Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #3: Books 9-12 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [reading in the dark TXT] 📗

Dehan hid a smile behind a frown and said, “What time? It’s important.”

He sighed, rubbed his face, then ran his fingers through his hair. “Six, six thirty maybe.”

I sat forward with my elbows on the table. “Think carefully, Doctor, where was he coming from, or going?”

He frowned at me like I was crazy. “How should I know? He was just standing there, lookin’ kind o’ creepy. I let’im have it an’ I left.”

I raised an eyebrow. “There were no doors open to suggest where he had been or where he might be going?”

He thought about it, frowned, then shook his head. “No. Well, the cupboard, under the stairs, that was open an’ the light was on. But other than that, no.”

“So the study door was closed?”

He nodded. “Aye, I just told you it was. Why?”

I stared at Dehan a moment. She stared back, then turned to Cameron with a frown. “How was your relationship with Charles Jr.?”

He shrugged, then shook his head. “You’re no going ta pin his murder on me. There was no ‘relationship’ to speak of. We nodded to each other in the street. I never treated him as a patient. The few times we exchanged words he struck me as nice enough. To be honest I thought he was a stuck-up English prick, but he hid it under a veneer of polite deference. But then I don’t like the English very much.” He paused, with an aggressive challenge in his eyes. “Come to think of it, he was no English, he was American, but I don’t like Americans very much either.”

Dehan sighed. “I’m sure there will be a lot of weeping in the streets of England and the U.S.A. when that bombshell gets out on Twitter, Doctor Cameron, but personally I don’t give a rat’s ass because I think the stuck-up prick is not the dead man you’re about to see in the study, but you. But here’s the thing I’m curious about, Doc, how did you get hold of the gun?”

He squinted at her like she was insane. “What?”

Dehan laughed and I smiled and sat back. She spread her hands. “Come on! How stupid do you think we are? More to the point, how smart do you need to be to work it out?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“How did it happen? He showed Sally his revolver one day and she told you about it? She told you he kept it in a drawer in his bedroom?”

“You’re insane.”

“Then, when the affair got out of hand and you saw your marriage, your livelihood and your future going down the can, you decided the old man had to go. After all, if Charles Jr. inherited, he was easy to handle, even if he was a stuck-up English prick. At least he wasn’t screwing half the women on the island, including your wife, right? He wasn’t a threat.”

“Fer the last time, I don’ know what you’re talking about! Yous said it was Charles Jr. who was killed, not Charles Sr.! So what are you on about?”

She nodded. “Sure. You came into the hall. You saw Gordon Sr. outside the study in the hall and you assumed that was where he was going. So you let him have it, then went down to the kitchen. The staff were upstairs preparing the dining room for dinner. You slipped through, up the service stairs and into his bedroom where you found the revolver. Then you went down and out again. Through the window you saw the man you thought was Gordon Sr. sitting at his desk and you shot him. But you made a mistake. It was his son.”

He gaped at us. “You must be absolutely fuckin’ stupid, even by American standards. That is the biggest load of bollocks I have ever had the misfortune to listen to. It is laughable.”

I agreed, and I was pretty sure Dehan did too, but it was interesting to see which way he jumped when he was accused.

I sat forward. “It is not so laughable, Doctor. Leave aside the details for now, you have a powerful motive to want Gordon Sr. dead, and father and son are similar enough to be mistaken through a leaded window or in poor light. You were here, outside the study at about the time of death and you were in an altered, enraged state of mind. Add to that the fact that the storm kept knocking out the lights, I’d put you right at the top of my list of suspects, and however stupid you think Americans may be, I’m pretty sure your Scottish police will think the same way.”

He flopped back in his chair and covered his face with his hands. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ!”

I stood. “I want you to have a look at the body.”

“Why? Is this some kind of fuckin’ trap again?”

I shook my head. “No. You’re a doctor. You’re the only damn doctor we have, so you need to make out the death certificate.”

“So am I a bloody suspect or no’?”

“Of course you are, along with just about everybody else in this house.”

“Uxcept yous.”

“Yeah, except us. Let’s go.”

We made our way through the silent, watching faces in the drawing room and into the hallway. He stood staring, incredulous, at the broken door as I undid the padlock, and we stepped inside the room.

I watched his face carefully as he took in the scene, the wound to the head, the fallen arm, the weapon on the floor. He turned suddenly and looked at the windows, seeing they were locked.

“Thus,” he said, “thus is the same…”

I nodded.

He shook his head. “How could I—how could anybody? That was suicide…”

I shook my head. “No, Doctor, it’s not. Because when they examine the gun, even though they will find his prints on it, they