A Little Murder by Suzette A. Hill Page A

an answer sufficiently ambiguous as to be meaningless.
    A dart of impatience showed in the woman’s eyes, but leaning forward she said in a kindlier tone, ‘You see, I had the impression that latterly Marcia wasn’t quite herself. Seemed to have lost some of the old spark: quieter, more pensive. It was as if she was preoccupied with something but not saying anything. I asked her once but typically she just laughed, filled up the gin and said I was imagining things … But I wasn’t, you know. I knew Marcia, and there was definitely something on her mind. I also think she was lonely, or at least felt isolated.’
    ‘Lonely?’ exclaimed Rosy. ‘I hardly think—’
    ‘Oh, I don’t mean in a pathetic sense, crying into her pillow or anything like that – but it was as if she
knew
something that she couldn’t divulge, something she wasconcealing. And it was this that was distancing her from old pals.’
    ‘Such as yourself?’ asked Rosy, intrigued as well as sceptical. (The woman hadn’t seemed eager to claim close friendship on their first meeting.)
    ‘Well yes, me, but others too … And so I rather wondered, Miss Gilchrist, whether you, being her only close relative, had also been her confidante. Had she, for example, mentioned anything to you … or even,’ she paused, ‘entrusted something, perhaps?’
    The latter part of the question was put lightly yet the gaze was fixed, and Rosy had the distinct feeling of something important being pursued of which she was unaware. She wondered to what extent the apparent solicitude was genuine. But she was also suddenly caught by the memory of Donald telling her that Marcia had spoken of a vital paper she wanted to send him – a document she wanted out of the country. Could this possibly be the point of Miss Collinger’s question? One thing was certain at any rate: she could reply with absolute truth that she knew nothing of Marcia’s affairs and even less of anything tangible that needed to be ‘entrusted’. Yet even as she formulated the response she felt a wave of annoyance and a reluctance to cooperate. Why should she reveal anything to this woman about her relationship – or non-relationship – with her aunt? It was a private thing, not for the ears of outsiders. And besides, she didn’t like her much.
    The other must have noticed the hesitation, for lowering her voice slightly she said, ‘Naturally one doesn’t wish to intrude, but given the circumstances of poor Marcia’s death I think it is one’s duty to be as honest as possible. Don’t you? We owe it to her – so if you
do
happen to haveanything or know of anything I am sure you will let—’
    ‘Of course,’ Rosy assured her earnestly, ‘I’ll tell the police immediately.’
    Judging from the stony expression with which this was greeted (and as she had rather predicted), it was not the response being sought. But luckily further enquiry was forestalled by the dachshund. From under the table a cold and questing nose had pressed itself against Rosy’s ankle, and she squeaked in surprise. It was a timely diversion and she made the most of it.
    ‘Oh, is that your little dog?’ she exclaimed. ‘She did give me a surprise!’ And lifting the tablecloth and thrusting her head down, she made the appropriate cooing noises. ‘She’s delightful – what do you call her?’
    ‘His name is Raymond.’
    ‘Oh dear,’ Rosy laughed, ‘with luck he didn’t hear!’
    ‘He hears most things,’ the owner said tersely.
    Still trying to dodge the subject of Marcia, Rosy pursued the topic. ‘Raymond: what a dignified name for a dog! So much better than Bouncer or Billy or that sort of thing.’
    ‘He is named after my brother,’ Miss Collinger replied soberly. ‘All my dogs have been – or at least, since the war they have.’
    ‘Was your brother a hero?’ Rosy asked brightly – and then immediately felt a fool, for she could guess what was coming next.’
    ‘A dead one,’ was the cold