Sick of Shadows - M. C. Beaton [58]
She was just drifting off to sleep, watching the flames dancing in the fireplace through half-closed lids, when suddenly she was wide awake.
At last she knew what it was that had been nagging at the back of her brain. She must tell Harry.
She was sure she now knew who had murdered Dolly.
In Yorkshire, Berrow and Cyril were feeling more like their horrible selves. They had shot every animal and bird on the estate that they could, had gone wenching in the brothels of York, and were beginning to regret having been so scared of Harry Cathcart.
It was only when the gamekeeper caught a poacher and dragged the man in to see Lord Berrow at gunpoint that Berrow began to have the germ of an idea. “I’ll take him to the police,” said the gamekeeper.
Berrow eyed the poacher thoughtfully. Most poachers were people who risked prison in order to feed their families during the hard winter, but this one was an unsavoury character with one wall eye, a long nose, and thin greasy hair. He dismissed the gamekeeper.
“Name,” barked Berrow.
“John Finch, melord.”
“Prison for you, me lad. What do you think of that?”
“Been there. Leastways get fed.”
“What were you in prison for?”
“Beating the wife.”
“Nonsense, man. Most men beat their wives, as is their right.”
“Was living ower near place called Drifton. My Ruby cheeked me, so I took a plank to her. Local copper comes rushing in. Charges me with assault and battery. Thought they’d throw it out o’ court but damned if they did. When I got out, Ruby was gone.”
“You’ll get life this time. Second offence.”
Finch looked frightened but tried to cover it up with a pathetic attempt to swagger. “Well, go on. Get it over with.”
Berrow studied him for a long moment.
“There could be another way.”
Rose fretted. Harry had gone out of town on a case. London was buried under great drifts and there were reports that the Thames had frozen.
All she could do was wait impatiently for his return.
Ailsa Bridge lifted her skirt and extracted the flat flask she kept secured by her garter. She took a hearty swig and then began to type again. Harry had assured her that Berrow and Banks were in Yorkshire and that she would be safe from any other attempts.
Her life with her missionary parents in Burma had been full of danger and she had taken many great risks to supply the War Office in London with intelligence. She did not feel as confident as Harry and did not want to worry him. She had bought an old breastplate in an antique shop and was wearing it under her gown. She also had primed Harry’s pistol and put it in her own desk.
She heard a step on the stair and stiffened. There was something furtive about that step. The nobility who usually frequented the office would come crashing in, full of bluster, demanding that some scandal or other be hushed up or some missing dog found.
Ailsa slid open the drawer and took out the pistol, laid it on top of the desk and covered it with her scarf.
The door opened and a man in a tweed coat, knickerbockers and a flat cap came in.
“Where’s the captain?” he demanded.
“Out of town. Please leave.”
He pulled out a gun and pointed it at her. “Go in there.” He jerked his head at the inner office. “Open the safe.”
Ailsa’s hand crept towards the gun.
Finch saw the movement and shot her full in the chest. Ailsa crashed backwards in her chair and fell to the floor and lay still.
He searched in her desk until he found the keys. He went into the inner office and opened the safe. He was just reaching into it when a shot caught him on the shoulder. He grabbed his wounded shoulder and turned round. White-faced but stern, Ailsa was holding a pistol on him. He looked wildly for the gun, which he had put on Harry’s desk, but keeping him covered, Ailsa picked it up and threw it onto the floor.
As he groaned and clutched his shoulder, she picked up the receiver and said in a crisp voice, “Police.”
After she had made a statement to