The Riverboat Mystery (Jenny Starling #3)(45)

The parrot very neatly relieved himself on Lucas’s shoulder. The millionaire, though, merely took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it off without any obvious signs of distaste, as if he was used to it — as he probably was.

‘So I repeat,’ Rycroft said, turning away from the boat owner and his disgusting parrot with a look of chagrin on his face and a rather supercilious sneer on his ugly mouth, ‘who murdered him?’ He thumped a small fist onto the tabletop as he did so and made everyone jump most theatrically.

It was at this dramatic moment that one of the forensics boys stepped into the electric silence and said loudly and excitedly, ‘Sir, I think you’d better come upstairs. We’ve found a suicide note!’





CHAPTER TEN

For a moment, nobody moved. It was so unexpected, so . . . impossible, that nobody seemed able to take it in.

It was at that moment that Jenny looked across at David Leigh, and felt her whole body stiffen with shock. For David Leigh looked appalled. Stricken. Disbelieving. He looked, in fact, the very opposite of what Jenny imagined he should.

That he hated Gabriel Olney was obvious. The looks he had given the man when he’d been alive had hardly been meant to hide the fact. And now he was dead, and if there was a possibility, no matter how fantastic, that it was not murder after all, then surely the solicitor should be relieved? Or, at the very least, fascinated.

Instead he looked sick at heart. It was very odd indeed. Unless of course . . . Jenny’s eyes became thoughtful, and then just slightly puzzled.

Inspector Rycroft came out of shock first and uttered a soft but very colourful exclamation, and tossed his ugly head at the forensics man. ‘It’s in his bedroom?’ he barked sharply.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right. Lead the way.’

Once again, everybody went after him, like a flock of curious sheep. Once again, the policeman, rather surprisingly, made no move to stop them. Then again, the cook thought, as she took up the rear and climbed the stairs, perhaps it was not so surprising after all. She’d noticed that both Graves and Rycroft had very sharp ears. And very quick eyes. Between them, in a matter of seconds, they could look at every face and, no doubt, fairly shrewdly gauge every mood. And as this particular case seemed determined to take on so many twists and turns, faces could reveal an awful lot about how people reacted to them. Hadn’t she just seen an example with David Leigh?

No, Rycroft might be a shade unorthodox in his ways, but there was method in his madness. And she couldn’t help but wonder what the policeman made of this latest twist in the case. He must surely have come across any number of suicides during his career so far. Weren’t most of them supposed to leave notes? And although she was no expert, she could well imagine that different personalities would choose various different ways in which to end their lives. Women, she’d read somewhere, tended to choose things that didn’t mar their looks — taking pills being a leading choice, as well as that old standby, putting your head in a gas oven. Men, she rather thought, didn’t mind so much using a gun for a quick but messier way out, if they had access to one.

But she was willing to bet that as a method of suicide, drowning yourself in such a spectacular manner must put Gabriel Olney in a league of his own.

Much as she might applaud the investigating officer’s reliance on his observance of the witnesses to help his case along, she guessed that both Rycroft and Graves had been momentarily too stunned themselves to notice the young solicitor’s reaction.

Now, Jenny began to wonder about this so-called suicide note.

In fact, she wondered about it a great deal.

*

The Olneys’ bedroom offered mute testimony to the personalities of the two occupants. On Gabriel’s side, the room was immaculately neat. His clothes were hung circumspectly in the wardrobe and all his drawers were tidily shut. His shoes were carefully aligned on the shoe tree provided, and his side of the dressing table held toiletries in rows of pristine precision.

Jasmine’s half of the room, in contrast, was in utter chaos. A scarlet silk shift lay half on, half off her side of the bed. A pair of silk stockings, looking shockingly intimate under the macabre circumstances, lay trailed across the carpeted floor. Her side of the dressing table was a riot of mess, with jars of cream with their tops removed and lipstick tubes undone, leaving greasy pink, red and purple lines on top of the wooden surface. A make-up bag was tossed haphazardly onto the bedside chair.

The forensics man led them to the top drawer of the dresser — obviously nabbed by Gabriel for it contained socks, ties, a spare shirt and a solid gold pair of cufflinks.

It also produced a single piece of folded paper.

Rycroft raised an eyebrow at the forensics man, who interpreted it easily. ‘It’s been dusted for prints, sir. There’s only one set — belonging to the deceased.’

Rycroft grunted.

Jenny nodded. Yes. That made sense, if what she suspected had happened had happened. It would have been a bit touch and go as to whether only Olney’s prints were on the paper, but if Jasmine’s were on it too, well, it would hardly be a surprise, would it? It would all depend on the circumstances. Her thoughts were abruptly cut off as the senior investigating officer moved forward.

Rycroft very carefully unfolded the paper and read the lines aloud with quick, bland precision.

Dear All,

Sorry to do this to you. Be a bit of a shock, I suppose, but there are reasons. Aren’t there always? Bury me next to the parents at Gatesham, will you? Oh, and keep the flowers down to a sensible level, Jasmine. No need to go over the top.