“You could as easily wind up in a court battle with C.U.P. that could go on for years,” said Delia, hardly able to credit her ears. She reasoned like a small child! And Max and Val and Ivan had actually risked their business on her instincts? When in the right environment, Davina Tunbull must be able to sell the Brooklyn Bridge ten times a day.
“You have the cow by the feet instead of the ears,” Vina said, sounding blithe. “We only stood in danger if Tinkerman was the Head Scholar, and I knew he would not be. I asked Uda to look in the bowl of water at the future — she is never wrong! She said Tinkerman was going to choke to death at the banquet, and that is exactly what happened. Dr. Jim will keep his title. We stand in no danger now that Tinkerman is dead.”
Ye gods, the woman is a child! thought Delia, alarmed. “Mrs. Tunbull, I think it’s time I reminded you that you are entitled to have a lawyer present while you’re being questioned,” she said urgently. “I’ve endeavored to keep our conversation neutral, but you are incriminating yourself out of your own mouth. Juries are not impressed by soothsayers. Do you wish to continue to speak to me, or would you rather have a lawyer present?”
“I need no lawyers,” said the lady loftily. “I did not kill the man. I went nowhere near him. As for my dinner — why should I kill poor John? He told Max and me that he didn’t want Alexis’s inheritance. His adopted father is very rich and has already settled millions on John. If I were you, I would look at Ivan. He thought he would be the big loser.”
“Thank you for this most illuminating interview,” Delia said hollowly. “Is there anything else I ought to know?”
“Only that John —” Vina’s voice dropped to a whisper “— was enamored of me. I could not tell Max, and I did not tell Max! But it was a good thing John died in that respect, Sergeant. He was so ardent that I had to fight him off with my teeth and my nails. Then Uda came in, and I was saved. Is that not so, Uda?”
“Yes.”
“When did this happen, Mrs. Tunbull?”
“Last Friday. At the dinner. He got me alone.”
“Bad man!” said Uda, glowering.
“At the dinner, Mrs. Tunbull, did you go into the study at any time after the men repaired there?”
“No,” said Davina.
“No,” said Uda.
“I do advise you to ask your husband to seek legal counsel, Mrs. Tunbull. You have a tendency to be indiscreet,” said Delia, rising to depart.
“Indiscreet! What a good word! I will remember it. Now I will be indiscreet on a different subject, Sergeant. Your clothes are very bad. Very, very bad.”
Her best poker face didn’t betray her; Delia looked curious. “Are you qualified to judge?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. I was model in New York City. TV commercials. My face was on some billboards. My legs too. Davina Savovich, but as model I was just Davina. About you, Sergeant. You need to lose at least thirty pounds,” the high, remorseless voice went on, “and seek the right exercises to get a waistline at least. Wear slacks to hide your legs, they are beyond all hope. When you lose the weight, come back to me, and I will dress you.”
By this, the tiger bonnet was on and its ribbons tied beneath Delia’s chin; Uda was holding the door open, her black currant eyes lit with derision. Delia stepped out on to the mat and turned with a brilliant smile.
“It is a miracle to me, Mrs. Tunbull, that nobody has ever murdered you,” she said, and stomped off to her car.
“Impudent bitch!” she yelled to the freezing air as she wrenched open the Ford’s door. In the driver’s seat, she turned the rear-vision mirror down to regard her face in its framing bonnet; her fury died. “What rubbish!” she said as the car moved. “My dress sense is impeccable. Aunt Gloria Silvestri says so, and look at her! The best-dressed woman in Connecticut, according to the Hartford Courant. That skinny bitch is a fashion ignoramus.”
However, she was still tending to stomp when, on the off-chance, she called in to the morgue on her way to her office. Luck at last! There at a desk, carefully writing up notes, was Dr. Gustavus Fennell, Deputy Coroner. He was as anonymous as many in the business of handling the dead tended to be: neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, fair nor dark. Mr. Average And Totally Forgettable.
“Gus, did you post John Hall?” she asked.
Down went the pen; he considered the question. “Yes.”
“Did the body bear any bruises, bites or scratches? The sort of marks a man might have if he tried an unsuccessful rape?”
“No, definitely not.”