Read Online Death of a Mystery Writer by Robert Barnard - Free Book Online Page B

advantages as a secretary is that she has no imagination, so it would be very ungrateful of me to complain.”
    By now the group around the desk had dispersed around the room, and Sir Oliver surveyed them all with a cheek-popping beam on his face.
    â€œA wonderful birthday,” he said genially. “The best for years. So kind of you, Celia and Ben, to come and share it with us.” He turned and took a cigar from a box on top of the desk, ignoring an inarticulate protest from his wife. “Tomorrow we must go out somewhere—for a meal, or a drink. I feel the need to spend something on my family, after all their generosity.” He lit his cigar, and puffed away at it appreciatively. “Where shall we go? I hear the Prince Albert at Hadley is one of the places people go these days.”
    There was a sudden silence in the study. Eleanor’s heart seemed suddenly to suspend operations. Oliver Fairleigh waslooking genially in the direction of his elder son, but if he hoped for a reaction, he was disappointed. Mark, deep in sleep and deep in his chair, gave little sign of life beyond the slight regular rise and fall of his chest. For a few seconds the host of the evening savored the silence in the room, savored the infinitesimal look of inquiry that passed from his daughter Bella to his son Terence, noticed that the embarrassment of the Woodstocks made it perfectly clear that the village gossip had got to them. Then he rubbed his hands and turned back to the desk.
    â€œNow, Eleanor, perhaps you will pour the coffee. If it’s cold you must blame me. Liqueurs, everybody?”
    From the low cupboard just above the desk Oliver Fairleigh took a series of decanters and bottles.
    â€œI love liqueurs,” he said happily to Celia Woodstock, as if in an attempt to restore the happy atmosphere. “It’s deplorable, but I’m afraid I have to admit to a sweet tooth. What will you have, my dear? Cointreau? Grenadine? Or what about my own special favorite—it’s called lakka. You won’t have heard of it. It’s Finnish, and it’s made from cloudberries—quite delicious.”
    He took the stopper from a decanter with a small quantity of yellow liqueur in it.
    â€œIt’s awfully sweet, disgustingly sweet,” said Eleanor. “You might not like it. We have to get it specially from the Finnish Tourist place. I’m sure no one else in Britain drinks it.”
    â€œI think you may be right,” chortled Oliver Fairleigh happily. “Except expatriate Finns with sweet tooths, or should that be sweet teeth?” Everyone smiled nervously. It was now clear to all, even the nonfamily members, that it would not do to be too sure of their man. “Now, my dear?” he inquired, smiling ingratiatingly at Celia Woodstock.
    â€œI think I would prefer Cointreau,” she said in the nervous voice of one who knows nothing about liqueurs, and does not expect to like them.
    â€œVery well, Cointreau it shall be; and the same for Eleanor—” Oliver Fairleigh poured a succession of little glasses and handedthem round. By now they had all managed to seat themselves around the heavy, glowering study, except for Ben Woodstock, who had been drawn to the bookshelves—or perhaps who had felt he ought to show an interest in his host’s collection. After handing a glass of Drambuie to Terence, Oliver Fairleigh looked at his elder son, still comatose in his armchair at the far end of the room.
    â€œWe’ll leave him for a little,” he said, as if Mark were an underdone roast, and turned back to pour himself a little glass of thick yellow liqueur from a rather fine cut-glass decanter.
    â€œNow,” he said—but before he could propose a toast, his wife and daughter both said, “Happy birthday, Oliver!” and they all raised their glasses, or in some cases their coffee cups, to him. With a contented expression on his face, relishing, as