Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

“Thank God for that. But Grandpa’s going to need all his bottle if what your architect here has worked out turns out to be correct.” He threw a challenging smile at me. “She’s solved our crime. Move over Dick Jennings — you’ve been superseded by an art historian. And I grieve to tell you, Dad, it’s down to you or me. Come and look at this.”

Edward smiled bleakly and came to join us at the table. If my guesses were correct, with Rupert on one side and his father on the other, I was shoulder to shoulder with a murderer. But on which side? A further chilling thought occurred to me — could they both be involved? At Edward’s invitation I went haltingly through my theory again.

“A family thing. Yes, I believe you could be right, Ellie,” Edward said. “But have you considered that if Rupert is not the father of the child...” He turned to Rupert and said almost apologetically, “Oh, come on, let’s face it, Rupe, old son, you were out of your skull for most of the time till a few weeks ago and I don’t think you had a clue about what was going on in Taro’s life... then someone else is the father. That prat Theo what’s-his-name? Imagine — Taro tells him she’s marrying Rupert and giving up the modelling business. He’s about to lose his cash cow and his prospective child. ‘Okay,’ he tells her, ‘I’ll bow out of your life, but how about one last shoot to send me on my way? A golden handshake from the glossies... I’ve had a terrific idea for a location... And we’ll be able to stuff it up these Hartest prigs! Imagine their faces when they see the pics!’ How does that sound? But instead of a photo ‘taken from life,’ the model herself was taken from life! Revenge killing? Spite? Crime of passion?”

He was interrupted by Mrs. Rose, who just had time to announce Detective Inspector Jennings when he came striding into the room. Settling down with a cup of coffee and placing his mobile phone importantly on the table in front of him along with his notepad, he smiled round at our small group. I thought he looked keen and energetic and clever. I just wished he had been a little less impressed by the Hon Edward.

“I’ll be needing your individual statements, of course, and when I’ve finished what I have to say, I’ll send in an officer to take them. There have been developments,” he announced with satisfaction. His phone rang as though on cue and he snatched it up and listened eagerly.

“You’ve got him? Good lad! Where?” He looked at us and, involving us in his triumph, “In his flat? You don’t say! He must have burned some rubber down the A12. Flinging his passport into a bag? He’s no Ronnie Biggs, is he? Get the prints, did you? What’s his story, then?” He listened avidly, occasionally chortling, occasionally cursing gently, and finally switched off.

Stretching out his legs and leaning back in his chair, he announced, “I’m pleased to say we’ve made an arrest. My London colleagues have picked up Theo Tindall in his Islington flat and charged him with the murder of Taro Tyler.” He looked at his watch. “Has to be a record.” Then he added thoughtfully, “Almost seems too easy...”

We didn’t interrupt him and he went on, “We got a statement from Mrs. Wentworth at Parsonage Cottage. Very good witness. She keeps an eye out for visitors to the church; in fact, she unlocks at six A.M. and locks up again at dusk. She thought it was odd that tourists would come roaring up at seven so she took down their details, car make and number, the lot. Two people went into the church carrying a couple of bags. She noticed the girl was dressed ‘like a bride’ and then she recognised them. Those guests at the Hall who’d giggled all the way through Matins last Sunday. And gossip was that the girl was a model. Well, that made sense, didn’t it? Catching the morning light for one of those fancy photos. Mrs. Wentworth went off watch. She noticed that the car drove away half an hour later, going rather fast, but then, young men always drive like that, don’t they?”

“We noticed a bloody fingerprint on the tomb,” Edward said.

“Yes, we’ve got it. That’ll be checked by the morning, but he admits it’s his. Swears he didn’t murder her, but his story’s a bit thin. Says they were all lined up for the shot, she spread out on the tomb in her draperies, when the light shifted and he decided he needed a different camera and a bit of extra equipment from the car. He nipped out to get it and came back minutes later to find her dead. Denies taking the dagger to the church as part of the props and says the first he’d seen of it was the handle sticking out of the body. Says he tried to pull it out. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? So there’ll be prints there as well.”