“But the blood on the duvet was human,” Samantha reminded him.
“Jonathon’s own blood,” replied Bliss, shutting the churchyard door. “That’s what the syringe was for – not to inject an anaesthetic, but to draw out blood.”
“But why?”
“Remember what Doreen said: She couldn’t sell the house or estate because it was in Rupert’s name, and she’d lived off his pension for fifty odd years. Jonathon obviously thought that if he could convince everyone that his father had just died, the property would go to his mother and the pension would simply stop – no questions asked.”
“So he killed the pig and set the whole thing up to make it appear as if he killed Rupert Dauntsey,” said George, hovering inquisitively.
“So, Jonathon. Can you remember when you first realised you had shot somebody?” asked Bliss, more for tidiness than anything else.
“He’s going again,” said Samantha with little finesse as Jonathon’s eyes started swimming.
“I think you’d better leave now,” said the psychiatrist, trying to usher them out, but Jonathon perked up.
“I don’t think I understood death. People just went away when they got old and I remember thinking that I wanted to get old quickly so that I’d be able to visit Dad and tell him I was sorry.”
“He wasn’t your father,” said Bliss, offering the information as comfort, but Jonathon already knew.
“I worked that out a few years ago. Major Dauntsey went to war before I was conceived, but I still considered him to be my father. He was the only father I ever knew, whatever he may have done.”
Bliss dropped his head into his hands with the realisation that Doreen still hadn’t told Jonathon about Tippen.
“I don’t know how to tell you this ...” he began, then explained what he knew of Tippen and his relationship to Rupert Dauntsey. “So you see,” he concluded, “not only wasn’t the man you killed your father, he wasn’t Major Dauntsey either.”
“I couldn’t understand why he would hate me so much,” said Jonathon as he slowly absorbed the information.
“It was the ultimate betrayal,” explained the psychiatrist later, after Jonathon had been gently guided out of the office, shuffling like a man back on a ledge, his personality a psychoanalyst’s research manual. Then Doreen Dauntsey turned up in her wheelchair, still protesting her guilt.
“You’d better discuss that with Jonathon.” said Bliss, as he and Samantha scurried out of the room.
“But I want to confess,” Doreen shouted after them. “I did it. I killed him.”
“Will she never give up?” asked Samantha as they got to his car, still laughing.
“We shouldn’t mock,” smiled Bliss. “You can say what you like about Doreen’s morals, but you can’t knock her for trying to protect her family.”
“So. What happens now?”
“Well. The case is closed as far as I’m concerned and by the time the lawyers have sorted out who gets the property they’ll be the only ones to benefit.”
“Isn’t that usually the case?”
“All I have to do is take my two favourite women out for dinner tonight.”
“Two?”
Was that a trace of jealousy in her voice. “Yes, two. And there’s no need to look so peevish. My other guest is Daphne, without whom, as they say, none of this would have been possible.”
Chapter Nineteen
Bliss shunned the elevator and rushed the grand staircase to his room at the Mitre two steps at a time. Pausing for a breath at the top, he looked down on Samantha as she sifted through a magazine pile. “Gorgeous,” he mused. “Absolutely bloody gorgeous.”
“I’ll wait in the lounge,” she had said as he’d excused himself, saying, “I won’t be a moment ... must change ... same clothes for two days.”
“No problem, Dave,” she had smiled, recalling he’d spent one night on her couch and the next in her bed, asleep, with only a change of shirt and underwear. “But it’s almost a pity you had to invite Daphne this evening. Without her we could have had a candlelight dinner in your room.”
“I had to ask her,” he explained. “I owe her. I might never have cleared up the case without her. She was the one who noticed the crop circles; saw Jonathon chasing the pig; she even bought some of it – not that she knew; she put me onto Tippen with the wedding photo and even queried Jonathon’s date of birth.”
“Alright, Dave ... I get the point.”
“And don’t forget, it was Daphne who nailed Patterson‘s accomplice in the Volvo. And, in any case, I’m dying to find out how she got the Order of the British Empire.”
“I said alright,” she said, kissing him lightly on the cheek. “Maybe we can have a candlelight glass of champagne later instead.”
Samantha dropped the April edition of Cosmopolitan into a litter bin and picked through the tourist brochures as she checked her watch for the umpteenth time. “Won’t be long,” he had said over his shoulder as he took the first of the stairs. Typical of a man, she thought, probably on the phone chatting to a mate. “I’ve got this bird waiting for me in the bar ... won’t get a lot of sleep tonight if you know what I mean ... nudge, nudge, wink, wink.”
Detective Sergeant “Pat” Patterson wouldn’t be getting a lot of sleep either. Mrs. Patterson would see to that. Jointly charged with Mason for conspiring to steal a stuffed goat, for destroying it by arson, and for uttering death threats by computer, he faced many a sleepless night. But Detective Constable Bob Dowding would be available to keep him company – Mrs. Dowding would see to that.
Bliss’s key turned easily in the lock, too easily, but he had dropped his guard. With his mind adrift in a wash of carnal thoughts, it was easy to assume the maid had left it unlocked by mistake. I hope Samantha was serious, he said to himself, as he bounced across the room shedding clothes and shoes, heading for the bathroom, carelessly missing clues in his excitement: man sized footprints in the carpet pile; a waft of aftershave; a trace of cigarette smoke from a smoker’s clothing.
With only his boxer shorts remaining he eyed the huge feather bed and smiled at a fleeting image of Samantha’s cute body curled into it. Shower or bath? Shower of course. She’s waiting at the bar – she might change her mind. Somebody else might snap her up. The floor squeaked – It’s fifteenth century, what do you expect?
Then the bathroom door opened by itself.
Samantha slipped the last of the brochures back into the rack, “Stonehenge – four thousand years of astronomy,” and found herself irrationally wondering if there were a backstairs or fire-escape. Finally, with growing concern rather than annoyance, she sauntered to the reception desk.
“Yes, please. I help you,” said the Swedish girl as Samantha made a show of checking her watch.
“Mr. Bliss has been a long time,” she remarked, as if in passing. “He hasn’t gone out has he?”
“He is talking with his friend I expect,” she said, casually turning to check the key board.
“What friend?”
The receptionist looked around. “He was here earlier. Wanted to know which room Mr. Bliss was in. Said he hadn’t seen him for a while.”
“Oh no.” Samantha’s heart sank. “Tell me you didn’t tell him.”
“Ah