Read Online A Fine Summer's Day by Charles Todd - Free Book Online Page A

More, lay basking in the sun.
    Who killed Benjamin Clayton? he asked himself, staring out to sea. He had to agree with Dr. Sutton that even if Michael had been tempted, he wasn’t likely to have the fortitude to see the attack through. Certainly not a hanging. And as Rutledge had seen for himself, there was more reason to kill his brother than murder his father. Peter would be fair, Rutledge thought, splitting the inheritance in equal shares as his father had wished, but he wasn’t as easily cajoled. Even if he were angry with his father, Michael would have been stupid not to think of that before acting. He was younger than his brother by a number of years, and perhaps he’d been spoiled by his mother. He might kill if the opportunity, the temptation, presenteditself, but he wasn’t one to lose sight of his best interests even in the grip of anger.
    Rutledge walked back to the police station and found Inspector Farraday filling out forms.
    â€œDon’t tell me you’ve finished your work and can give me the murderer’s name?” he asked with a grin that was more sly than humorous.
    â€œNot yet. It’s a shame the doctor poured out the sour milk before it could be tested. I wonder if Clayton had been given something to sedate him.”
    â€œThe odd thing is, he hadn’t gone to bed. Instead, he’d fallen asleep in his chair, in his shirtsleeves but still fully clothed. That would tend to make you think he hadn’t got around to taking his powders. The milk was gone before I got there, I can’t tell you what was in it. I know it existed, but at the time I was more concerned with what was hanging there above my head. The doctor tells me Clayton died from hanging. Not an overdose of anything he’d swallowed, although he appeared to have taken his powders. That brings us around to the fact that it was the daughter who set out the milk on the tray. Do you think Annie Clayton drugged her father?”
    â€œIt’s hard to believe, but stranger things have happened.”
    â€œOr Michael Clayton, more likely. Although I have sworn statements that place him in York. I can’t think he’d find that many people prepared to lie for him. Not in a case of patricide.”
    Rutledge sat down in the chair across from Farraday’s desk. “If it isn’t his family, and there were no known enemies, then we’re back to the outsiders visiting Moresby. You’ve been interviewing them. Is there any reason to question them again?”
    Farraday reached for a writing tablet, then tossed it across the desk to Rutledge. “You’re the man from Scotland Yard.”
    Ignoring the sarcasm, he read the list, then nodded.
    â€œAll right, I’ll have another look at them.”
    Farraday opened his mouth to say something, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
    Rutledge returned to the flat above the furniture maker’s shop. But Peter Clayton was in the shop itself, sitting at a desk in the back of the show room, head in hands. He looked up as Rutledge walked in, hope flaring in his face.
    â€œYou’ve found out who it is?”
    â€œWe’re pursuing our inquiries,” Rutledge said, and handed him the list. “Know any of these people? Have any of them come to the shop?”
    The man read through it, frowning as he came to each new name, then shook his head. “I don’t recognize any of them. If my father knew one of them, then he kept it to himself.”
    â€œWhich once more brings us around to his past.”
    â€œI can’t think he was running from anything he’d done. You didn’t know my father—he was upright and good.”
    â€œEven upright and good men can do things they’ve regretted.”
    â€œI refuse to believe it. And my mother was a good judge of character. Come to that my grandfather—her father—wouldn’t have trusted his only daughter to a stranger. He’d have made