Deadly Beloved by Alanna Knight

apparently blameless life."
    "I can assure you ..."
    But Vince's assurances went unuttered. The doorbell announced the arrival of yet another of his young doctor friends, who was calling for news about Walter.
    Faro left the house very thoughtfully. His discussion with Vince had revealed only one true suspect. And that was, as it had always been, Kellar. Most damning of all was the absence of a body and although all the evidence so far silently accused Mabel's husband, as yet no motive for her murder was apparent.
    He was not looking forward to confronting Kellar with his false alibi and demanding from him a satisfactory account of his movements that Monday, when he was not giving a lecture, as he had led them to believe. Here was another inconsistency in behaviour. Why had he told such a stupid lie when he must have known that it could be checked?
    Even more important, Faro was aware of a nagging feeling of unease, insistent as a dull toothache, at the back of his mind. He knew what that meant. He had overlooked something vital, some very significant detail had not registered on that first visit to the house.
    He decided that a vague excuse for another look around the house would be worthwhile, again choosing a time when, hopefully, the master was absent.
    Considering that physical exercise was always beneficial in the process of mind-clearing, he walked the short distance to the Grange, having to take frequent refuge from the spray of unpleasantly brown slush sent flying by the wheels of passing coaches. He found that his concentration was needed less in agitating his powers of deduction than in keeping his feet as his boots slipped constantly on the treacherous expanses of frozen snow. He was glad indeed to reach the drive leading to the Kellar house although walking was still hazardous. At last he reached the front door and with his hand on the bell, he heard his name.
    The maid Ina was approaching from the direction of the coach house, slithering across the icy surface, hampered by a pail and scrubbing brush.
    "Sorry to keep you waiting, Inspector," she said breathlessly. "I've been cleaning the master's carriage. Such a mess it's always in. He goes shooting on a Wednesday afternoon and then he complains to us that the upholstery was all stained."
    Faro was hardly listening. A bloodstained carriage. Was this what he had been expecting to find, that vital missing clue?
    As if she had read his mind, Ina gave him a sideways glance and with a small shudder, whispered, "I couldn't get it clean so when I showed it to Mrs Flynn, she said it looked like blood to her. I came over all queasy. But Mrs Flynn says what can we expect with the kind of work the master does."
    "Shooting game can make quite a mess," said Faro in reassuring tones, so as not to alarm her.
    She shook her head. "He doesn't put them inside the brougham. Mrs Kellar would never allow that. Smelly stuff. Has a special box for his rabbits and birds at the back."
    Faro decided not to panic her by asking to inspect the carriage. He resolved to make a discreet and solitary visit to the coach-house a little later, after learning more about the stained upholstery from Mrs Flynn.
    Leaving Ina in the hall, he found the housekeeper in her gloomy retreat below stairs. Almost dark, it was one of those winter days that is never really light and the hours designated daytime slide imperceptibly into night at about three in the afternoon. In the dim light from the high barred windows, Mrs Flynn was rolling pastry on the kitchen table. She stared at him over her spectacles and resumed her task without comment.
    "Ina let me in. I met her coming from the coach-house. Seems she's been having problems cleaning the brougham."
    As he spoke to her, he wondered how on earth anyone managed to prepare food with little more than a feeble gas jet and the firelight from an indifferent blaze. Presumably domestic servants who live subterranean existences in large houses are like cats and of