A Quiet Kill by Janet Brons Page A

believe that Natalie was—rather promiscuous.”
    Carruthers gave a little laugh. “Nothing could be further from the truth. That was Sharon’s idea of having fun at Natalie’s expense, and mine. And then she convinced herself that if you believed Natalie was involved with lots of men, you wouldn’t focus on just one, let alone the High Commissioner.”
    â€œShe was trying to protect you?” asked Liz.
    â€œShe was trying to protect herself. She didn’t especially want to be a focus of a public scandal involving her husband and his murdered mistress.”
    â€œBut you didn’t try to clear it up,” said Hay. “You didn’t try to set us straight. Why was that?”
    â€œYou’re right,” acknowledged Carruthers. “I thought perhaps Sharon’s reasoning might be sound. Middleton thought so too.”
    â€œOne last thing,” said Hay. “Did you know that Natalie Guévin was pregnant?”
    The news hit Carruthers like a blow to the chest. He blanched and remained silent for a long time. He looked like a condemned man. “Pregnant?” he finally whispered. “Was she?” Hay nodded. “I had no idea.” The High Commissioner paused again. “So it was a—a double murder. A double homicide.”
    â€œYou believe that you were the father?” asked Liz.
    â€œOh yes. No question.” He thought for a minute. “How far along was she?”
    â€œAbout twelve weeks.”
    Carruthers nodded to himself. “I wonder if she even knew.”
    â€œWe’ve asked you this before, High Commissioner, but can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Natalie Guévin?”
    The High Commissioner shook his head. Then he added bluntly, “Normally, I should have said my wife. But she was in Scotland with me at the time, wasn’t she?” Carruthers, now quite pale, confirmed that he would remain available for further questioning and departed.
    â€œWhat a very weak man,” muttered Hay when the High Commissioner had left.
    â€œWeak? For waiting so long to tell his wife about the affair?” asked Liz.
    â€œFor allowing the reputation of the woman he supposedly loved to be destroyed, just to save his own political skin.”
    Annie Mallett was in the dining room, dusting and snooping, snooping and dusting. It was the first time she had been allowed back inside since it happened. The door to that big anteroom, the one where all the coppers met, was shut again. The High Commissioner had closed it behind him when he left, looking sad and thoughtful. He hadn’t even said hello to her, even when she greeted him with a polite, “Good morning, Your Honor.”
    She was dusting the big sideboard now—the mahogany one close to the anteroom door. Shifting some ornaments and a large Inuit carving to one side, she began slowly polishing the rich wooden surface. She edged a bit closer to the door, trying to hear what was going on inside the room and dusting all the while. Annie didn’t know how it happened. Truly she didn’t. When that carving hit the floor, she told Ethel and Sybil the following Saturday, you’d have thought a bomb had gone off.
    Hay flung the door open with a startled “What the bloody . . . !” but stopped himself when he saw Annie recoiling from the carving (itself unharmed in the incident) in horror. Mercifully, just then the phone rang inside the anteroom and the detective chief inspector slammed the door shut.
    Hay was still shaking his head as he picked up the phone.
    Liz listened to his side of the conversation. “Yes, Wilkins. You’ve what? Good show! He’s where ? Serious? I don’t bloody believe this. Yes, yes, go on then. See you later.” Hay turned around slowly to face Liz, his mouth twitching a little. “You’ll not believe this. They’ve found Cox. He’s in prison in Hampstead. For setting