Read Online Rules of Murder by Julianna Deering - Free Book Online Page B

room. As it happened, P. C. Applegate’s precautions proved futile. There wasn’t a fingerprint on anything—not Lincoln’s or anyone else’s.
    “Clean as a whistle,” the constable observed. “Are you certain this room was locked up, Mr. Drew?”
    “I’m assuming it was, but at the best that was sometime after the murder. With the party going on and all, I expect just aboutanyone could have come in here and tidied up before Lincoln’s body was discovered.”
    “I did find this in the inside pocket of one of his bags,” Applegate said, “in with the handkerchiefs and socks and, er, unmentionables.”
    He set a thick envelope on the little table next to the bed. Drew opened it to reveal a slip of paper wrapped around twenty ten-pound notes.
    This is the last, David, the paper read. I’m serious this time. I expect he’d find it a relief to know anyway.
    It was Constance’s handwriting.
    “What do you expect that means, Mr. Drew?” Applegate asked once Drew had told him who had written the note.
    “The same as you do. He was blackmailing her.”
    “And why would that be?”
    “Don’t be stupid,” Drew snapped. “You’ve heard the gossip. Why do you think he would have?”
    “Presuming, then, it was the . . . Monte Carlo incident—I hate to be blunt, sir, at a time like this, but do you think she might have killed him over it?”
    Drew sighed and sank down into the overstuffed chair in the corner of the room. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t have thought so. But then I would have thought her too vain to take her own life.”
    He drew a slow, deep breath and resisted the urge to bury his head in his arms and cry. His mother was dead. It didn’t matter that she had never been much of a mother to him or whether the fault of that was in her or in himself. She was gone and so was the possibility that things between them would ever be any different.
    “And the ‘he,’ sir?”
    Drew knit his brow. “What?”
    “The ‘he,’ sir. The one she says would be relieved to know. Who do you think she means there?”
    “My stepfather would, I think, be the obvious choice.”
    “I see,” Applegate murmured, and he made another notation in his book.
    “Is there—?” Drew steadied his voice. “Is there anything else in Lincoln’s things we ought to know about?”
    Applegate shrugged. “Apart from a rather large quantity of brilliantine and other gentlemen’s toiletries, just the usual clothes and things, sir. A bill from his tailor, racing tips, the odd box of matches. I will ask if you recognize this, sir.”
    He produced a photograph of a young woman. She could have been no more than twenty-two or -three at the time the picture was taken, though judging by the style of her clothes and hair and the fading portrait itself, she was at least twice that old by now. She was rather pretty.
    Drew studied the photo for a moment and then turned it over. In neat block letters, someone had written MARIELLE .
    “Not a clue,” Drew admitted. “Perhaps Mr. Parker or Mr. Rushford would know.”
    “I will be talking to them,” Applegate assured him.
    “Not tonight,” Drew said. “Please. Not my stepfather anyway. He can wait till morning, can’t he?”
    “That’ll be all right,” Applegate agreed, his voice a touch less official. “Maybe you ought to have a bit of rest as well, sir. And, um, I’m sorry about your mum.”
    Drew managed a thin smile. “So am I, Jimmy.”

    It was after three in the morning when Drew finally made it to bed and nearly six before he slept. At a quarter after eight a discreet knock woke him from an insensible sleep. A moment later, Dennison came into the room.
    “You wished to be dressed before nine, sir.”
    Drew didn’t respond at first, hoping for just another instant of oblivion, but then he opened his eyes.
    It wasn’t Denny’s usual job, but now he stood over Drew with a tray laden with ham, eggs, and tomato grilled to perfection, along with toast, double cream,