inclined to think it could well be. 'Do you believe that?' he asked, after Nick had reported her explanation. To which Nick could only say, 'Why should she lie?'
Why indeed? Basil gave him an elder-brotherly look, then quietly observed, 'One object of a lie is to conceal the purpose of its telling.'
With which Nick - though he had no intention of saying so - could only concur.
The rain of the previous day had given way to clearing skies and sporadic showers. Springlike mildness prevailed in Landulph, birds singing in the bare-branched trees above the gurgle and trickle of water in ditches and drains.
Despite the mildness, it felt clammily cold at Trennor. The house had been unheated for a couple of days, though not unvisited, as the muddy footprints of policemen and morticians confirmed.
Nick, Basil and Irene stood at the top of the cellar steps, looking down at the place where their father had died. There was nothing to mark or draw their eye to the exact spot. Dusty sixty-watt light fell on the concrete treads and wooden handrail, shone back dully from the grey-painted floor and gleamed dimly on the racked necks of hard-bargained-for clarets.
'What's the name of the policeman you spoke to, Irene?' Nick asked.
'DC Wise. He's based at Crownhill.'
'Maybe I should ask him about the bottle.'
'What bottle might that be?' asked Basil.
'The one Nick thinks Dad should have dropped when he fell,' said Irene with a sigh. 'He's like a dog with a bone about it.'
'Pru says there was no bottle.'
'And DC Wise never mentioned one,' Irene responded. 'So, why go on about it?'
'Because Dad came down here to fetch a bottle of wine.
91
That's obvious. What's not obvious is why he should leave without one.'
'Perhaps he changed his mind,' said Basil. 'Perhaps the telephone rang. Perhaps he remembered something.'
'Exactly,' said Irene. 'There's absolutely no reason for you to speak to DC Wise, Nick. He'll only be confused by you querying the circumstances.'
'And confusion is not a condition we should wish upon the constabulary,' murmured Basil. 'It can so often be transmuted into suspicion.'
Irene flashed a glare at both of them, then said, 'Why don't you two start looking for the papers Baskcomb wants while I turn on the heating and vacuum up the worst of the dirt that's been tramped into the house? We have work to do. Remember?'
Nick and Basil set to, though with little enthusiasm. The study was their father's sanctum, a place of refuge as well as cogitation. In life, he would have been apoplectic to find them rifling through the drawers of his desk and filing cabinet. And if it was possible to be apoplectic in death, Nick felt sure he would be that as well.
They were thwarted at the outset on discovering that one of the desk drawers was locked. The unlocked drawers contained only stationery, so it was clearly important to find the key. Basil began a hunt for it, while Nick worked his way through the filing cabinet. He soon came upon bundles of bank statements and receipted bills. These he took out and put to one side. As far as he could see, most of the remaining space was devoted to academic correspondence - letters to and from assorted archaeological journals and institutions concerning articles, surveys and expeditions the old man had written or undertaken. Most of it was many years out of date, of course. But Michael Paleologus had devoted too much of his life to retrieving the past to discard the records of his own.
That was one reason why Nick persisted in the search. He
92
was looking for something more than financial records and reckoned he would find it. Properly speaking, he should have moved on to the computer and checked through its files, but what he sought lay much further back in time than his father's relatively recent conversion to modern technology. Besides, Basil's hunt for the desk key had now taken him out of the study, so for the moment Nick had the room to himself. Doing his best to avoid the flinty
Why indeed? Basil gave him an elder-brotherly look, then quietly observed, 'One object of a lie is to conceal the purpose of its telling.'
With which Nick - though he had no intention of saying so - could only concur.
The rain of the previous day had given way to clearing skies and sporadic showers. Springlike mildness prevailed in Landulph, birds singing in the bare-branched trees above the gurgle and trickle of water in ditches and drains.
Despite the mildness, it felt clammily cold at Trennor. The house had been unheated for a couple of days, though not unvisited, as the muddy footprints of policemen and morticians confirmed.
Nick, Basil and Irene stood at the top of the cellar steps, looking down at the place where their father had died. There was nothing to mark or draw their eye to the exact spot. Dusty sixty-watt light fell on the concrete treads and wooden handrail, shone back dully from the grey-painted floor and gleamed dimly on the racked necks of hard-bargained-for clarets.
'What's the name of the policeman you spoke to, Irene?' Nick asked.
'DC Wise. He's based at Crownhill.'
'Maybe I should ask him about the bottle.'
'What bottle might that be?' asked Basil.
'The one Nick thinks Dad should have dropped when he fell,' said Irene with a sigh. 'He's like a dog with a bone about it.'
'Pru says there was no bottle.'
'And DC Wise never mentioned one,' Irene responded. 'So, why go on about it?'
'Because Dad came down here to fetch a bottle of wine.
91
That's obvious. What's not obvious is why he should leave without one.'
'Perhaps he changed his mind,' said Basil. 'Perhaps the telephone rang. Perhaps he remembered something.'
'Exactly,' said Irene. 'There's absolutely no reason for you to speak to DC Wise, Nick. He'll only be confused by you querying the circumstances.'
'And confusion is not a condition we should wish upon the constabulary,' murmured Basil. 'It can so often be transmuted into suspicion.'
Irene flashed a glare at both of them, then said, 'Why don't you two start looking for the papers Baskcomb wants while I turn on the heating and vacuum up the worst of the dirt that's been tramped into the house? We have work to do. Remember?'
Nick and Basil set to, though with little enthusiasm. The study was their father's sanctum, a place of refuge as well as cogitation. In life, he would have been apoplectic to find them rifling through the drawers of his desk and filing cabinet. And if it was possible to be apoplectic in death, Nick felt sure he would be that as well.
They were thwarted at the outset on discovering that one of the desk drawers was locked. The unlocked drawers contained only stationery, so it was clearly important to find the key. Basil began a hunt for it, while Nick worked his way through the filing cabinet. He soon came upon bundles of bank statements and receipted bills. These he took out and put to one side. As far as he could see, most of the remaining space was devoted to academic correspondence - letters to and from assorted archaeological journals and institutions concerning articles, surveys and expeditions the old man had written or undertaken. Most of it was many years out of date, of course. But Michael Paleologus had devoted too much of his life to retrieving the past to discard the records of his own.
That was one reason why Nick persisted in the search. He
92
was looking for something more than financial records and reckoned he would find it. Properly speaking, he should have moved on to the computer and checked through its files, but what he sought lay much further back in time than his father's relatively recent conversion to modern technology. Besides, Basil's hunt for the desk key had now taken him out of the study, so for the moment Nick had the room to himself. Doing his best to avoid the flinty
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