The Riverboat Mystery (Jenny Starling #3)(61)

‘Inspector,’ she said quietly. ‘If you want us to spend another night on board, I’m really going to have to get some more food in.’

The inspector sighed but nodded. ‘Make out a list. I’ll have one of the constables go into the nearest town for it,’ he said, still staring at the elegant blades.

Jenny nodded, was about to return to the galley, then hesitated.

Rycroft was looking slump-shouldered and miserable. ‘It’ll be all right, you know, Inspector,’ she said softly, but with rather more confidence than she actually felt.

The policeman turned to give her his usual, all-purpose raised-eyebrow look. The cook sighed and left him to it. No doubt he was under pressure from his superiors to clear up this murder quickly. It was not his fault that this particular case was proving to be a very frustrating, not to mention very oddly executed crime. She only hoped that when Sergeant Graves returned, he brought with him some helpful information.

As it happened, she didn’t have long to wait.

She’d just finished writing out a full list of the supplies she’d need, and had already set about making a savoury beef stew for dinner, when she heard the roar of the motorbike returning. She stepped outside to see what was afoot.

Rycroft was still on the rear deck, but now his eyes were avidly following the progress of his sergeant. Graves leapt on board and nodded to his superior. ‘Sir.’

Jenny coughed, just to announce her presence, but neither policeman seemed inclined towards privacy.

‘You have the test results?’ Rycroft asked abruptly.

Graves nodded. ‘But only because they sent down some relief from the John Radcliffe and the doc was able to start work on our Mr Olney last night. He confirms there was no knock on the head, and, by the way, he did detail several broken fingernails and some — but not much — bruising of the knuckles on both of Olney’s hands.’

Rycroft rather angrily waved away the confirmation of the cook’s sharp eyes. ‘Was he drugged?’ he demanded impatiently.

Graves shook his head. ‘Not that the doc can tell. Of course, not all the tests are in yet, but we can say that Olney certainly wasn’t drugged with any of the usual, easily available drugs.’

‘And nobody on board has expert medical knowledge, or access to anything more exotic to make a do-it-yourself Mickey Finn,’ Rycroft murmured to himself. So that would also seem to confirm Miss Starling’s hunch, he admitted to himself grimly.

So how the hell had the killer managed to drown Olney without the beggar putting up a fight? He shot the large woman an angry look.

As if it’s my fault, Jenny thought wryly, but had better sense than to let even the ghost of a smile cross her face.

‘But that’s not all,’ Graves said, and from his voluminous breast pocket began to pull out several official-looking police reports. ‘Our lads have been busy. And the stuff they’ve got on David Leigh is quite something.’

By unspoken mutual consent, the three of them walked back into the main salon and spread the papers on the table. The others still weren’t back from the village, but Rycroft wasn’t worried about that. He’d sent constables with them to keep an eye out, just in case somebody made a bolt for it.

Now, though, he had other things on his mind.

‘First, the handwriting experts confirm that the suicide note was a forgery. It’s definitely not Gabriel Olney’s handwriting, although the boffin at Brasenose that we use said that it was a very competent, but not, in his experience, professional job.’

Rycroft nodded. ‘So we’re dealing with a gifted amateur.’

‘We also showed him copies of David Leigh’s handwriting, and he gave us the thumbs up. In his opinion, it’s likely that Leigh was the forger.’

‘In his opinion, it’s likely, is it?’ His lips twisted sardonically. ‘They don’t like to commit themselves, do they?’

Graves smiled. ‘But it gets better, sir. Do you remember Gimsole? The constable who worked on that fraud case over in Banbury?’

The inspector nodded. ‘A good man to have on old-fashioned paperwork — especially when it comes to records that aren’t on computer yet. He has a nose for it, I think his superiors said.’

‘Right. Well, we had a spot of good luck there. Gimsole was put onto tracking down David Leigh’s past doings. Any other PC might have missed it. But Gimsole’s a thorough little nerd,’ he said affectionately. ‘Now, it appears that some old retired general or other had retained Leigh to look into some past military records for him. He was writing his memoirs, or something, and he had friends at the War Office and at the local branches of ex-soldiers’ clubs—’

‘Get on with it, Graves,’ Rycroft snapped. He was obviously not in the mood to appreciate the finer details.

Graves nodded, not a whit put out by his superior officer’s crabbiness. ‘Right, sir. It appears that when he was doing this rather sensitive digging for the general, Leigh stumbled onto something that hit rather closer to home. Gimsole was able to follow the paper trail Leigh left behind, although he’d tried to cover his tracks. Gimsole was really very clever . . .’

‘Graves,’ Rycroft gritted. Nor was he in the mood to appreciate Gimsole’s famous ‘nose’ either, it seemed.

‘Sir,’ Graves said apologetically. ‘It seems that the memoir-writing general, our Colonel Gabriel Olney, and a Lieutenant Arnold Leigh — David Leigh’s father — were all involved in the same regiment. As you know, a lot of local lads were part of the—’