Chapter 12

A Nifty Piece Of Work

Algy was surprised to hear from them when he was expecting them back the following day. He could not resist making a comment about their getting up to mischief, but he was pleased to be given some research to do on their behalf as the humdrum routine of office work was beginning to pall. He promised he would let them know his findings as soon as possible, on which note, he put the receiver down and left for Somerset House.

Bertie and Ginger went back to the morning room, which they had made their base when Constable Pearson appropriated the library for his investigations. They saw no reason to change even though the rural policeman seemed to have lost interest in the remaining suspects now that he had arrested Celia.

Ginger went over to the window and stared out over the terrace. "It would be a great help if we could find the gun," he remarked. "Is there any sign of the forensic report? Do we know if both shots were fired by the same weapon?"

Bertie shook his head. "The post won't have come yet, old boy. Unless Dr Grange sends someone over with it specially, we can't expect it until tomorrow morning at the earliest."

Ginger turned away from the window. "If you were the murderer, what would you do with the weapon?" he asked Bertie.

"Well, I don't know, old boy," admitted Bertie. "It would depend on whether it's my own gun or not. If it were, I'd get rid of it somewhere; bury it, say, or chuck it in the lake."

"You'd be pretty silly to use your own gun, wouldn't you?" remarked Ginger. "Assuming you held it legally, of course. We could check up and see who had a licence to keep a firearm – other than the shotguns, of course – and ask you to produce it. What if it weren't your own gun?"

"Well, in that case, old boy, I'd put it back where I had it from, making sure I'd wiped my fingerprints off it before I did so."

Ginger nodded. "But you could still get rid of it, even if it weren't your own, couldn't you?" When Bertie acknowledged the truth of that, Ginger continued, "so before we check up on who might have had a handgun in their possession, let's have a look round the grounds. There's still time before the light fades."

"I'm right with you, old boy," replied Bertie, screwing his monocle in his eye. "Lead on Macduff!"

As they emerged into the hall, so recently the scene of Celia's dramatic arrest, they saw Joseph Levy-Strauss posting some letters in the letter box. "That reminds me," said Ginger, "I've left my letters in my room. They completely slipped my mind in all the excitement. You go on ahead, Bertie. I'll just go up and fetch them and I'll meet you by the summerhouse."

"Okay, old boy," acquiesced Bertie. "Don't be long. We haven't got much daylight left."

"I won't," promised Ginger and turning on his heel, he ran lightly up the main staircase.

Bertie acknowledged Levy-Strauss' nod as he passed and went out through the front entrance. He turned left and made his way round the side of the house, strolling along the south terrace, his eyes on the ground, examining the neatly tended flower border. He glanced up briefly as he passed under Ginger's window and then dropped his gaze once more, looking for signs of disturbed earth. His footprints were still there from his ascent of the wisteria, but there was no other indication of anything amiss. He carried on round the end of the house and reached the steps leading to the croquet lawn. Realising he must be under Cliffe's window by now, Bertie retraced his steps and started to scrutinise the borders on this side of the house. To his disappointment, for he thought it was possible the murderer might have discarded the weapon through the window before closing it again, he found nothing incriminating.

Having reached the end of the terrace, Bertie was left with a choice of heading back to the steps to cross the lawn or carrying on until he struck the path to the rose garden, whence, he knew, he could eventually reach the summerhouse which Ginger had chosen as their rendezvous. He chose to go on, more because he found the rose garden pleasant than for any other reason. Like Celia earlier in their stay, he lingered a moment to appreciate the blooms. A scrap of something white, snagged on a thorn, caught his eye. He was just about to bend down and reach out to retrieve it when Mr and Mrs Levy-Strauss came down the path.

Bertie straightened up. "What ho!" he greeted them. "Taking the air?"

Joseph Levy-Strauss smiled, his strong white teeth flashing in the low rays of the late afternoon sun. "Why not, Lord Lissie?" he parried. "We must make the most of our opportunities."

"The roses are lovely," remarked Naomi. "Such a shame that these are the last for this year." She reached out and tried to pluck a bloom, but then cried out sharply in pain, blood welling from a pricked finger.

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Bertie, taking out his handkerchief to staunch the flow. "What bad luck!"

"I'm so careless!" sobbed Naomi, winding the handkerchief round her finger.

"Let us go in, my dear," encouraged her husband. "You should have the wound cleaned and bound up properly. Rose thorns can be very nasty."

"Absolutely," agreed Bertie. "Must watch out for tetanus. Make sure your shots are up to date."

Joseph Levy-Strauss put his arm protectively around his wife's shoulders and led her away. Bertie watched them for a moment then turned to gather the scrap he had noticed before their arrival. The fragment, whatever it was, was no longer there; the thorns were bare and unadorned. Bertie stared for a moment, thinking he was mistaken and had gone back to the wrong bush, but when he checked none of the bushes had anything impaled on a thorn.

"Well, well, well," murmured Bertie to himself. "The sly dogs. I wonder what it was that was so important."