Everything in Its Place

Marcus Lyle had changed tables. The corner by the window, with its soft lamp, had been taken by a pair of surveyors with plan tubes, and he sat in the middle of the room instead, in full view, with a glass of mineral water and the air of a man making a point about transparency. He rose when you came in. His handshake was as practised as before. There was a little less cream in it.

“You told me someone saw to it Monday never came,” you said. “I’d like to know who you meant.”

He looked, for the first time, tired. He took a pink slip from his breast pocket, a message form from the hotel switchboard, and laid it on the cloth. 9.30 p.m. Mr H. Crane, from the Chamber telephone. Monday stands. Mr C. will tell the town himself, tonight.

“He rang me from the dinner,” said Lyle. “He sounded like a man who’d decided. I’d been with him at six, in the office, with the draft and a sherry apiece. We drank to continuity.” He turned the glass in his fingers. “Everyone’s decided the sherry on that desk was his last. It was my first.”

“So you had no reason to want him dead.”

“Dr Voss, a man who was going to sign on Monday is worth a great deal more to Harborline alive than in a drawer.” He spread his hands in the old gesture. “Mrs Crane has declined to receive our solicitors. She is the sole heir. The papers need her name. If you’re looking for the person who made certain Monday never came, I’m afraid we are looking at the same woman.”

Jonah looked at the slip and then at you. “He’s the only man in Saltmarsh who loses by the murder,” he said.

“And the only one who’s delighted to be asked,” you said. “Every community partner scheme needs a villain nearby who isn’t the scheme.” Capital, you thought, had never needed to push anyone down a stair. It only had to wait for the town to supply a story, and it had never once been disappointed.