Death of a Mystery Writer by Robert Barnard

of the document. If I may say so, a most proper disposition of his property, most proper—hmm, granted, as I say, some oddities in the wording.”
    He rose to his feet and walked over to Mark with his hand outstretched.
    â€œIs that will legal?” broke in the harsh voice of Bella. “Is it properly witnessed?”
    Mr. Widdicomb, caught with his hand outstretched in something approaching a ridiculous position, turned toward her with the nearest thing to asperity he permitted himself with thefamily of a client. “My dear young lady, you could hardly imagine that I would take the trouble to read to you from an unwitnessed document?” His voice positively crackled with disapproval. “The will is perfectly legal.”
    Bella sustained his look for a second, then the corners of her mouth seemed to crease down with disappointment. “That,” she said bitterly, “was Daddy’s last surprise ending.”
    Mr. Widdicomb pursed his lips, turned away from her, and fulfilled his intention of shaking hands with Sir Mark. His natural inclination to keep in well with the man in possession tied in on this occasion with his sense that Mark was the only one of the children who had behaved properly: that is, he had held his tongue. Mr. Widdicomb had heard rumors on the subject of Mark Fairleigh—had, indeed, heard his father expatiate on the subject at considerable length one day in his office—but he owned himself agreeably surprised by his conduct on this occasion. He turned to take the hand of Lady Fairleigh, dropped a few words of arid comfort on her head, nodded to the youngest children, and made for the door. Mark ushered him out, and the two exchanged some words, apparently arrangements for some future meeting.
    Bella continued to sit rigidly, staring straight ahead of her: her mouth had stopped working, and was now set in a straight line. Terence, on the other hand, seemed to be taking longer to gain control over himself. His eyes were round and liquid—they were, in fact, oddly reminiscent of those of the old Mark. Eleanor Fairleigh remained in her chair, looking at the hearth rug. The news had not elated her. She could only think to herself: what are the police going to say about this?
    Mark closed the door authoritatively. Walking back to the little group, a disinterested observer would have sized him up as a presentable, well-brought-up young man who had gone through a difficult time: his manner was good, his bearing and expression public school, but not offensively so. The whole set of his body seemed to say that at the moment they might all be going through a tough time, but that he was now in charge, and would see themthrough it all right. His gaze, though still slightly bloodshot, was perfectly serene.
    â€œNearly lunchtime,” he said quietly. “I’m sure you could do with a sherry, Mother. I should think we all could. Is it dry for you, Bella?”
    And he walked confidently over to the drinks cabinet.
    â€œGod damn you to hell, Mark!” shouted Bella, her face crimson with fury as she flung herself from the room.

CHAPTER VIII
Strong Poison
    â€œIt seems,” said Inspector Meredith, “a perfectly straightforward division of the property.”
    Mr. Widdicomb shut the will away in his briefcase hurriedly, as if it were a rare item of Victorian pornography which he had been allowing Meredith to cast a glance over, and said: “Quite.”
    â€œThe books, the ones left to the mother and the younger children, they will bring in a fair amount of money, I presume.”
    â€œI imagine so,” said Mr. Widdicomb, gazing around the oak, book-lined study as if it were witness enough to Oliver Fairleigh’s prosperity. “You would have to consult Sir Oliver’s accountant for details, but I assume it will bring them in a little nest egg every quarter or half year.”
    â€œThe books seem popular.”
    â€œYes, most of them