Read Online Death at Wentwater Court by Carola Dunn - Free Book Online Page B

what he was doing there in the first place.” Capping his pen, the detective straightened his papers with an air of finality. “Obviously it was just an unfortunate but straightforward accident.”
    â€œWell, I’m not sure.” Daisy persevered in spite of his sceptically raised eyebrows. “You’ll probably think I’m a complete fathead, Mr. Fletcher, but I wish you’d come and look at the photos.”
    â€œI’ll have to look at them before the inquest, but I’m down here on another case and I can’t really spare the time …”
    â€œPlease. ”
    â€œRight-ho,” he said indulgently. “I do appreciate your taking the trouble to photograph the body.”
    â€œTrouble! It was perfectly beastly.” Bursting with indignation, Daisy led the way through the kitchens to the darkroom.
    Following her, Alec Fletcher recognized her annoyance and was amused. He smiled at her stiff back.
    Even the tailored tweed skirt and blue woolly jumper failed to conceal her shape as she marched ahead of him. Not plump, but not the straight up and down boardlike figure young women strove for these days. Cuddlesome was the word that had sprung to his mind the moment she walked into the Blue Salon. Cuddlesome from gold-brown hair and round face with that delectable mole—“the Kissing,” it would have been called as an eighteenth-century face-patch—all the way down to the neat ankles in fashionable beige stockings.
    She had been friendly, too, in contrast to young Beddowe, who appeared to consider Alec’s presence an impertinent intrusion. He found it difficult to think of her as an Honourable, or even simply as a witness to be questioned.
    Sternly, he recalled himself to duty. In gratitude for her cooperation he’d give her photos the praise she evidently craved, then get back to the business that had brought him to Hampshire. He’d have
to attend the inquest, but luckily Astwick’s death was clearly pure mischance.
    The local G.P., Dr. Fennis, had assured him that the cause of death was drowning. Astwick must have hit his head on a jagged edge of ice as he fell. The laceration on the temple had probably been caused by a blow sufficient to make him dizzy and weak, perhaps even unconscious, obviously unable to pull himself out of the frigid water. Fennis could not confirm the time of death, since icy conditions retarded rigor mortis, always unpredictable in any case. However, since Astwick would hardly have gone skating in the middle of the night, the time was not in question. No autopsy was needed. He had died in an unfortunate accident, thank heaven.
    Alec had no desire to tangle with Beddowe’s father, Lord Wentwater. Even in this modern day and age an earl had to be handled with kid gloves, as the Commissioner had made quite plain over the wire.
    Miss Dalrymple opened a door into a small, stone-floored room with whitewashed brick walls and a sink. The air had a chemical tang. “Don’t touch the pictures; they’re still damp,” she warned. “There’s something … odd. I won’t point it out. See if you notice it.”
    He studied the photographs. No wonder a well-brought-up young lady had considered taking them perfectly beastly, but the only odd thing he could see was their excellence. He’d expected amateur shots taken from a safe distance, but these could almost have been produced by a police photographer.
    â€œThese are very good,” he complimented her. “Quite professional.”
    â€œYou needn’t sound so surprised! I worked for a friend in her studio for nearly a year. As a matter of fact, I’m here as a professional photographer.”
    He stared. “I thought you were a guest.”
    â€œWell, not quite. You see, I’m writing an article about Wentwater for Town and Country, and Carswell, the photographer who was supposed to take pictures to go with it, is ill.”