instance, are often quite pale.’
‘So what’s the actual cause of death in those cases?’ Slider asked.
‘Probably a neurochemical reaction of the heart. The heart just stops; which, of course, leaves an appearance of natural death. Which is what makes it fun.’
‘So you’re saying she could have died naturally?’
‘My personal belief is not, though it was a close decision, I have to tell you, even on my part; and my assistant – who likes to err on the safe side of not sticking his neck out – doesn’t agree with me. But I would say she was smothered.’
‘Smothered? You mean with a pillow, or something?’
‘Little Princes in the Tower job,’ Freddie agreed.
Slider laid this against the image of the drunken marital row and found it wanting. ‘But how could you smother somebody without a violent struggle?’
‘It happens – probably more often than we like to think – with the frail and bedridden. It’s the front runner for easing your terminally ill relly out of life without having the State come down on you for the price.’
‘Mrs Andrews was hardly frail and bedridden.’
‘Quite,’ Cameron said. ‘But a healthy and active adult could be smothered without violent struggle if she was first rendered helpless or comatose.’
‘Made drunk, you mean?’
‘Possibly, or drugs. I’d put my money on sleepers – I’ve sent blood and stomach samples off to the lab, by the way, so we shall see what we shall see. But if she was slipped the appropriate mickey, and fell into a nice deep one
à la
Sleeping Beauty, the rest would be easy.’
The dirty little coward, Slider thought indignantly. His native caution asked, ‘If there are no signs, what makes you think that’s what happened?’
‘This is where I triumphantly produce the pedigree angora from the depths of the old silk topper,’ Cameron said, ‘and announce that purely owing to my analytical genius and thoroughness of method, I have found some slight bruising on the inside of the mouth, consistent with the lips having been pressedagainst the teeth by the pressure of the killer’s hands on the pillow – or whatever he used.’
‘But you say your assistant doesn’t agree with you?’
‘It is
very
slight bruising,’ Freddie admitted. ‘It wouldn’t be necessary to press very hard, you see, if she was comatose. If I hadn’t been sure it wasn’t natural death … No signs of violence, but Freddie “The Bloodhound” Cameron wasn’t satisfied. Don’t you want to know why?’ he prompted when Slider didn’t speak.
‘I was afraid to ask. I’m beginning to think you’re after my job.’
‘No, no, my dear old thing, I leave all that messy dealing-with-the-public to you. I prefer my Smiths and Joneses as mute and docile as possible. But look here,’ he became serious suddenly, ‘this woman was rather tarted up, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ Slider agreed.
‘And if you place a pillow over the face even of a sleeping victim, the other result, apart from death, is that the old maquillage gets smudged.’
‘You mean—?’
‘I think it was touched up after death.’
‘Good God!’
‘Yes,’ said Freddie, ‘it struck me as a bit macabre, too. I found smears of the coloured foundation cream
inside
the nostrils, where a woman would have to be very clumsy to get it when making up her own face; and even more telling, traces of mascara on the right eyeball and contact lens. No-one alive would leave that where it was. You’d have spots before the eyes – and that stuff smarts, too.’
Slider thought a moment. ‘Of course, touching up the makeup doesn’t in itself mean it was murder. But it must have been meant to conceal something. Why else would it have been done?’
‘That I leave to you, dear boy,’ Freddie said, ‘and, frankly, you’re welcome to it. I’d stand up in court and swear to the bruises, but the defence could easily put up someone else to say they didn’t
‘So what’s the actual cause of death in those cases?’ Slider asked.
‘Probably a neurochemical reaction of the heart. The heart just stops; which, of course, leaves an appearance of natural death. Which is what makes it fun.’
‘So you’re saying she could have died naturally?’
‘My personal belief is not, though it was a close decision, I have to tell you, even on my part; and my assistant – who likes to err on the safe side of not sticking his neck out – doesn’t agree with me. But I would say she was smothered.’
‘Smothered? You mean with a pillow, or something?’
‘Little Princes in the Tower job,’ Freddie agreed.
Slider laid this against the image of the drunken marital row and found it wanting. ‘But how could you smother somebody without a violent struggle?’
‘It happens – probably more often than we like to think – with the frail and bedridden. It’s the front runner for easing your terminally ill relly out of life without having the State come down on you for the price.’
‘Mrs Andrews was hardly frail and bedridden.’
‘Quite,’ Cameron said. ‘But a healthy and active adult could be smothered without violent struggle if she was first rendered helpless or comatose.’
‘Made drunk, you mean?’
‘Possibly, or drugs. I’d put my money on sleepers – I’ve sent blood and stomach samples off to the lab, by the way, so we shall see what we shall see. But if she was slipped the appropriate mickey, and fell into a nice deep one
à la
Sleeping Beauty, the rest would be easy.’
The dirty little coward, Slider thought indignantly. His native caution asked, ‘If there are no signs, what makes you think that’s what happened?’
‘This is where I triumphantly produce the pedigree angora from the depths of the old silk topper,’ Cameron said, ‘and announce that purely owing to my analytical genius and thoroughness of method, I have found some slight bruising on the inside of the mouth, consistent with the lips having been pressedagainst the teeth by the pressure of the killer’s hands on the pillow – or whatever he used.’
‘But you say your assistant doesn’t agree with you?’
‘It is
very
slight bruising,’ Freddie admitted. ‘It wouldn’t be necessary to press very hard, you see, if she was comatose. If I hadn’t been sure it wasn’t natural death … No signs of violence, but Freddie “The Bloodhound” Cameron wasn’t satisfied. Don’t you want to know why?’ he prompted when Slider didn’t speak.
‘I was afraid to ask. I’m beginning to think you’re after my job.’
‘No, no, my dear old thing, I leave all that messy dealing-with-the-public to you. I prefer my Smiths and Joneses as mute and docile as possible. But look here,’ he became serious suddenly, ‘this woman was rather tarted up, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought,’ Slider agreed.
‘And if you place a pillow over the face even of a sleeping victim, the other result, apart from death, is that the old maquillage gets smudged.’
‘You mean—?’
‘I think it was touched up after death.’
‘Good God!’
‘Yes,’ said Freddie, ‘it struck me as a bit macabre, too. I found smears of the coloured foundation cream
inside
the nostrils, where a woman would have to be very clumsy to get it when making up her own face; and even more telling, traces of mascara on the right eyeball and contact lens. No-one alive would leave that where it was. You’d have spots before the eyes – and that stuff smarts, too.’
Slider thought a moment. ‘Of course, touching up the makeup doesn’t in itself mean it was murder. But it must have been meant to conceal something. Why else would it have been done?’
‘That I leave to you, dear boy,’ Freddie said, ‘and, frankly, you’re welcome to it. I’d stand up in court and swear to the bruises, but the defence could easily put up someone else to say they didn’t
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