Read Wolf in Man's Clothing: A Sarah Keate Mystery for Free Online

It will turn up. But it hasn’t yet.
    He waited for an answer again and this time the state trooper obliged. He said, “Ah.”
    It was just then, by the way, that I discovered an odd thing about Dr. Chivery, and that was his habit of looking at the edges of things. For he glanced at the left corner of my cap, at a post of the bed, at my patient’s brown hair (so inordinately neat and wetly plastered that I surmised Anna’s fine firm hand) and at the trooper’s coat buttons. He said, “You know me, Lieutenant. Or perhaps you don’t. But the fact is, if I had had reason to think it wasn’t an accident (which is simply absurd on the face of it) perhaps I wouldn’t have been quite so frank and prompt about reporting it. Ha,” said the doctor, still whispering vehemently. “Ha.”
    It was intended to be a laugh and his mouth twitched upward nervously to accompany it. The trooper’s face was as grave and untouched as a stone image. He said, “Now let me be sure I have the facts straight. It happened last night at eleven?”
    Dr. Chivery, eyeing the bedpost, nodded.
    “The butler, Beevens, Mrs. Brent’s brother, Nicky Senour, and a guest, Peter Huber …”
    “You talked to them yourself,” interrupted Dr. Chivery.
    “… Yes, were in the library when it happened; the butler was locking up and looking at the window catches and Mr. Huber and Mr. Senour were reading the papers. They heard the shot and then heard his”—he nodded once toward the man in the bed—“call for help. They went to the garden, found him and—and no one else. They brought him to this room. …”
    “And telephoned for me,” said Chivery nodding.
    “At the time of the shot, so far as you know, Craig Brent was alone in the garden?”
    “He was alone,” said Dr. Chivery. “I was at home, reading in my library. My wife was upstairs, writing letters. I mention us because we are—ha, ha,” he interpolated painstakingly again, “almost members of the family here. Mr. Conrad Brent—Craig’s father had gone to bed. Mrs. Brent was likewise in her own room; she had said good night to the others and gone upstairs only a moment or two before it happened. The servants …”
    “I’ll question them. Thank you. You don’t know of any family disagreements …”
    Dr. Chivery interrupted indignantly. “My dear fellow—really—this is not an inquiry into murder.”
    The trooper looked at Craig. “Well, no—not yet,” he said somewhat pointedly.
    “But, really ,” began Dr. Chivery again, rubbing his pink hands together. His voice had risen shrilly and unexpectedly, so in spite of my intense interest I felt obliged to rustle and put my hand on Craig Brent’s wrist and look hard at the doctor.
    Dr. Chivery glanced at my right eyebrow. Preoccupation sat like a gray mask on his face; yet it seemed to me that behind that mask there was a kind of flicker of disapproval directed at me. The trooper had looked at me too. It was the trooper who moved quietly to the door and, incredibly laconic to the last, nodded and disappeared. The doctor hesitated, looked at the pin on my collar and said, “Miss …”
    “Keate,” I said.
    “You found my orders?”
    “Yes, Doctor. And I wanted to ask you …”
    One pink hand fluttered. “I’ll return later and we’ll go over the situation. Just now, has our patient said anything?”
    “No, Doctor.”
    “Oh. Umm. Well,” he said, “he may be a little delirious, rambling; pay no attention to it. But—er—Nurse …” He glanced nervously over his shoulder toward the door and lowered his voice. “I trust I don’t need to remind you that anything said in a sick room …”
    I drew myself up and almost, but not quite, forced him to look into my eyes. “I am not a gossip,” I said with some energy.
    Again I saw the flicker of disapproval behind that curtain of preoccupation. I could almost hear him think, I’ll get rid of this nurse as soon as I get around to it. He said suavely, “Not at all.