The Riverboat Mystery (Jenny Starling #3)(64)

The forensics boys had pieced together the pieces of torn cheque they’d found in Olney’s wastepaper basket and Graves had affixed it to the banking documents. ‘I reckon Olney would have had to sell the house, sir, just to keep this boat running,’ Graves pointed out. ‘And Mrs Olney has expensive habits,’ Graves added, handing over yet more paperwork, this time in the form of bills, receipts and expenditures.

This time, Rycroft whistled out loud. ‘She spent more money on clothes in one week than I earn in a month,’ he said, his voice a scandalized squeak. ‘Theatre tickets, travel expenses to Paris . . . good grief. No wonder she tore up that cheque. I’m assuming she was the one who found it and tore it up?’

‘I think that’s a fair assumption, sir,’ Graves said, his lips once more twitching.

‘So if her husband spent all his money buying this boat, and sold the house to pay for the Swan’s upkeep, she could expect to see her pretty and expensive little habits sent down the tubes, and no messing about.’

Graves nodded. ‘And she’s been keeping a man, sir — a very handsome bloke who is supposed to be some sort of an artist. Not that Constable Greenly was able to find any gallery or individual who’d actually bought one of his pieces.’

Rycroft read through the report on Jasmine Olney’s London flat and extra-marital activities with a look of fastidious distaste on his face. As usual, he got straight to the point. ‘You had someone check out Olney’s solicitors?’

Graves nodded. ‘Very interesting, sir. For a start, Olney used David Leigh’s firm, as you know. Pringle, Ford and Soames. It was Mr Ford who confirmed the contents of Olney’s will for us. It all goes to the widow, although Olney had made an appointment for next week to make an alteration to his will and also to discuss a totally different subject.’

‘Oh?’ Rycroft asked, his nose almost twitching as he scented a new hare.

‘Hmm,’ Graves said. ‘Mr Ford, when pressed, admitted that Olney had indicated that he wanted to make a new will, cutting out Mrs Olney altogether. He also said that he’d asked Ford if he would take on his divorce case for him.’ Graves smiled grimly. ‘He was about to give her the old heave-ho. And I think, given the type of woman she is, she must have at least suspected as much.’

Rycroft sighed. ‘So. The widow had a motive every bit as strong as that of David Leigh. As you say it’s hard to imagine that she would have missed the clues that indicated that her husband was about to divorce her and cut her out of his will.’

Nobody objected to Rycroft’s logic.

‘And she says she was in her room at four o’clock to four fifteen, changing and putting on make-up, but nobody saw her. She could have killed him—’ Here Rycroft suddenly broke off. ‘Damn! No, she couldn’t. I know Olney wasn’t a big man — he was built like a whippet. But even so, I can’t see a woman being strong enough to overpower him, drown him, and then cart his body about and shove it in Miss Starling’s cupboard. We’ve got to be looking for a man.’

Graves sighed. ‘Lester could have done it. As Miss Starling pointed out, there was that long straight stretch of river. He could have tied the wheel off, killed Olney and shoved him in the cupboard. The same can be said of O’Keefe and Lucas Finch. And speaking of motives . . .’

Rycroft nodded. ‘In getting rid of Olney, Lucas gets to keep his blessed boat and get rid of a blackmailer.’

Jenny heaved a massive sigh. ‘So many people wanting Gabriel Olney dead,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘So many of them . . .’ And then, suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, it all made perfect sense.

Everything she’d seen, and not realized she’d seen. Everything she’d heard and not truly understood. What she’d already surmised about the murder method. It all combined to suddenly collide in one brilliant kaleidoscope to make total and utter sense.

In one instant, she saw it all. From start to finish.

She got up abruptly. ‘I think I’ll make a cup of tea. Who wants one?’

‘What? Oh, yes please,’ Rycroft said. He was going over the papers again, trying to sort it all out into some kind of order. But Sergeant Graves had been watching the cook. He’d seen her suddenly stiffen. He’d noticed her eyes go round in shock. He’d seen her go suddenly pale.

‘I’ll give you a hand, Miss Starling,’ Graves said firmly, pretending not to notice the go-away look she gave him.

She needed to think, damn it. She had to think!

Just then, the sound of cheerful voices floated across the fields, and the party of boaters suddenly appeared through the gap in the hedge.

‘Better make that teas all round,’ Rycroft said drolly. ‘The wanderers have returned.’

Jenny could have screamed. She’d never known a worse case of bad timing.

She walked crisply to the galley and set about making the tea. Behind her she heard the door close quietly. When she turned, Sergeant Graves was leaning against the door, and was in the process of folding his arms across his chest. His handsome, blunt face looked at her in open admiration. ‘You know, don’t you?’ he said simply.

Jenny firmed her lips and reached for the teabags.

Graves watched her in silence for a minute, and then said quietly, ‘Are you going to let me in on it?’

The cook smiled grimly. ‘That’s rather a telling slip, Sergeant Graves. Am I going to let you in on it. Not us?’