Funny place to drive off to in a strop." He laughed. "James was very sad without her. He told me one day that Liz remind…" Suddenly, out of nowhere, there was a gunshot and a bullet crashed at Mrs King's feet. She screamed and dived out of the way and rushed behind a bush. "Liz! Are you…?" Another shot. This time, it whizzed past Doctor King and hit the barbeque, a few feet behind him.

"Into the house!" cried Cannington in a panic. Scurrying about like a mouse on ecstasy the three of them ran clumsily to the house and within seconds they were back indoors. All of them stood on the spot, panting.

"Morning!" cheered Nigel Philips, who had just entered through the same door.

"Hello, Mr Philips." panted Mrs King and with that, she fainted. Chief Inspector Lenton came flying in, her police radio bouncing on her lapel.

"What just happened? I heard three gun shots." She stopped and stared at Mrs King, who was spread out on the floor as she had just been shot. "Mr Philips, please help Doctor King revive his wife. Get some brandy or something. Cannington, a word please." She took Cannington by the wrist and dragged him into a near-by room. "Well?"

"We were talking about Lord Teal and these bullets came out of the bushes. One landed by Mrs King's feet and the other went straight past Robert King and hit the barbeque."

"No bullets went near you then?" she asked hopefully.

"None, why?" Cannington sounded suspicious.

"Never mind." Lenton hurried to the door and left.

Taking several deep breaths, he smiled to himself, said something mildly offensive about the Inspector and followed. Minutes later, hoards of local policemen drove up and started to search the surrounding woods. Cannington knew they would not find anyone, so ignored their presence and carried on as normal. As he turned a corner in the corridor, Lord Trumpington-Fowler appeared. Cannington smiled.

"Lord George! How convenient this is," The Lord looked confused.

"Ah! Doctor Cannington, at last you get round to questioning me." He laughed and patted Cannington on the shoulder."

"Quite." relied Cannington, who stopped and turned in such a way, that his companion's hand slipped off. "Shall we?" he pointed to the drawing room and they entered.

"Tell me, you run that delightful shop in Jermyn street, is that right?"

"Yes. You know it?" Lord George asked expectantly.

"Of course I do. I have been there once or twice. These socks are from there." Cannington lifted the edge of his trousers to reveal his black socks. "I take it that Lord Teal spent a lot of time there as well as me."

"Correct. But he bought more than socks." Lord George's voice had turned slightly sour. He had hoped that Cannington would have bought more than a pair of socks. "Every week, when he could."

"Made you a peer for your expert salesmanship, did he?" Cannington had picked up on the bitter tone.

"That and other things. Anyway, what do you want with me?"

"I was wondering if you could tell me where exactly you were ten minutes ago?"

"Why?" Lord George was getting irritable and suspicious of the detective.

"I can ask what I wish, Lord Trumpington-Fowler. Please answer the question." Cannington's tone was now verging on sternness.

"Garden." He stormed out of the room and subsequently down the stairs. Cannington thought the man an idiot and decided to go and ponder around the spot where the bullets had landed. He walked through several doors, passed several police officials and exited into the garden.

Lenton was crouched over, examining the bullets. She looked round as Cannington approached but said nothing, nor did Dr Cannington. She felt guilty for wishing such a thought and he thinking of such and insult about her earlier. In silence, he picked up the piece of metal and scrutinised it.

"Shot-gun." Multiple thoughts flashed through his head; he dropped it immediately and rushed back into the house. On the light pink walls were many pictures but above the fireplace was a wood handled, shot gun. Carefully, he lifted it down and endeavoured to get the barrel open. After many failed attempts, he succeeded. Inside, he and Lenton (who was now leaning over his shoulder) saw that there were three empty spaces where bullets had once been.

"I knew I had heard three shots" Alex Lenton said, puzzled.

"Yes. I thought I heard three blasts outside. Mrs King had shrieked so loudly that I struggled to make out the second."

"So, the marksman wanted you dead as well?"

"So it seems." Lenton could detect a tremor in Cannington's voice.

Chapter Twelve

Broadway, SW1

The large grey sign ahead spun on its pole, as was its usual custom. Several armed police officers stood beneath it, in front of the thick black gates. Today was not a particularly pleasant day. The clouds covered the sun, whilst the wind blew softly on the pedestrians' faces. Inside the building, Assistant Commissioner Kevin Wallace stood at his tinted window, staring on to the street. street For several minutes he gazed, until he was disturbed by a buzz from his desk. He hurried over and spoke through the intercom.

"Yes?"

"Your ten thirty is here, sir." came a voice from the intercom.

"Ok. Send him in." The Assistant Commissioner removed his finger from the intercom and brushed his suit down before a quick knock from the door sounded and a tall, distinguished gentleman entered. "Hello, Cannington."

"Good morning, Assistant Commissioner!" Cannington and his host shook hands but remained standing. "Who would have thought that you would rise to such a position?"

"You could have been in my shoes if you had stayed. Sit down, please." They both took their seats. The policeman behind his desk and Cannington on a grey leather chair, in front. "How are you getting along with the Teal case?"

"Progressing, I think." Cannington beamed for a short time, then the smile subsided. "I just wish that I could work with someone other than that impossible woman! Whose bright idea was it to pair me with her?" Kevin Wallace sighed. "The Home Secretary, actually. As you know, he was the one that recommended you to the Prime Minister to take the case on. Naturally, you had to have a police officer with you, and she was chosen. Quite a rising star. What do you not like about her?"

"She argues with everything I suggest; replies with snappy, short, surly remarks and wants me dead." Cannington seethed, just thinking about her.

"You, dead?"

"Yes, the other day a few bullets were aimed at two suspects; when I told her no bullets had gone near me (or so I thought then), she found this most disappointing." Much to the annoyance of Cannington, the Assistant Commissioner found this most amusing and burst into raucous laughter. "It's not supposed to be funny," he protested indignantly.

"I'm sorry." The Assistant Commissioner regained his normal composure and then started on a more serious matter. "Richmond, come back to us. We would all love you to return and fill one of our vacant posts."

"According to your display board downstairs, the only vacant posts you have at the moment are a Community Support Officer, an Anti-Social Behaviour Assistant Coordinator and a plain Commander. I fancy none of those." Cannington said scornfully.

"We weren't thinking of giving you any of those. You see, my superior, the Deputy Commissioner is retiring in a few months time and I am going to get his job, although that is off the record. That would leave a space free for Assistant Commissioner. I think you would make a wonderful AC. What do you think?" Wallace beamed hopefully at his guest.

"Kevin, you know my feelings about the security situation in the country and my resentment of those idiots in Thames House and Vauxhall Cross. Taking on the role would mean I would have to face old acquaintances whom I'm not fond of and they would bring back terrible memories."

"That was years ago, Cannington. I'm sure they have forgotten about it." The current AC was desperately trying to win over a reluctant Cannington.

"Can I think about it, Kevin?" Cannington asked wearily.

"Alright. You have my number?" came the reply. After exchanging a few pleasantries, Cannington left and returned to Little Marlow.

Over the coming days, Cannington made endless phone calls to friends and to his temporary colleague, Chief Inspector Lenton. Together, for the third time, they went through the facts and problems that remained to be solved.

"I still want to know how the murderer cut the telephone wire. They must have been able to leave the room at some point in the party." Lenton pondered.

"True. Of course, they must have been able to search the house for flaws in their plan before the party."

"Yes. By the way I have had the results in from the lab…of the sandwich? It contained a nut. I'm guessing that is how the spasms were triggered." Lenton felt quite excited that she might have solved the mystery.

"Probably. We must now," Cannington stopped suddenly and paused. "Chief Inspector, everyone is to be at the Cabinet Office this afternoon. I shall see you then. I must think." He rang off, leaving Lenton very puzzled.

Chapter Thirteen

Cannington Concludes

"Good evening Cannington." said the Cabinet Secretary who had stood up from his wooden desk. Richmond Cannington had walked in and had started to rearrange the chairs. This unprecedented action caused much alarm to Sir Arthur. "What are you doing?" he cried as one of his favourite wooden chairs was positioned totally out of place.

"I am arranging your chairs, Sir Arthur." replied Cannington matter-of-factly.

"I realise that, but why?"

"We will be visited by others, presently." Cannington had now finished arranging the furniture and the chairs were now in a semi circle, focused on the desk. "Just a matter of time before they arrive."

"Hang on, there are," Sir Arthur paused to count the seats, "eight chairs. Have you cleared them all with security?" he asked indignantly.

"Yes. I did so this morning." said a curt Cannington. He proceeded to walk towards the desk and then placed himself behind it. Cannington surveyed the room.

"I hope you are not going to…" Arthur Jacobs was cut short, as Cannington sat down in the Cabinet Secretary's chair. "You are."

Cannington stopped suddenly. "That's it!"

"What?" questioned the Cabinet Secretary anxiously.

"A few weeks ago, I was in Harrods and some obnoxious female told me to hop it – I was complaining. It has suddenly dawned on me who it was," he smiled to himself. Jacobs pressed him further about the identity. "It was Chief Inspector Lenton." Cannington chuckled to himself quietly, but it soon died off. He would make sure he got his own back; no one told Cannington to "hop it", and they certainly did not call him a "grandpa".

A short knock came from the door. Ms Brigstow, the Cabinet Secretary's secretary, entered and ushered the guests in to the room: the two Trumpington-Fowlers; the Home Secretary; the Education Secretary; the Kings and Chief Inspector Lenton. Frank Dent, the government security co-ordinator, shut the door. Cannington had not been expecting him.

"Oh! Mr Dent, yes, how silly of me to forget to invite you. We will need you I think. Please sit down." He went to pull up another wooden chair.

"If you don't mind sir, I will stand here." said Dent submissively.

"Very well. We will begin. Firstly, I wish to thank you all for arriving on time and freeing some of your other engagements to be here this evening. As you know. I am here to ascertain exactly how the former Prime Minister and Knight of the Garter, Lord James Teal died on the night of the twenty fourth. Let us begin with the facts." He paused to soak in the atmosphere. Alex Lenton looked at him with despair. She wondered how he was going to find the culprit out. Knowing what she was thinking, Cannington smiled sweetly back at her and continued.

"Lord Teal was throwing a private party for some of his closest friends and their spouses at his house in the Cotswolds. It is a commonly known fact that he was an anaphylactic, so any trace of nuts in his food and he would have had to use his epi-pen pretty quickly. So when he ate what he thought was an innocent cucumber sandwich from the tray, he seized up. Why? Because someone had put a cashew nut in it. Such a small item, so remote that hardly anyone would notice it. He rushed, as most of you witnessed, to get his epi-pen from where he has always kept it in the top drawer of the bureau. It was gone. Sir Arthur tried to call an ambulance but the line was dead. During all this, time was ticking away.

"Lord George then got out his mobile phone; however, being in a remote part of the country, there is little reception. Sir Arthur then rushed to the landline in the hall. It had been cut. The education minister and Lord George were struggling to control the spasms of Teal. After several minutes of helpless actions on both sides, Lord Teal screamed out for the final time and collapsed. Dead."

Cannington had been getting quite excited whilst reciting the tale. The Chief Inspector was furious at the melodrama created and the exaggerated, sinister choice of tone.

"Get on with it." She sighed.

"My dear lady, you do like to rush things don't you? I can tell you are the sort of person who gets through several partners in a month." A few shocked murmurs echoed around the room from an outraged crowd. In secret, Frank Dent admired Cannington for his audacity. Hastily, Cannington brushed his lapel and went on. "So, we have three questions to answer. Why would anyone want to kill Teal? How did they manage it? And finally, how would they benefit from the death?" Once more, Chief Inspector Lenton chipped in.

"Four questions you mean." Lady Veronica, who felt sorry for the Chief Inspector at this point, finished her question.

"You forgot, who. Who did it?" Lenton smiled smugly. Cannington breathed deeply; a smile materialised on his face.

"It will be obvious who the murderer is when all of those questions have been answered. I see, Lady Veronica, you are the sort of person who watches detective films or reads book and decides who the murderer is, but fails to work out why, how or what." He paused and then continued. "I shall go on." He bowed to his audience.

"Doctor King. You knew the deceased very well. You and he studied together at Oxford in your younger years. He liked you enough to reward your services to the medical profession, as you had been in the trade for some time, with a commandership of the British empire. When his wife died, he had to rewrite his will. You were his best friend and who else better to leave his money to? What a nice sum to live off for your remaining years?" Temporarily forgetting himself, Cannington was now leaning across the desk staring at Robert King. Dr King was very agitated and shifted in his seat nervously. Lady Trumpington-Fowler's eyes were fixed on the doctor and her nose was upturned in a sneer.

"However, all the other facts do not add up. Most importantly, you have an alibi. So, who else could it be? You and Mrs King had an attempt on your lives, so if the plan had worked and the both of you were dead, who could benefit? The answer, no one. No single person would get a penny out of either of you; you are both only children and have no offspring." The couple squirmed in their seats in apprehension.

"Then I began to wonder about the attempt on your life, Mrs King. I shall come back to that later. Now, when Lord Teal died, he screamed out the name of his now dead wife. As you all should know, she died in a car accident in 1995. No body was discovered. Could this woman be alive still? Could this woman be in the room? Yes. I can tell you she is." Cannington stepped out from behind the desk and moved in to the semi circle of chairs. He stooped down to look in turn to each of the women: Lady Trumpington-Fowler, who gave an indignant hoot; Ms Hodge who simply stared back; Mrs King, who gazed sorrowfully back at Cannington, his eyes rested finally on Chief Inspector Lenton. She was by now so worked up after all of the insults, that she shot up and went to confront Cannington. Thankfully, Frank Dent leapt to his rescue and restrained the wild, flustered woman. Reluctantly, she sat down again.

"Mrs King. You are a respectable woman, who met your husband, when?" Cannington asked firmly. He had now retreated to behind the desk once more.

"Seven years ago, why?" replied Mrs King; she spoke edgily.

"Seven years ago. Three years after the death of Betty Teal. Could it be that you faked a car accident, started the fire and married another man just for money? Yes. I believe you would have done. Your previous husband, Lord Teal and yourself had a row for some reason that I am not quite sure of. This resulted in you losing your rights to his estate and you drove off. Never to be seen as Betty Teal again." Mrs King was sweating by now and wiped her forehead on the sleeve of her lilac blouse.

"You only killed Lord Teal because he had started to recognise you and also, the money would pass to Dr King and when you had got rid of him, you would inherit it all. Lord Teal called out "Betty" as he died, with you standing over him, his former wife. People thought he cried out 'better' or 'butter'; however he was calling out 'Betty.' Your plan, had it worked, would have been perfect, for you and your secret lover to go off and start a new life. Who is your secret lover, your accomplice that managed to cut the telephone line? Lord George Trumpington-Fowler." Cannington looked over for Lord George's reaction. Instead, Veronica Trumpington-Fowler reacted on his behalf.

"Rubbish! George, would never do such a thing. Silly man!" Irrationally she finished. "He promised to buy me that new dress. It can't have been him." She wailed.

"I am afraid it was. He cut the phone line and she," Cannington was now looking back over to Elizabeth King, who refused to meet his eyes, "she would remove the epi-pen from the top drawer of the bureau, where she knew it would be because she used to be married to him. It was Lord George who shot the bullets in our direction, Mrs King, however purposely missing you. Once more, he shot a bullet at Doctor King, but he missed, not intentionally."

"The man's a fool!" cried Lord Trumpington Fowler in despair.

Cannington chose to ignore the remark and instead stood up triumphantly and turned to the Chief Inspector. "I think you need to do the rest, Chief Inspector Lenton."

Begrudgingly, she took over and proceeded to arrest Mrs King and Lord George. The two walked out of the room reluctantly, and the door closed behind them. This left a shocked Lady Trumpington-Fowler, a tearful Dr King, an eleventh of the cabinet – two, the Cabinet Secretary and Frank Dent, who was totally shocked and surprised. Cannington watched them all until one of them spoke. Veronica was the first to do so.

"This will mean the end of my beloved magazine, Paradia. How can an editor write about gossip and tit-tat of society when her own husband killed a Prime Minister?" She took out a white ladies' handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed her eyes. "And that dress! I will not be able to go to that ball now. You swine." Her eyes glared at Cannington in rage. Cannington looked back at her with pity. He never liked messing up people's careers, but the selfishness of some people never ceased to amaze him.

One by one, they exited the room. Cannington stood at the door wishing everyone farewell and shaking the appropriate hands. Naturally, the Cabinet Secretary remained behind.

"I cannot thank you enough. I am glad you have got the right people. We all thought that you would accuse the wrong person and ruin their lives." He joked. Cannington smiled austerely and put his black coat on.

"I am so pleased to be of service, Sir Arthur. What really triggered it for me," started Cannington, embarking on an ego boosting trip, "was when I saw Mrs King deposit a wrapper in a bin at the reconstruction. I had asked for you all to wear the same clothes as you did on the night of the murder. I am certain that the wrapper was a nut packet."

Changing subject completely, Sir Arthur Jacobs asked a most awkward question.

"Doctor Cannington, will you be joining the police again?"

"How do you know about that?" Cannington was slightly annoyed at Sir Arthur knowing.

"Oh! I spoke to the Assistant Commissioner earlier, hope you don't mind."

"Not really."

"Well?" asked an ever apprehensive Cabinet Secretary.

"Wait and see!" Cannington shook hands with the civil servant, smiled enigmatically and departed.