The Bilbao Looking Glass (26 page)

“It was Woody who made the actual discovery. He sustained a minor laceration in the process, which I treated from my first-aid kit in accordance with standard emergency medical practice. He and Frank had been engaging in a spot of recreational byplay on the jetty.”

“Yes, Lionel, they were horsing around,” Sarah interpreted. “And Frank shoved Woody into the water and he cut himself on this thing. What is it?”

“The remains of a cylinder approximately four inches long, made of thin brass and precisely the inside diameter of a 12-gauge shotgun shell.”

“So?”

“You are evidently not aware, Sarah, that the detonating device customarily employed in a signal cannon is a 12-gauge shotgun shell. A blank, naturally. However, there is no reason why some such object as this could not be inserted in the shell and fired from the cannon.”

“Why should it have been?”

“One might expect you to be a little more, as my lads would express it, on the ball. To set fire to the boathouse, of course. This metal is stained with chemicals. There is no doubt in my mind that it served as the casing for some sort of incendiary device. I have no equipment here to analyze the stains, but I daresay they will present no problem to a police chemist. In short, Sarah, while you were so unjustly heaping recriminations on us for setting fire to the boathouse, you were failing to realize that we had in fact been under bombardment. As you may recall, trial races were taking place that day. I participated myself, later on.”

“I do remember,” Sarah admitted. “Max and I heard a starting gun while we were having lunch. And Bradley Rovedock was firing it from
Perdita,
being too sportsmanlike to compete in the races because everyone knew his boat was the fastest.”

“It is true that Bradley was the starter,” Lionel agreed. “The fact that he fired the cannon, however, does not negate my theory. The device could have been inserted in the barrel without his knowing.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t. You don’t know this yet, but Bradley’s just been arrested for murdering Miffy. Thanks to a brilliant piece of detection work by your mother.”

“My mother?”

Lionel’s eyes opened wide in amazement, then brightened in a glad surprise. Perhaps he was moved by filial devotion. Perhaps he, like Vare, was remembering that Appolonia Kelling Kelling was one of Miffy’s heirs. Sarah thought she wouldn’t remind him yet how vigorously the will was about to be contested by diverse old pals whose homes Miffy had burgled to relieve the tedium of their absence. Why mar the verve with which Lionel rushed over to fling his arms around Appie?

“Mother, I’m so proud of you!”

“Oh, son!”

Appie wept blissfully in her boy’s arms for a moment, then whipped out a tissue and wiped her impressive nose. “But tell me, dear, why did Bradley decide to burn down Sarah’s boathouse?”

“Really, Mother, I couldn’t say.”

“I think I can,” said Max Bittersohn. “One of the things I’ve managed to find out about Rovedock is that he’s a director of the High Street Bank. The boathouse fire was another trial run, no doubt. I think he must have planned to burn down the house next. That would explain his playing around with the light switch the day we came, to suggest faulty wiring and take people’s minds off incendiary devices. Then Sarah would have been in a real mess with the bank and he could either rush to the rescue or tighten the screws, as the case might be, until she fell swooning into his arms.”

“I would not!” Sarah cried.

“Rovedock thought you would. I gather he’s always had everything else he wanted. Why should he doubt that he could get you?” especially since he appears to have pictured me as such a docile little thing,” she had to agree. “That’s why he wanted to poison me when he found out his plan wouldn’t work.”

“What do you mean, poison you?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? He had the vial already in his hand when Sergeant Jofferty jumped him.”

“My God!”

“Oh dear,” said Appie. “I do feel so—Lionel dear, you won’t mind too dreadfully if I go back to Cambridge tonight?”

“Not a bit, Mother, if that’s what you want. As a matter of fact,” Lionel’s eyes gleamed even brighter, “I’ll tell you what. We’ll leave the boys here with Vare. That will further enrich her experience of motherhood and reinforce her decision to resume her accustomed role. Then I’ll drive you back myself. You and I, Mummy, will spend a cozy night in our own two snug bedrooms, just like old times.”

He even, of his own free will and without a whimper, carried his mother’s luggage down to the van.

“Greater love hath no son,” Sarah remarked after they’d gone. “Max, do you realize we two are all sole alone?”

“So we are. Well, well. What do you know about that?”

She moved closer to him. Her right hand stole up and loosened the top buttons of his shirt. “Want to pop some popcorn?” she murmured.

“Not now, you wanton hussy. Go slip into something uncomfortable.”

“But why? Max darling, the war is over. We’re at peace.”

“That’s what you think, baby. The final battle is yet to come. I’m taking you to meet my mother.”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1983 by Charlotte MacLeod

cover design by Mauricio Diaz

978-1-4532-8895-5

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