A Letter of Mary - Laurie R. King [34]
The body.
"Mrs Rogers, I'm sorry, but I must ask you a few questions." She stayed on her feet, so Lestrade was forced reluctantly to stand, as well. I remained where I was. "About the two men who came here on the Wednesday. What time was that?"
"Tuesday. It was Tuesday, in the afternoon. Maybe five."
"She left here on Tuesday morning, then?"
"Monday night," she corrected him. "She took the seven-forty into London. Wanted to have a full day in town, she said. Not like some of us, who can only get free for a few hours."
"Er, yes. And the two men. What did they look like? How old were they?"
"Fiftyish," she said promptly. "They were Arabs, I suppose. Not that I've seen any up close, but Dorothy used to send photographs sometimes. Had funny names."
"Can you remember the names?"
"No, gone clear out of my head. Long, they were— the names."
"And the car they came in? Did you see the registration plate?"
"Not that I remember. It was parked along the side of the house, where your car is. All I could see was that it was long and black."
"And that it had a driver."
"I saw that when they pulled out, from upstairs. There were two heads in the back. Either that or the car was driving itself." She was telling us in no uncertain terms that she was fed up with our presence, and Lestrade gave up. I put my notebook and pen away and walked over to the chair she had occupied. The knitting lay in the chair again, an eight-inch length of fine dark blue wool, ribbing and cables, the bottom of what seemed to be a cardigan.
"You do lovely work, Mrs Rogers. Did you knit the cardigan you have on?" She pulled the front of it together across her thin chest as if to defend herself against my friendly voice.
"Yes. I knit a lot. Now please, I have work to do."
"Of course," said Lestrade. "We will let you know when your sister's body will be released to you, Mrs Rogers. This is my card. If you think of anything more about the two men, or if you have any questions, my telephone number is on it." He laid the white rectangle on the polished table in the hallway, retrieved his hat, and we walked slowly down the grey stones to the car.
"I suppose there must be a wide variety of reactions when a person is told of the death of someone close to them," I suggested without much confidence.
"Oh yes. Tears, hysteria, silence, anger, I've seen all those. Never one quite like that, though."
"An odd woman."
"Very. Odd behaviour, at any rate. You hungry?"
"Not terribly. I could use something to drink, though."
* * *
In the end, Lestrade drove back with me to Sussex and spent the night on the floor of our guest room. It was a quiet drive down. I sporadically produced topics of conversation to keep him from falling asleep, lapsing back between times into the contemplation of our visit to Mrs Rogers, the marks of the trip wire (the kerbstone had been washed since yesterday), and the hotel room (which Lestrade left sealed for his prints-and-evidence team).
Holmes was waiting for us, with hot drinks and a remarkably transformed room, tidier than it had been in perhaps ten years. He had even lit a small and not entirely necessary fire, which glowed cheerfully from the grate. Lestrade looked grey with fatigue, and he was given a hot brandy and rapidly dispatched to his rather bare quarters. I was pleased to find feathers contained and new beds in place and said as much to Holmes as I joined him in front of the fireplace.
"Yes, Patrick and Tillie were most helpful. He brought a load of essentials over from your house."
"So I see. These chairs are certainly more comfortable than the seat of Lestrade's car. One of his springs is working its way loose, and I kept expecting to be impaled by it." I sipped