Death of a Mystery Writer by Robert Barnard Page A

seem to be kept in print. One sees them—on railway bookstalls and suchlike places.”
    â€œYou don’t enjoy them yourself?”
    â€œI imagine that no one who had any professional acquaintances with crime or criminals would be likely to find them very convincing.” Mr. Widdicomb’s expression was of the most dyspeptic, and Meredith had the impression not only that he had found his late client profoundly distasteful, but that on the present occasion he was holding back a strong inclination to say something sharp about the same gentleman’s family.
    â€œOf course,” said Meredith, at a hazard, “younger children these days always have the idea that they should be treated on an equality with the eldest.”
    â€œThey do. Frequently,” said Mr. Widdicomb, with icywarmth. “It is not an idea with much to be said in its favor, in my opinion. Our old families have enough to contend with as it is, without that.”
    â€œYou think in this case the younger children expected more?” asked Meredith, rather disappointed by Mr. Widdicomb’s cautious habit of speaking in generalities.
    â€œThat, I think you should ask them,” said the lawyer, rising and smoothing down the jacket of his suit. “You must remember that the family are my clients.”
    â€œOf course, of course. I suppose you would not wish to tell me whether you yourself were surprised at Sir Oliver’s disposition of his property?”
    â€œI presume you are alluding to the relations between him and his eldest son?”
    â€œPrecisely.”
    â€œIt is not my job to be surprised. I merely had the will made out in my office. Sir Oliver’s opinions on the subject of his son were no business of mine. He did not see fit to discuss the main provision of the will with me, nor did I expect him to.”
    â€œBut you did have direct dealings with him over the will?”
    â€œCertainly. He signed it in my office, where it was witnessed by two of my staff. It was, in fact, substantially the same as Sir Oliver’s previous will: the provisions for Miss Cozzens and Surtees were new, and the book whose copyright was given to Bella was changed—that, as I remember, was all.”
    â€œWhy was the book changed?”
    â€œI imagine it was a more popular title than the previous choice. Right Royal Murder came out last year, you remember, in good time for the Queen’s Jubilee. A catchpenny idea, if you want my opinion, and quite unworthy of an author of Oliver Fairleigh’s standing, but the book proved very successful. No doubt that was the reason for the change. Now, if you will allow me, Inspector—”
    And Mr. Widdicomb made for the door.
    Mr. Widdicomb, thought Idwal Meredith to himself, tried to have it both ways: to be at once an oyster of the old school andto make sure that his opinions—especially his disapprovals—were known and felt. Meredith had the impression that should the need absolutely arise he could get quite a lot out of Mr. Widdicomb.
    Meanwhile, what he needed was someone more obviously loose-tongued, to fill him in on the sort of family background that the family themselves were unlikely to be forthcoming about. He had rather liked the look of Surtees when he had shown him in—or rather, he had liked the look of him as a potential witness. He looked at his watch. Probably he would be still occupied with lunch. On an impulse he took up the phone and dialed headquarters.
    â€œAny results yet? . . . Oh, just come in . . . I see. The decanter and one of the glasses . . . Interesting . . . A solution—strong enough to kill a normal man? . . . I see—and with his heart condition that made it quite certain. . . . Good. Keep at it, and I’ll chug along at this end.”
    He put down the receiver, fireworks of anticipation in his eyes. Now he had a case. Now everything could be open