A Novel Murder Page 21

  Professor Harcourt let out a wry chuckle. “After all the things I’ve seen in my career? I’m not that delicate.” He sipped the brandy Mike had placed in front of him. “But I can’t deny I like the idea.” His expression brightened. “Hang real life. One more night can’t hurt.” He put down his glass. “I’ll go and collect my bag, and then I’ll be right over to finish my brandy.” His eyes twinkled. “After I’ve called my wife and told her I’ll be home tomorrow.”

  “Look at it this way. She gets one more night of the TV remote,” Mike said with a grin.

  Harcourt nodded eagerly. “Which is precisely the tack I intend to take.” He got off his stool and walked to the door.

  Mike gave Jonathon a speculative glance. “What are you up to?”

  “Giving the professor the opportunity to eliminate himself from our investigations,” Jonathon declared emphatically. “Because come tomorrow morning, we’ll know, one way or another. Right?”

  Mike shrugged. “I guess.” He stilled, and Jonathon turned to see what had caught his attention.

  Fiona McBride was walking toward them.

  “Good afternoon.” Fiona’s cheeks were pink. “I wanted to talk to you both, after the way things ended yesterday.” She sat on the stool the professor had recently vacated. “I’ve told the police everything—the book, the letters, all the stuff I found about Teresa’s early writing career—all of it. And yes, I was going to tell the world. Like I said yesterday, I wanted her to suffer.” Her face reddened. “I didn’t intend on killing her.”

  “The fact that you’re here now and not in a police cell tells me something.” Mike regarded her keenly. “Either they believe you, or they don’t have enough evidence to arrest you for her murder.”

  Fiona’s eyes darkened. “Oh, they’re still looking. That Detective Inspector assured me of that. But my lawyer tells me—”

  “You got yourself a lawyer. Very wise.” Mike placed a gin and tonic in front of her. “You didn’t get the chance to drink this last night, so here’s a fresh one. On the house.”

  “Thanks.” Fiona took a long drink. “I didn’t kill her, okay? You need to believe me.”

  “We’re not the ones you need to convince,” Jonathon reminded her quietly.

  She shivered, then glanced around the pub. “I don’t come in here that often. Where are the toilets?”

  Before Jonathon could point her in the right direction, Mike cleared his throat. “Actually? They’re out of order at the moment. But as it’s you, I’ll let you use my bathroom upstairs. Go through that door marked Private. At the top of the stairs, you’ll see three doors on your left. The bathroom is the middle door.”

  “Thanks.” Fiona got off the stool and headed for the door.

  Jonathon arched his eyebrows. “Okay, now it’s my turn. What are you up to? There’s nothing wrong with the toilets.” Then he stiffened. “You’re letting her go upstairs because you want to see if she—”

  Mike nodded slowly. “And as soon as she comes back, I’ll go check.” He smiled. “I wonder how many of the people on our suspect list will pay us a visit over the next few days. Maybe the toilets need to stay out of action for a while longer.”

  Jonathon shook his head. “Is being sneaky a requisite for being a copper?”

  Mike snickered. “It’s on the application form. ‘Do you consider yourself sneaky? Give examples.’”

  Jonathon wouldn’t have been in the least bit surprised.

  Minutes later, Fiona was back, rejoining them to finish her drink. Mike excused himself and disappeared behind the door.

  “So, are you going to continue with the fan club?” Jonathon inquired.

  She sighed. “Mike was right. It was just a cover. Maybe I should start a new fan club, for a writer who’s actually nice to their readers.” Her eyes lit up. “Melody Richards. She could do with a positive fan base, right? And she’s a good writer. Maybe now that Teresa isn’t getting her fans to post dreadful reviews, everyone will get to see what Melody’s work is really like.”

  Jonathon thought it sounded like a step in the right direction. He looked up as Mike reentered the bar, giving him an inquiring glance. When Mike shook his head, Jonathon let out an internal sigh of relief.

  Fiona wasn’t the murderer.

  Fiona finished her drink. “It’s not a nice feeling, knowing the police think me capable of murder.”

  “It doesn’t matter what they think, if you didn’t do it,” Jonathon said gently. “And sooner or later, they’ll find the real killer.”

  Mike nodded in agreement.

  “They could still charge me, couldn’t they?” Fiona swallowed. “I mean, I did send those letters. I haven’t denied it.”

  “That will be up to the police to decide,” Mike told her. “Let’s see the way things turn out.”

  She nodded and got to her feet. “Thanks for the drink, and the use of your bathroom.” Fiona gave them a tentative smile before walking out of the pub.

  “I’m glad it wasn’t her.” Jonathon gazed at Mike. “Did she go in the room, though?”

  Mike nodded. “The old James Bond trick worked. The hair I placed across the door crack had gone. But everything was still in place.” He stared at her empty glass. “Maybe she needed to see for herself where it happened.”

  “Possibly.” Jonathon shivered. He gave himself a mental shake. “How about if I see to some lunch for us?” And before Mike could respond, he headed for the kitchen.

  Teresa’s death had brought home one thing to him with startling clarity. Jonathon did not like looking at his friends and neighbors as potential murder suspects.

  Maybe I’m not cut out to investigate such things after all.

  MIKE WAS having the most wonderful dream. It was slow and sensual, filled with heat and—

  He opened his eyes, and the delicious sensations came to an abrupt halt.

  Jonathon’s chuckle reverberated through him. “I wondered how long it would take to wake you up. I’ve always wanted to try this.”

  “What made you try it this morning?” Not that Mike was complaining.

  “We need to be up early. We don’t know when Professor Harcourt will leave, and we need to check the room before he does.”

  Mike glanced over at the alarm clock beside the bed. “Well, seeing as it’s six a.m., I don’t think he’ll be checking out right this minute.” He lifted the sheet and stared at Jonathon, who was grinning. “And who told you to stop?”

  Warm breath wafted over his erection. “Bossy,” Jonathon said with a snicker. Then all words became superfluous as he went back to his erotic task, only this time with more enthusiasm.

  Mike had a feeling his alarm clock had just been put out of a job.

  “THIS IS a marvelous breakfast,” Professor Harcourt declared before taking his last mouthful of toast. “I shan’t want lunch at this rate.”

  Jonathon poured himself another cup of coffee. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He glanced at the kitchen door. No sign of Mike. “What time is your train?”

  “Oh, not until midday. I shall be out of here before you open. That’s if I can arrange a taxi to take me to the station.” Professor Harcourt smiled. “Knowing how unreliable taxis can be in this village.”

  “Mike or I will take you there,” Jonathon assured him.

  “In that case, I can go for a last stroll. My bag is all packed.” Professor Harcourt gave a sigh of contentment. “This was a marvelous idea. At least I’ll know where to stay, should I ever return here.”

  The door opened and Mike stepped into the room. One look at his expression of dismay was enough to send Jonathon’s heart plummeting. He didn’t need to see the single nod that followed. When Mike took his phone from his pocket, Jonathon knew.

  “Well, I shall go upstairs and perform the necessary ablutions, and then I’ll be off on my walk.” Professor Harcourt pushed back his chair and stood. “Thank you again.” He gave Mike a cheerful nod as he left the room.

  Jonathon wai
ted until the professor was out of earshot. “No doubt?”

  “The tape’s torn. So unless he bumped into the wardrobe with an almighty thump, it’s been moved. I haven’t touched it, like we agreed.” Mike gestured to his phone. “But I have called him, just in case. He’ll buzz me when he gets here.”

  Jonathon sighed heavily. “Then we’d better get up there and find out for certain.”

  As he reached the door, Mike laid a gentle hand on his back. “I know, sweetheart. I don’t want to believe it either.”

  In silence they left the kitchen and headed for the door to the upstairs part of the pub. As they neared the guest room door, Jonathon could hear Professor Harcourt moving about inside.

  Mike rapped on the door. “Professor?”

  After a moment, it opened, and the professor stood there, his jacket over his arm. “Did I leave something downstairs?” When Mike didn’t respond, he stepped to one side. “Please, come in. It is your room, after all.”

  “Everything was okay?” Mike asked. Jonathon followed him in.

  “Everything was excellent.” Professor Harcourt’s eyes sparkled. “Would you like me to leave a review online? That’s the thing nowadays, I know. It doesn’t matter where I go, five minutes later there’s a message on my phone, asking me to rate my visit.” He sighed. “Everyone wants feedback. At least I don’t get that from the people who find their way to my table.”

  Mike’s phone buzzed, but he ignored it.

  “Before you go,” Jonathon said in as natural a manner as he could manage, “did you see a notebook in here?”

  Professor Harcourt frowned. “Notebook?”

  Jonathon nodded. “Teresa’s. It went missing.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen it.”

  Jonathon walked over to where the professor’s bag sat on the floor near the door. “Then you wouldn’t mind if I took a look in your bag?”

  Professor Harcourt frowned. “Looking for what?” Then he widened his eyes. “Her missing notebook? Why on earth would I have it?”

  Jonathon held up his hands. “Actually, you’re right. I don’t need to see in here.”

  Professor Harcourt smiled. “I’m glad you trust my word. For a moment there, I was beginning to feel like a suspect.”

  “I don’t have to take your word.” Jonathon inclined his head toward the door and called out, “You can come in now.” He studied Professor Harcourt’s face as Graham stepped into the room. Without looking away, Jonathon pointed to the wardrobe. “It’s all yours. You’re looking for a handprint.” In silence, Graham walked over to the oak wardrobe, a pot in one hand, a brush in the other, his hands gloved.

  “Handprint?” There was the faintest tremor in Professor Harcourt’s voice.

  Jonathon nodded. “If there’s nothing? You’ll have our sincerest apologies. But if there is? It’ll be from where you tilted the wardrobe to get underneath it. Because we already know you did tilt it.” He glanced at the bookcase below the window, with several fat volumes sitting on its shelves. “I figure you could have propped it up with these while you removed them.”

  Graham got on with his task, dusting the surface of the wood. Mike stood beside the bed, his expression watchful.

  “Removed… them?” Professor Harcourt paled slightly.

  Jonathon gave another nod. “The notebook. The EpiPens. Teresa’s phone. I’m guessing the glass vial is where you kept the peanut oil that you slipped into her coffee. You had to hide them, right? Unfortunately for you, I found them yesterday.”

  “And like I said that night in the pub,” Graham chimed in, “that means it was premeditated, because who just happens to have peanut oil on them?”

  And there it was, the missing piece that had eluded Jonathon’s mind.

  He stared at Professor Harcourt. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Those were Graham’s exact words. And now I remember what you said after them. ‘If you add to that the missing notebook, EpiPens, and phone, it all points to murder.’”

  “Of course it does!” The professor’s face reddened. “But they have nothing to do with me!”

  “Only one problem with that.” Jonathon regarded him sadly. “The only people at that point who knew about the missing notebook were myself, Mike, and Graham. So if we hadn’t told you, Professor, there was only one way you could have known—if you were the one who’d taken it.”

  Professor Harcourt stared at him, his mouth open.

  “Of course, you didn’t know about the cloud,” Mike added. “Where Teresa sent all the photos she took of her notes? That meant we didn’t need the notebook after all.”

  “She took… photos?” Harcourt’s face fell.

  “Got one,” Graham called out. “Only one print here.”

  “And it’s Jonathon’s,” Professor Harcourt flung out. “He just told you he looked under there yesterday.”

  Jonathon sighed. “Yes, but that was before I sprayed furniture polish all over it and cleaned it up.”

  “But anyone could have come up here since then and removed them,” the professor remonstrated.

  Mike shook his head. “We know it was you.” He pointed to the top of the wardrobe. “I placed a piece of masking tape on top, securing it to the wall. Only one other person came in here, and I checked immediately after. The tape was undisturbed, so I knew they hadn’t looked under the wardrobe. But when I checked while you were having breakfast….”

  “Plus, that explains the thud we heard the night Teresa died. We all thought it was the sound of her falling to the floor, or something like that.” Jonathon gazed at him steadily. “It was the wardrobe landing back on the floor after you removed the books propping it up.” He glanced at the bag. “So I already know have a fair idea of what I’m going to find when I look inside, but why don’t you show us instead?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  PROFESSOR HARCOURT stared at them in silence before slowly walking over to the bed and sitting on the edge. “Open it,” he said in a low voice.

  Graham put down the pot and brush, picked up the bag, and placed it on the bed next to the professor. Still wearing his gloves, he opened it and peered inside. He carefully lifted out a shirt, placed it on the bed, and then nodded. “They’re here. Notebook, EpiPens, vial, and phone.”

  “What made you think of me as a suspect?” Professor Harcourt asked. “Stupid question. If you’ve read her notes, you already know.”

  “Actually? What started us off was you lying about the research meeting,” Jonathon told him. “You assumed that with the notebook missing, we’d never know what she really wanted to talk about. You didn’t reckon on her uploading photos of her notes.”

  “When did you realize she was going to write about your case?” Mike asked.

  “I didn’t kill my wife!” Professor Harcourt blurted out.

  Jonathon remained silent, but Graham looked up. “I’d advise you not to say anything else until we get you to the police station and you have a lawyer present.”

  Professor Harcourt waved his hand dismissively. “Actually? It’s such a relief to tell it all. Don’t worry, young man. I’ll say exactly the same thing when you’re recording it. I’m just glad that it’s over. I’ve lived with this for nearly thirty years.”

  “Your wife dying in the bath? The hair drier? That was a genuine accident?” Mike dragged an armchair across and sat facing the professor.

  He nodded. “Where I went wrong was not helping her. I could have saved her, of course, but I didn’t. Eric—her brother—kept saying that I should have been able to save her. He was right.”

  Jonathon’s heartbeat increased. “Did he kill himself?” When Professor Harcourt shook his head, Jonathon gaped. “But… you had an alibi. The taxi driver who took you home. You were too drunk to do anything.”

  Professor Harcourt gave a sad smile. “Two things to note here. My first wife was an alcoholic, but her brother could get drunk on one pint of beer. I made sure he had more than that. As for me, I can drink q
uite a lot before my faculties are impaired. I can also play the drunk when I have to.”

  “What really happened the night of that meal?” Jonathon perched on the arm of Mike’s chair. “After you’d dropped off Eric at his house.”

  “The taxi driver took me home, helped me out of the car, saw me to my door, and even helped me unlock it, because I was apparently too drunk to get my key in the lock. Once he’d gone, however, I got changed into my autopsy scrubs, grabbed a pair of surgical gloves, got into my car, and returned to Eric’s house in the early hours of the morning. I parked the car some way from the house and walked through the wood.”

  Jonathon gave a start. “Now it makes sense!”

  “What does?” Mike asked with a frown.

  “Teresa’s note. What the tramp saw that night. The blue angel. He saw you in your scrubs, didn’t he?”

  Professor Harcourt nodded. “That little detail convinced Teresa she was on the right track.”

  “Keep going, professor.” Graham hadn’t moved from beside the bag.

  “I had Grace’s key. Eric was still in the chair where I’d left him, passed out. The photo albums were already beside him on the couch, the ones from their childhood. I went to his desk to look for the eulogy he’d given at her funeral. I knew he’d kept it.” Professor Harcourt sighed heavily. “He’d talked for fifteen minutes on the phone the previous night about how much he loved her, and how he wasn’t sure he could go on without her. He used to call me up and read it to me.”

  “Why did you go looking for it?” Mike asked.

  “I figured it was the closest I’d get to a suicide note.”

  “Then you went there with the purpose of killing him, intending it to look like a suicide?” Graham wanted to know.

  Professor Harcourt gave a slow nod. “I knew before the meal that he wasn’t about to let this go. He wasn’t going to stop until he got someone to believe him.”

  “But you hadn’t killed her,” Jonathon remonstrated.