The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1847 by Angharad Copyright © 2012 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

I’d barely got back from the school run when Kit phoned. “Simon said you wanted me to contact you with a view to a meeting today.”

“Yes, that would be good.”

“I could do noon for an hour or two max.”

“Fine.”

“Simon indicated you have some gen about our little friend.”

“The government employed one, yes I do.”

“Have you called his boss yet?”

“No, I’ll invite him over for one o’clock.”

“That’s probably his lunch time.”

“Tough, I’m giving up my time.” Time yes, lunch no.

“Okay see you at midday.”

I rang the Chief Inspector. “I’m rather busy at the moment, Lady Cameron.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Chief Inspector, it means I’ll have to deal direct with the IPCA. I was hoping to at least let you know what ill wind was blowing your way.”

“Me personally?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Does this affect my little friend on gardening leave?”

“I think he might be mentioned.”

“Okay, what time?”

“One o’clock.”

I heard him swear in the background but being a detective he must be used to the odd missed meal when on the scent of some hoodlum or other. I suppose he might take his meals in the pub–out of a glass–he certainly had what looked like a drinker’s nose.

I got on with retyping the bits of my dissertation that required it–rather too much to do in a morning. Jacquie called by my study to say she was taking Catherine out for a walk, which was fine by me. I did tell her to make sure she took a coat with her as it looked like rain.

At eleven David asked me what I wanted for lunch–I asked if we could have tuna salad–he beamed at me. “What’s the joke?”

“It is what I predicted you’d say.”

“Oh, I’m getting predictable, am I?”

“Only with regard to food.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“You’re as unpredictable as the rest of your sex.” There was an irony there but I wasn’t going to pursue it, instead I asked if he had time to do me a latte coffee. He did, or he made time. I wondered if I should go and change, I was in my usual sit about the house kit of jeans and sweatshirt–well it is autumn and I’m trying to save on heating.

He came back five minutes later, “Modom’s latte,” he said and placed it delicately on my cluttered desk.

“Thank you, kind sir. We’ve a guest for lunch, Kit Mitten the barrister. Could you do some new potatoes to go with the salad?”

“No prob,” he said. “You want a sweet?”

“Not really, I want to stay awake this afternoon.”

“Okay.” He left me and I drank the coffee and then had to dash upstairs and change. I pulled on a skirt and jumper with a near matching cardi. I was just about going to be warm enough without tights–I glanced at my legs–must get them waxed again. I wondered if Julie would do them?

Back downstairs I had barely had time to clear my desk when Kit arrived. In fact I was still closing up the box file when David let him into my study. “Ah, entry to the ivory tower at last,” he said announcing his presence.

“Nothing ivory here–it’s banned,” I retorted.

“Yes I saw the article on rhino horns in the Guardian–shocking.”

“I wanted to grind that woman up with her own pestle and mortar.” This was some idiot woman in Vietnam who’d just paid a fortune for a bit of rhino horn believing it would cure all her ills. She didn’t care a stuff for the poor rhino who’d been killed to get it for her.

“Yes, she was singularly repugnant, wasn’t she?” Silks have such a way with words.

“David’s doing us a light lunch, so we can eat as I bring you up to date.”

“Wonderful, I missed breakfast–advising a client with an urgent problem.”

The salad was delicious and although the others were there, that is, Stella, Jacquie and the little ones, we ate on our own in the dining room. I explained the findings of Simon’s search and what we thought it might implicate. Kit nodded sagely. He pored over the financial documents and finally asked. “You understand once we tell the police this, Marple is mince?”

“Yes.”

“I just wanted to make sure you realised the consequences.”

“Of course I do–he is anyway once you put in your complaint.”

“That was still awaiting typing.”

“You don’t do your own?” I asked more in jest than earnest.

“No I do not, I suppose you being a woman means you do?”

“Yeah, but not because I’m female.”

“Go on, I suspect I’m going to regret this, why do you do it?”

“Because I don’t have anyone else to do it for me.”

“Surely you could afford a secretary?”

“I have no idea, I have always done it and suspect I always will.”

“Do you sign your letters with just your first name?”

“Yep–that is real snob value–Catherine, the Lady Cameron.” I said in an exaggeratedly posh voice. I almost wanted to say, ‘a hendbeg?’ a la Lady Bracknell.

“So he’s paying out twelve hundred a month–doesn’t leave him a lot to feed and clothe himself does it?”

“I don’t know how old his mother is.”

“Cathy, you do disappoint me.”

I picked up my mobile and speed dialled James. “Good afternoon, is this a courtesy call or business?”

“It’s a freebie.”

“Oh, okay–continue my queen...”

“One of these days, James...”

“Your majesty, you’re going to dub me Sir James?”

“Dump you more like.”

“I am hurt to the quick.”

“James, never mind the histrionics, how old is Marple’s mother?”

“Ah, so now I’m wanted.”

“Stop acting like a gay man.”

“I am one–remember?”

“How could I forget, now just get the file.”

“I have it here before me in its pink folder.”

“Well answer my question.”

“What now?”

“Yes–now.”

“Keep your hair on, missus.”

I groaned loudly.

“Are here we are, Shirley Marple born 1950, trained florist–she still owns a shop in Portsmouth and one in Petersfield. Had one in Southampton which she sold in nineteen ninety nine.”

“How old is Marple?”

“Thirty five.”

“So he was born in seventy seven?”

“Correct.”

“And she’d be twenty seven.”

“Give the lady a coconut.”

“James, shut up.”

“Does she own or rent her shops?”

“Owns I think.”

“If we bankrupt her son and she has to move, has she somewhere else?”

“The two shops she currently has have flats above them, but they might well be let out.”

“Does she own her own house or is it Marple’s?”

“The house was in her name.”

“Was?”

“Yes, three months ago it was transferred to him.”

“I hope she knows about it.”

“I don’t care, she’s not paying my account.”

“James, don’t go all bitchy on me.”

“Oooh, you can be so cruel,” he said in as camp a voice as I’ve ever heard.

“Yeah, women can–so watch it.”

He said something and dissolved into a fit of laughter. “Anything else we need?” I asked Kit who shook his head. “Are we ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good, our honest cop has just driven into the driveway.”