Die Laughing by Carola Dunn

internal pressures. Yet, as he turned back to Alec, he managed an ironic comment: “I notice you say ‘generally,’ not always, Chief Inspector. However, being uncertain what lie may serve in the circumstances, which remain unclear to me, I find myself driven back upon the truth. Mrs. Talmadge did not attend the theatre with me.”
    Alec’s sigh was silent. He had manoeuvred Lord Henry into a position where he had either to lie about the theatre or to confine himself to the feeble lunchtime alibi. Choosing the latter might mean that he was aware of the time of death—or it might mean that he was innocent and felt that
a lie was likely to be disproved and therefore to arouse unwarranted suspicion.
    In either case, Alec was convinced that his lordship was concealing something more than an illicit relationship with a married woman. Otherwise a man of his social rank would surely not have answered with such patience questions he must regard as impertinent.
    â€œOne of my men will be speaking to Mr. Truscott at Sotheby’s, sir, and of course we’ll be trying to find the restaurant you patronized. I don’t suppose you have a photograph you could let me have, of you and Mrs. Talmadge?”
    â€œOnly a very old … one of myself. I’ll fetch it.” He hurried out through the nearer door.
    There were plenty of recent photos on the wall, though Creighton might be reluctant to part with one. So his pause and quick recovery meant he had kept a photo of the two of them, probably from before her marriage, which argued that he had at least a deep affection for her. Deep enough to try to protect her, knowing she was a murderess? Deep enough to murder her husband for her sake?
    Creighton returned with a faded, blurred photo of a school cricket team. He had to point out to Alec his own likeness, standing in the back row.
    â€œUseless for identification, I’m afraid, sir. Perhaps you could spare me one of these?” Alec gestured at the theatrical wall.
    For the first time, Creighton showed annoyance. “One of my collection?”
    â€œI’ll do my best to see it’s not damaged. We’ll make copies to show around and return the original to you.”
    â€œOh, very well, if you must.” He chose an unsigned photograph
of himself with an actor who had enjoyed a brief success three or four years ago, before sinking back into obscurity.
    A passion for the theatre might be the link between him and Daphne Talmadge, but Alec wasn’t prepared to bet on which he’d pick if forced to choose between his beloved and his memorabilia.
    â€œThank you, sir.” Alec started towards the entrance hall. “We’ll take good care of it. I may have some more questions for you later, so if you leave London I’d be grateful if you’d let me know your whereabouts.”
    â€œI’m not going anywhere. Is … is Mrs. Talmadge greatly distressed?”
    â€œNaturally.” His hand on the front-door knob, Alec turned to observe Creighton’s reaction as he continued, “As any woman would be having found her husband’s murdered body.”
    â€œMy God! I must—”
    â€œMrs. Talmadge is under heavy sedation, sir,” Alec added with some satisfaction. “I’m afraid it’s no good your trying to see her.”
    It was frustrating not to be able to question his chief suspect, but at least the second on his list couldn’t speak to her either.

9
    F or Daisy, Mrs. Grantchester’s luncheon party started badly before she even left home. When she came downstairs, her mother-in-law was already waiting in the hall, toe tapping impatiently though Daisy had left plenty of time.
    She took one look at Daisy, and asked, “Is that what you’re wearing to Mrs. Grantchester’s?”
    â€œYes,” said Daisy. She considered the plain amber crepe frock a neat compromise, less dressy than would be appropriate to lunch in