A Question of Motive by Roderic Jeffries Page A

thought that was a genuine choice, didn’t you?’
    He was glad temporarily to have afforded her some amusement, but did not regard the incident with the hilarity she did.
    They had coffee, and he a cognac, in the library on the north side of the house, from which there was a view of the Tramuntana, lower than to the west, down to the port and beyond. One of the walls was lined with a bookcase, the shelves holding reference books, classic novels, and modern hardcovers in English and Spanish. To the right of the open fireplace hung two framed nonsense sketches by Heath Robinson, to the left was a large photograph of Aquila and Barca taken from the air. The kneehole desk was English, the two wooden and leather chairs and the carpet on the marble floor had been made locally. The bronze bust of a young woman was French. A pleasing meld of style.
    â€˜What exactly is it you want to know?’ she asked, after Parra had collected the empty cups, saucers, and glasses.
    â€˜I’m afraid I have to learn what was your uncle’s financial position. That means looking through his accounts, bank balances, and so on. I’ll also need to read his will.’
    â€˜You still think he might have committed suicide?’
    â€˜I accept your judgement that that is impossible, but others won’t until I can show it is too unlikely to be considered.’
    â€˜How he’d hate . . .’
    He waited.
    â€˜Hate having anyone else look through all his papers. But I know you wouldn’t unless you had to.’
    â€˜Your uncle was a very secretive man?’
    â€˜I don’t know I’d call him that.’ She stared into the past. ‘He didn’t want people to know what he owned, what he did, or what he really thought, but that was more maintaining his own self rather than being secretive. As far as I was concerned, from the moment I arrived here, he treated me as his daughter and answered whatever I wanted to know. But because I understood there were questions he disliked, such as any about his late wife, there were those I never asked.’
    â€˜Do you know the details of his will?’
    â€˜No. But he did say after I’d been here a while that he was glad I liked the place as much as he did, because one day it would be mine. It may still be so. I’m sure he’ll have granted legacies to the servants. Beyond that, I’ve no idea.’
    â€˜There is a safe?’
    â€˜Behind the bookcase over there.’ She pointed. ‘Part of the bookcase is false.’
    â€˜Do you know where he kept the keys?’
    â€˜In one of the drawers of the desk.’
    â€˜I am going to have to look through the contents of the safe. If you can trust me on my own then . . .’
    â€˜Don’t say that,’ she said fiercely. ‘I trust you completely.’
    â€˜Thank you. I was asking because it might be kinder for you not to be in here. Afterwards, I will show you anything you wish or need to see.’
    She stood. ‘You’re right. I would start remembering . . . Call me if you need help.’ She left.
    There were two keys in the top right-hand drawer of the desk. The fake books in the bookcase were realistic until one studied them closely, knowing they were somewhere along the shelves. The safe was English and a small brass plaque claimed it to be both burglar and fireproof. Safe makers had to be optimistic. The keys turned the locks, and the thick, heavy door swung open. There was one shelf halfway up and on this was a wallet, several different-sized velvet covered boxes, passports for Gill and Mary, the new single-sheet residencias for them both, and various papers; there were more papers and several folders on the bottom of the safe. The wallet contained seven hundred euros in fifty-euro notes. The boxes contained many pieces of jewellery which, as far as his knowledge allowed him to judge, were very valuable. He returned the jewellery and wallet to the shelf,