Motive for Murder by Anthea Fraser

your old age!” Not that I ever would.’
    â€˜Did he sign it?’ I bent closer, peering through the masterful brush strokes to discern a signature.
    She smiled. ‘That he did. Look.’ Her horny finger reached past me and pointed to a tiny thistle in the bottom left-hand corner. ‘That’s how he signed all his paintings, miss. His little affectation, he called it.’ She smiled fondly at the painting, then turned back to Matthew, who had been quietly listening. ‘Now, sir, before we start our chat I’m sure you and the young lady could do with a nice hot cup of tea to warm you up. The kettle’s on, if you’ll excuse me.’
    She bustled from the room, and I sat down in the chair she had indicated. ‘I hadn’t realized you’d brought Linda here.’
    â€˜Of course I brought her; what’s a secretary for?’
    I bit my lip. He lit a cigarette and the spurt of the match illumined the planes of his face – the grooves from nose to mouth, the lines at the corner of his eyes. Not a happy face, I thought suddenly. How would he have replied if I’d parried his own question back at him?
    He inhaled deeply and tossed the spent match into the fire. A coal shifted and the cat lazily stretched its paws, claws outspread. Its fur glistened redly in the firelight, reminding me unpleasantly of Derek. I was still watching it when Mrs Statton came back with the squat brown teapot.
    â€˜Now,’ she said comfortably as she began to pour, ‘how can I help you, sir?’
    I declined her offer of a scone and opened my notebook. Matthew, unhampered by a pencil, bit appreciatively into one. ‘You remember, Mrs Statton, that this is all unofficial – purely for my own interest?’
    â€˜Oh yes, sir, you explained last time. It’s exciting, helping with one of your books, though I’m sorry it’s on account of poor Mr Menzies.’
    â€˜I know it’s a bore, but could you possibly run through it all again? There are some points I’d like to check, and Miss Barton, hearing it for the first time, might notice something which has escaped us. As you know, being a writer and not a policeman, I’m as interested in who might have done the murder, as in who actually did.’
    â€˜Well, as to that sir, I couldn’t say, I’m sure. Whoever could have wanted to do such a thing? Such a nice gentleman he was, not like some of them painters nowadays.’
    â€˜Let’s recap, then,’ Matthew said. ‘Mr Menzies was a widower, wasn’t he?’
    â€˜That’s right. His wife died five years ago, just before Miss Lesley’s wedding.’
    â€˜He got on well with his daughter?’
    â€˜Apple of his eye, she was. Living in London when all this happened.’
    â€˜You didn’t live in the apartment yourself, did you?’
    â€˜No, sir. I used to arrive at eight-thirty each morning – had my own key – and take Mr Menzies a cup of tea. I’d do the house over, and shop, cook his dinner, and leave soon after six in the evening.’
    â€˜A long day,’ Matthew commented.
    â€˜But I enjoyed it. There was no one needing me here.’
    And on the day in question?’
    Mrs Statton braced herself. ‘Well, sir, it was just like any other day. I cooked his dinner for him – he liked his main meal at midday. In the afternoon I did a little mending and Mr Menzies read. Great reader, he was.’
    â€˜He didn’t seem any different – worried about anything?’
    â€˜Bless you no, sir. If he had, I’d have remembered later – after it all happened.’
    â€˜So there was nothing unusual?’
    She shook her head.
    I glanced at Matthew, thinking of the novel. As he’d said, the characters in it were very different from real life – the importunate friend, the spendthrift nephew, the calculating brother. No resemblance to any living person, I thought