A Match Made for Murder by Iona Whishaw (top 10 best books of all time txt) 📗

what room Priscilla was in. He strode down to the end of the hall and pushed open the door. He was staring at an empty room, cleaned and starched. He frowned and stepped back to look at the number.

“Where’s my wife?” he asked quietly, back at the counter. The nurses looked up. “My wife, in 403, where is she?” He spoke louder.

“Keep your voice down, sir. Who is your wife?” one of them said. The other remained silent and looked at him scathingly.

“Mrs. Galloway, Priscilla Galloway. She was in 403. Just tell me where she’s been moved to.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t say.”

“You can’t say? Do you have any idea who I am? What do you mean you can’t say?”

“I presume,” said the nurse primly, keeping her voice down, “that you are Mr. Galloway. And I can’t say where she is because she checked out yesterday morning.”

“She couldn’t have. That’s ridiculous. I never allowed that. I want to see her doctor.”

The second nurse now spoke. “I am Nurse Yelland. I was here when you brought her in. You will have to keep your voice down, or I’ll ask you to leave. Your wife checked out yesterday morning, which she had every right to do. I’m afraid we have no idea where she is if she is not at your home. I can certainly fetch the attending physician. He will be able to explain all the medical treatments that were required while she was here.” Nurse Yelland’s voice rose slightly, as if challenging him.

Galloway could feel the blood rising in his face. “How dare you take that tone with me. Do you know who I am? When I’m finished with you, you won’t know what hit you!”

“As you wish, sir. Will I call the attending?” Nurse Yelland answered icily.

Back out in the parking lot, he smoked and paced, trying to stop the panic and rage he was feeling, trying to understand what could have happened. The attending doctor knew nothing of her leaving and, considering the extent of her injuries, would not have recommended it. Yes, they did keep a record of the time people checked out, but she did not say she was leaving. No, she had not consulted him.

Priscilla would never leave him. This was at the centre of all his thoughts. She would never leave him. She loved him. She had said so many times. They’d had bad times before, but she’d never wavered. Anyway, she had no money of her own. He desperately tried to remember who her friends were. Someone at the country club? He thought about the people they met there, golfed with, drank with. He couldn’t, not in a million years, go ask one of those arrogant, new-money bastards where his wife was.

Mrs. Watts opened the door at Terrell’s knock. She looked from Terrell to Ames, as if she could scarcely remember who they were. Finally she said, “Yes?”

“Good morning. I’m sorry to disturb you again. There have been new developments in the matter of your husband’s death, and we just need to check on a couple of things,” Ames said, trying for a tone between unhurried and grave.

She lifted her eyebrows and then backed away from the door to let them in. “Do you want coffee?”

Ames was surprised at what seemed to him to be a lack of curiosity. “No, ma’am, we won’t be long. We have had a post-mortem, and I’m sorry to say the results suggest this has become a murder investigation.”

At this, Mrs. Watts sat heavily, putting one hand over her mouth and looking down. “Oh my God! I don’t understand. I thought he’d had some sort of attack.”

“No. He was attacked. Someone held a poisoned cloth of some kind over his mouth.”

“But who would want to kill him?” Mrs. Watts looked up, her face white.

“That we don’t know, at the moment. But can you tell us if there was anything unusual lately? Had he been more worried recently? A phone call, a letter maybe?”

Had she suddenly blanched? It was difficult to tell in the shadows of the room, Ames thought. “I don’t think so. What sort of letter? What are you saying?”

Ames sat down opposite her. “We’ve learned your husband was possibly planning to run off with a local girl, the underaged daughter of a workmate. He was supposed to be picking her up on the day he was killed, but of course, he never came for her.”

Mrs. Watts put her hands over her eyes for a moment and then stood up, her face contorted. “The daughter of a workmate? My husband was not a good man, but he could not have been that stupid. It’s nonsense!” She walked towards the sink and leaned forward on it, looking down, then she straightened and turned abruptly. “I’ve had enough of this. I want his body, and I want to give him a proper funeral. His daughter deserves that.”

Ames stood up and shook his head regretfully. “I’m sorry, ma’am, unfortunately we can’t release his body until we have a fuller understanding of how he died. I know these are terrible things to hear. Can we call someone? Can we pick up your mother for you? Perhaps she can stay for a bit, or we could take you and your daughter to her?”

“I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. You’re telling me my husband was murdered. Then find his killer. That’s what you can do, Sergeant Ames.”

“I should phone Inspector Darling and ask whether he remembers Tina coming in to report what happened to her,” Ames said, pulling on his beer. They were in the hotel bar, and it was crowded and noisy, as always. Smoke filled the top third of the room, its volume sustained by the cigarettes of a hundred miners, rail workers, and millworkers. But not by the two policemen.

“You don’t smoke, sir?” Terrell asked.

“My mom would kill me if I took it up again. She has some crazy idea my dad died of it