After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) by Dolores Gordon-Smith Page B
Authors: Dolores Gordon-Smith
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see what it’s warning against, but it could mean the love of money.’ Henry Cadwallader looked blank again. ‘Money is supposed to be the root of all evil,’ explained Jack. ‘St Paul says as much.’
‘Oh,’ said Cadwallader, enlightened. ‘Scripture. Well, that’s fitting, isn’t it?’ He looked dubiously at Jack. He had obviously expected more enthusiasm and fewer questions. ‘Anyway, you need to see the rest of the chantry.’
It took a good three-quarters of an hour for Henry Cadwallader to show Jack the rest of the chantry. Fortunately, Cadwallader took Jack’s keen – even minute – interest in any place that could possibly conceal a body as evidence of his overwhelming enthusiasm for the chantry, Mr Lythewell and all his works. Eventually, with a promise to return, Jack was able to make good his escape.
Bill was sitting on the bench under the oak tree outside the Brown Cow, smoking his pipe and reading the paper. With half a pint of bitter by his side he looked the picture of content. ‘Miss Wingate’s gone back to Whimbrell House,’ he said, shading his eyes from the sunshine. ‘It’s been very quiet. Your Spyker’s received some admiring glances but nobody’s paid me the slightest bit of notice. I saw Askern earlier on but I don’t think he spotted me.’
Jack paused, his hand on the car door. ‘Are you sure, Bill?’
‘Fairly sure,’ said Bill, climbing in. ‘He certainly didn’t say hello if he did see me, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t.’
‘Unless he is our man, of course.’
‘If he is, he’d surely want to know what I was doing here. My real concern is that old fossil back at the chantry will tell everyone that Miss Wingate was there together with you and me.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ replied Jack, climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘I don’t think he really registered you were there at all.’ He started up the car. ‘He’s what you might call single minded, is our Mr Cadwallader, and, in my opinion, a bit cracked on the subject of the late Mr Lythewell.’
‘He liked him, did he?’
‘I’d say worshipped would be the precise verb,’ said Jack with feeling. ‘You may laugh, but it’s a bit wearing after a time. Is there anywhere else you want to go, or do we head back to civilisation?’
‘London for me, Jack. I want to have a word with Sir Douglas Lynton about what we’ve found. I don’t mind telling you that those hairs trapped in the sofa and the silk caught on the wheelbarrow made quite an impression on me.’
‘So you do think Signora Bianchi was murdered?’ said Jack, letting in the clutch and pulling out onto the road.
‘I think it’s looking that way. Incidentally, I did see you put that photo of Askern’s into your pocket, didn’t I?’
‘Absolutely you did,’ said Jack. He took a hand off the wheel and, fishing the photo of Signora Bianchi out of his pocket, handed it to Bill. ‘I can’t help wondering if I’ve come across Signora Bianchi somewhere,’ he said. ‘She looks vaguely familiar.’
‘Does she?’ said Bill with interest. ‘That might be useful.’
‘Only if I can put my finger on where it was I saw her. I’ve been racking my brains, but I can’t place her.’
Bill studied the photo for a few moments. ‘She’s certainly a good-looking woman.’ He bit his lip and sighed. ‘Askern’s a fool to get involved with a woman like that. She looks like trouble to me.’ He put the photograph down and drummed his fingers on his knee thoughtfully. ‘I hope that’s all there is to it – an affair, I mean. I could see you working out how Askern could be our man back at the cottage, and I must say I have to agree he’s a possible.’ He sighed once more. ‘However, that’s some way down the road.’
‘Quite a long way, I’d say. Incidentally, Bill, you know Colin Askern is fairly keen on money?’
‘He’s not unique in that respect.’
‘No, I daresay he isn’t, but according to my pal
‘Oh,’ said Cadwallader, enlightened. ‘Scripture. Well, that’s fitting, isn’t it?’ He looked dubiously at Jack. He had obviously expected more enthusiasm and fewer questions. ‘Anyway, you need to see the rest of the chantry.’
It took a good three-quarters of an hour for Henry Cadwallader to show Jack the rest of the chantry. Fortunately, Cadwallader took Jack’s keen – even minute – interest in any place that could possibly conceal a body as evidence of his overwhelming enthusiasm for the chantry, Mr Lythewell and all his works. Eventually, with a promise to return, Jack was able to make good his escape.
Bill was sitting on the bench under the oak tree outside the Brown Cow, smoking his pipe and reading the paper. With half a pint of bitter by his side he looked the picture of content. ‘Miss Wingate’s gone back to Whimbrell House,’ he said, shading his eyes from the sunshine. ‘It’s been very quiet. Your Spyker’s received some admiring glances but nobody’s paid me the slightest bit of notice. I saw Askern earlier on but I don’t think he spotted me.’
Jack paused, his hand on the car door. ‘Are you sure, Bill?’
‘Fairly sure,’ said Bill, climbing in. ‘He certainly didn’t say hello if he did see me, and there’s no reason why he shouldn’t.’
‘Unless he is our man, of course.’
‘If he is, he’d surely want to know what I was doing here. My real concern is that old fossil back at the chantry will tell everyone that Miss Wingate was there together with you and me.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ replied Jack, climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘I don’t think he really registered you were there at all.’ He started up the car. ‘He’s what you might call single minded, is our Mr Cadwallader, and, in my opinion, a bit cracked on the subject of the late Mr Lythewell.’
‘He liked him, did he?’
‘I’d say worshipped would be the precise verb,’ said Jack with feeling. ‘You may laugh, but it’s a bit wearing after a time. Is there anywhere else you want to go, or do we head back to civilisation?’
‘London for me, Jack. I want to have a word with Sir Douglas Lynton about what we’ve found. I don’t mind telling you that those hairs trapped in the sofa and the silk caught on the wheelbarrow made quite an impression on me.’
‘So you do think Signora Bianchi was murdered?’ said Jack, letting in the clutch and pulling out onto the road.
‘I think it’s looking that way. Incidentally, I did see you put that photo of Askern’s into your pocket, didn’t I?’
‘Absolutely you did,’ said Jack. He took a hand off the wheel and, fishing the photo of Signora Bianchi out of his pocket, handed it to Bill. ‘I can’t help wondering if I’ve come across Signora Bianchi somewhere,’ he said. ‘She looks vaguely familiar.’
‘Does she?’ said Bill with interest. ‘That might be useful.’
‘Only if I can put my finger on where it was I saw her. I’ve been racking my brains, but I can’t place her.’
Bill studied the photo for a few moments. ‘She’s certainly a good-looking woman.’ He bit his lip and sighed. ‘Askern’s a fool to get involved with a woman like that. She looks like trouble to me.’ He put the photograph down and drummed his fingers on his knee thoughtfully. ‘I hope that’s all there is to it – an affair, I mean. I could see you working out how Askern could be our man back at the cottage, and I must say I have to agree he’s a possible.’ He sighed once more. ‘However, that’s some way down the road.’
‘Quite a long way, I’d say. Incidentally, Bill, you know Colin Askern is fairly keen on money?’
‘He’s not unique in that respect.’
‘No, I daresay he isn’t, but according to my pal
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