Let's Kill Uncle by Rohan O’Grady Page B

and smelled of lemon-oil polish, dust, incense and age. Mrs Rice-Hope had just decorated the altar with fresh, cream-coloured gladiolas, which looked incongruously vital and alive in the prism shadows cast by the stained-glass windows.
    The children sat in a back pew, flanking poor innocent Desmond, who nodded dully in the almost stupefying quiet.
    The children loved the little church; it was such a pleasant, peaceful spot in which to plan a murder.
    A great weight had been lifted from Barnaby’s mind by Christie’s very sensible suggestion, but, as is usually the case, the little assassins had difficulty in deciding on the technical details of the murder.
    They sat quietly discussing and discarding ideas, while poor Desmond, as harmless as a time bomb, dozed between them.
    They sighed, for it was not easy. It was very simple to decide to commit a murder, but an entirely different and difficult task to execute one.
    They racked their brains, going over every movie and TV plot they had ever seen.
    Victims could be run over, but alas, they could neither drive, nor did they possess a car. Christie rather favoured drowning Uncle, but Barnaby assured her the Major was a powerful swimmer.
    Knives were discussed at great length, but Uncle, a blackbelt judo man and ex-commando, would easily disarm them. Pitfalls and bear traps were out, it might take months before he accidentally trod on one, and they had only till the end of the summer.
    ‘Well,’ said Barnaby, ‘there’s one good thing, the time he’s really dangerous is when the moon is full, and it’s only in its first quarter now.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘The moon’s got four quarters, in the first it’s just a little thin line, but it gets fatter and fatter all month and when it gets to the last quarter, it’s a full moon.’
    Barnaby had become an expert on lunar phases.
    ‘You’re sure it’s okay now?’ asked Christie.
    ‘Pretty sure. He told me so himself, he says, ‘Watch out for the boogeyman the next full moon, Barnaby, maybe we’ll catch you then.’ I’ve watched him and he’s worse then, a lot worse.’
    Having exhausted all other possibilities, they reluctantly concluded that shooting was the only foolproof method. Reluctantly, because they didn’t have a gun.
    ‘We’ll just have to get one, somehow,’ said Christie.
    ‘I know!’ said Barnaby, ‘Sergeant Coulter! Why didn’t we think of that before!’
    Their beloved sergeant did have a gun but, as Christie pointed out, he always wore it strapped around his waist. They agreed sadly that the chances were negligible that they would be able to spirit it away from him without his knowledge.
    And they had a very healthy respect for Sergeant Coulter.
    ‘Wait a minute,’ said Christie. ‘Lady Syddyns’s. There’s a big room across the hall from the living room. It’s got books all over one wall, and I’m sure I saw a bunch of guns hanging on the other wall.’
    What could be simpler. They had an invitation to tea, they would pay the old lady a courtesy call and check the situation thoroughly.
    A shadow fell across them, and both children started.
    Sergeant Coulter stood in the doorway, looking down at them.
    ‘Hello,’ he said casually, glancing past them to the altar. When he saw the fresh flowers, he sighed. He had missed her.
    ‘Mr and Mrs Rice-Hope have gone, eh?’
    ‘Yes, half an hour ago. She put them there. They’re nice, aren’t they? He said we could sit here, any time we wanted, as long as we didn’t touch anything.’
    Sergeant Coulter nodded and turned away.
    ‘She’s pretty, isn’t she?’ said Barnaby.
    This time it was Sergeant Coulter who started.
    ‘Who?’ he snapped.
    ‘Mrs Rice-Hope.’
    The Mountie’s bronzed face flushed darkly.
    ‘Mr Brooks wants you. Run along, both of you.’
    Reluctant to part with him, they stood shuffling their feet and nudging each other.
    ‘You tell him,’ whispered Barnaby.
    ‘No, you.’
    ‘He won’t believe me,