Murder At Wittenham Park by R. W. Heber Page A

“most wives of rich middle-aged men make damn sure their husbands go for medical check-ups. If they’re interested in keeping them alive, that is.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Rutherford said dutifully, but sharing the doctor’s puzzlement, because he had thought of something else. “They usually share a room with their husbands, too.”
    â€œShe told me that the way this weekend was organized made that impossible.”
    â€œSounds odd, sir.”
    â€œApparently this was a murder weekend.”
    At this point Rutherford began to feel confused as well as puzzled. He was twenty-three years old and anxious to do everything by the book. But his training to date had not encompassed murder weekends.
    â€œWhat exactly is that, sir?” he asked.
    â€œA gimmick to promote the stately home, I imagine. You’d better ask Lord Gilroy. Now, have you a camera?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œDamn.” Thompson couldn’t really blame the constable for not having one. But he wanted a photographic record of exactly how the body was positioned, which meant he would have to move it as little as possible while doing a further examination to satisfy himself that he had missed nothing external. “Well,” he said, “I’m going to take the rectal temperature and a blood sample.” He began ferreting in his black bag, while the constable went downstairs in search of Lord Gilroy.
    In the study Gilroy and Dee Dee were discussing what to do next. Adrienne had recovered sufficiently to join the Savages in the library. The rest were all in their rooms packing.
    â€œHow the hell do we entertain them if they insist on staying for the rest of the weekend?” Gilroy moaned.
    â€œWe certainly can’t keep a ‘murder’ hunt going,” Dee Dee agreed. “Not with a real corpse upstairs.”
    â€œAnd they can’t just eat and drink all day.”
    â€œThat they cannot,” Dee Dee said with emphasis. “Not on our budget.”
    â€œI could show them round the estate this afternoon.”
    â€œAnd bore the pants off them about being paid by Europe not to farm? Much better take them down to Blenheim Palace for the afternoon. But I don’t think they will stay. That lawyer isn’t one to waste her time, and as for the fish-faced Hamish, he’s almost as much of a pain as Welch was. I’ve a feeling his wife found him out last night.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œShe wasn’t fooled by his pretending he’d been in the kitchen getting coffee. Nor was I. He’s the sort who phones for room service if the bedcover’s crooked.”
    â€œOur rooms don’t have phones, darling.”
    â€œThen ring the bell till someone comes,” Dee said irritably. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”
    There was a knock on the door and Rutherford entered. He didn’t hold aristocrats in much esteem, not when they kept selling their private lives to magazines, and he wasn’t going to address Gilroy as “my lord.” He stood very upright in his summer uniform of white short-sleeved shirt and dark-blue trousers, handcuffs hanging from his belt, and declined to sit down.
    â€œThere’s a question I’d like to ask,” he said, compromising his integrity slightly by adding, “sir.”
    â€œFire away.” Gilroy said amiably, glad to be off the subject of entertaining the guests.
    â€œWhat was your murder weekend all about?”
    Gilroy explained somewhat inadequately, leading Dee Dee to cut in. “Notionally Mr. Welch was involved in poisoning his sister. We gave out clues the night before and at seven-thirty this morning. Mrs. Sketchley—whom I played—was found dead by the maid. Her screams woke the whole household.”
    Rutherford thought about this. He might be young and inexperienced, but he was not stupid.
    â€œSo there were a lot of people around at that