Blood Guilt. Lindy Cameron
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'I don't imagine she would want to hear of her mother's accident from Geoffrey.'
'Um, don't you think this whole 'accident' thing is a little suspicious?' Kit said hesitantly.
Douglas looked pained but not surprised by the suggestion. 'A little,' he said quietly. Further discussion was put on hold as a commotion in the hall heralded the arrival of Geoffrey Robinson, his breathless voice demanding the whereabouts of his wife.
Kit got to the lounge door in time to see a uniformed officer escorting Geoffrey into the Forum. They had passed Donald Grenville, the coroner, in the hall.
'Well, well, well, if it isn't Katherine O'Malley,' he said with a warm smile.
'Hi Donald, how goes it?' Kit said, moving away from the lounge and out of Douglas's earshot.
'Couldn't be better, my dear. I wouldn't be dead for quids. And I see you have managed to survive and flourish without Flash Marek to hold your hand. I like the wet look; you look positively ravishing, but then that's nothing new.'
'And you haven't changed one bit, you old bastard.'
'Flattery will get you nothing but my undying passion Katherine,' Donald said, twirling the thicket of whiskers under his nose.
'How about the lowdown on the task at hand?'
'Well, it's so damn wet out there I could do little more than rudimentary examination. My guess is the woman drowned somewhere between 6 and 9 p.m. The rest will have to wait till we've both dried out a bit.'
'Was it an accident?'
'It seems so. The evidence, as it stands, fits the theory that she stumbled, probably in a state of intoxication, headfirst into the water. There is bruising on the forehead and another on the chin consistent with a fall. Either injury may have rendered her unconscious or in no fit state to extricate herself from the pond. But that is just the theory; I shall know more on the morrow.'
'Jesus Christ, what a bloody mess,' bellowed Geoffrey, as he and Marek, followed by the stretcher carrying Celia's shrouded body, crowded in through the patio door.
Kit took her leave of Donald and headed back to the lounge. She wanted to be there when Geoffrey entered. Douglas was in the process of topping up his glass again.
'You'd better have another yourself Kit,' he said. 'I think we're in for one hell of a performance.'
'God, Douglas. I just don't know what to do next. And what a thing for you to have to go through. She was just so, so...' Geoffrey turned aside dramatically to compose himself or, rather, to decide which of the emotions that were running uncontrolled across his face best suited the present company. He settled on a mournful look complete with an exaggerated and regular blinking-back of an imaginary wellspring of tears. Douglas extracted his hand from Geoffrey's and, ushering him to the couch, poured him a whisky.
The elegant walking cane that Geoffrey had traded his crutches for sometime on Wednesday provided more than adequate support for his grief and gave him something to do with the hand that wasn't holding the whisky glass.
Kit watched Marek shuffling from one foot to the other, waiting. He hated these scenes. Having to question a grieving individual was an odious task, but Marek had his own emotions so securely locked up in a cupboard somewhere that he had a harder time than most dealing with what he scathingly called the 'raw, seething quagmire of self pity'.
'I'm sorry to put you through this right now, Mr Robinson, but I will have to ask you some questions,' he said.
'Of course. I understand,' Geoffrey said with a sigh that was audibly cut short when he noticed Kit standing there. He looked questioningly at Douglas, while Kit looked earnestly at Marek with a slight shake of her head.
'This is...ah, detective, O'Malley,' Marek said falteringly.
Geoffrey acknowledged her with a nod while his eyes never left her legs. Douglas swallowed rather too loudly so Kit decided the best place to sit was next to him, putting Marek between herself and Geoffrey. She was sorely tempted to tell Geoffrey just where it was that she'd last seen him.
Geoffrey spent the next fifteen minutes raving about the sheer injustice of human destiny that ends the life of one so gracious, loving and giving in such an undignified and lonely way. If only he had stayed home this evening. If only he'd been able to help her give up the drinking. If only... It was a distraught and eloquent performance, greatly deserving of an Oscar, and one that had Marek so convinced that the man was emotionally devastated that he kept his questions to a minimum.
With each declaration of concern for Celia's drinking habits, of his constant fear of leaving her on her own at any time, he built up a picture of himself as a caring, loving man in the habit of sacrificing much of his own lifestyle for that of his adoring but dipsomaniac wife. The fact that he had to be aware that Douglas would know that most of what he claimed was unmitigated garbage did not hinder his performance one bit. Geoffrey obviously felt secure in his assumption that family business was just that; that appearances must be maintained; and one certainly does not let the hoi polloi, let alone the local constabulary, think one is anything less than perfect. Except, of course, in the descriptions of Celia's drinking problem, which he could and did labour to death, because the police already knew about that. And, thought Kit, it reinforces the theory of death by misadventure.
'At what time did you leave the house?' Marek asked.
'I think it was a little after 6 p.m. Miles Denning, our publisher, called for me. We had a drink in this room with...with poor Celia...before going out for dinner with clients at the Shangri La. That was where your officers found me and broke the news.' Geoffrey was overdoing the fidgeting to the point where Kit desperately wanted to scold him into sitting still. 'Um, if you'll excuse me for a minute,' he finally said, hauling himself to his feet. 'I think I ate something that disagreed with me at lunch. I've been up and down all evening.'
'Was there anyone else in the house when you left? Your wife has a secretary I believe,' Marek asked when Geoffrey returned ten minutes later.
'Daniels. No, he wasn't here!' Geoffrey stated sharply. 'He is no longer in our employ.'
'I didn't know this had happened,' Douglas said, unable to hide his surprise.
Whoa! Throw the plot another twist, thought Kit.
'No doubt she would have told you this evening Douglas, had she...' Geoffrey broke down again.
'When did this Daniels leave your service, Mr Robinson?' Marek asked.
'He didn't leave. I asked him to go,' Geoffrey said. 'In fact it was his betrayal of my wife's trust that probably pushed her to drink as much as she seems to have tonight. You see I sacked Mr Daniels yesterday. He had been stealing, and not just money but valuables from the house. Celia of course was dreadfully upset; she had entrusted him with a great deal of responsibility.'
Kit glanced at Douglas who looked totally flabbergasted.
'God, I knew she was upset. She was such a trusting soul. I should have stayed home,' Geoffrey was saying.
Trusting soul, indeed! Kit thought. Celia had been a clever, intuitive and sensible woman; one not easily deceived. Sure she'd made the mistake of marrying Geoffrey, but then everyone's entitled to one gross error of judgement in their life, and she had admitted to Kit that though she'd been attracted to him and enjoyed his company, she had never trusted him.
She had trusted Byron, however. If there was any truth in what Geoffrey was saying it would indeed have been a shattering revelation to Celia, but Kit had so little faith in Geoffrey's veracity that she doubted his whole story. It was all so unnecessary, as if he was setting a scene to cover the possibility that Celia's death would prove to be something other than an accident. With Celia conveniently unable to verify or deny Geoffrey's statement, Kit wondered whether her client had actually known anything at all about the alleged reasons for Byron's alleged dismissal. Surely if he'd been stealing, it would have been Celia who sacked him and in that case Douglas would probably have known about it.
'We'll need the address of this Daniels,' Marek