Читать книгу Quarrel with the Foe - Mel Bradshaw - Страница 10

Lavinia led me through a long dining room to a set of French doors. From here, above a tall cedar hedge that formed the left border of the rose garden, I could see the peaked roof of the garage. Before letting me out, however, Lavinia touched my arm confidentially.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Edith, Mr. Shenstone, but there’s one question I would like to ask you.”

I nodded.

“Is there any chance that my father-in-law took his own life?”

“Did he say or do anything that makes you think he meant to?”

At my counter-question, Lavinia clapped a hand to her breast—as if she feared the shock might endanger her heart. Her eyes got round.

“Oh no!”

“You said you thought your father-in-law was bored. Bored enough not to want to live?”

“It sounds ridiculous. It is ridiculous. Preposterous. But maybe no more preposterous than the idea that someone else mightn’t have wanted him to live. Do you see, Mr. Shenstone? I was just wondering if the physical circumstances of the shooting allowed for—for the possibility of . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“What did your husband tell you about the gun?”

“That none was found, and that’s what the paper says too. But still—a passerby might have picked it up.”

“You’d need a nimble trigger finger, Mrs. Watt, to fire a pair of bullets into the same part of your own chest, even if a third one strayed into Daily Strength for Daily Needs.”

“I see,” said Lavinia. “Thank you.” She held half of one of the double doors open for me.

I hesitated.

“How long have you and Mr. Watt been married?”

“Three years this June. Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering how well you knew Digby Watt.”