Page 21 of Murder Most Actual

Now Sir Richard was looking genuinely crestfallen. “You know, between the two of you, you’re almost taking all the fun out of this.”

“Out of the dead man?” Hanna clarified.

Another shrug from Sir Richard, one that could practically be described as insouciant. “It’s not like he’ll get any less dead if I sit around looking dreary. Besides, Belloc’s poking around—why shouldn’t I? Come to think of it, why shouldn’t we?” A sly grin spread across his face. “Tell you what, how about a small wager? Let’s take the weekend to work out what really happened to old Ackroyd, and then when the snow lets up and the police arrive, we can—”

“No.” Hanna had shifted from mild disapproval to firm denial.

Sir Richard gave her a disappointed look “Oh, come—”

“No. We aren’t betting on the death of somebody whose actual corpse we saw in the snow less than twenty-four hours ago. That’s not charmingly detached; it’s genuinely callous.”

Liza hadn’t been that tempted to take the bet, but being told she couldn’t rankled. “This isn’t a bet.”

“Well, it sort of is,” replied Sir Richard, half-apologetic.

But Liza was adamant. “It’s a professional opportunity. I’m a true crime reporter; this is a true crime.”

“You know what, fine. I’m going back to the room, and when you’re done with whatever this is you can come find me. Or not, if you’d rather chase murderers.” Pulling out of Liza’s arms, Hanna started trudging up the hill and back to the hotel.

“Don’t be like that,” Liza called after her. But it didn’t help. She was gone. Well, going. With the snow it took her a while to get properly gone. And Liza could probably have caught up with her, but that would have just prolonged the argument. So, she did her best to switch off the part of herself that cared. Because that was the pattern—had become the pattern—fighting over nothing, neither of them backing down, and then taking refuge in a kind of reassuring numbness until one of them let their guard down just enough for the other one to hurt them. And then it all began again.

“Are you positive you shouldn’t go after her?” asked Sir Richard. “Seems she’s a tad miffed with you. With both of us really.”

Liza shook her head. “There’s no talking to her when she’s like this. I’ll just … I’ll just give her some time to calm down.”

Once more, Sir Richard’s only reply was a nonchalant shrug. “Suppose you know best. If you need me, I’ll be in my room.”

A thought struck. “Where is your room?”

“East side of the first floor. Just up the corridor from yours, as it happens.”

Liza’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know where our room is?”

“First thing I looked at when I thought there might be a killer. Lady in red is on the south wall along with the manager and a lot of offices. West side is all galleries and things, plus the colonel. North is Belloc and the vicar. East is you lot, me, and the professor. Ackroyds had the tower. Now, perhaps you’d like to test me on how long it would take to walk from one of those rooms to another?”

Part of Liza would have. Part of her also wanted to check for herself. But another perhaps more down-to-earth part thought that talking to her wife sooner rather than later was probably a good idea.

So, she said goodbye to Sir Richard and made her way back. But once she was in the hotel, she couldn’t resist taking the opportunity to check the layout of the rooms on the first floor. She noted where the staircases were (northeast, northwest, southwest, the tower got its own that was accessible from the ground floor only) and where the guns were stored (northeast, a little sealed room just next to the conservatory). And she timed the walk very, very carefully.

Chapter Nine

Emmeline, in the Kitchen, with a Story

Saturday, late afternoon

When Liza finally got back to the room, she found Hanna sitting up in bed with her nose in her eReader. If you could have your nose in an eReader, which you probably couldn’t.

“Hi,” she said from the doorway.

Hanna looked up. “Hi.”

“Look, I’m—” Liza paused. She was pausing partly because she wasn’t sure what to say, partly because she was giving Hanna an opportunity to apologise first. Which she never did. “I’m sorry,” she finished.

“Done making bets about dead people?”

Crap. Was she going to make this difficult? “I wasn’t making a bet. I just—can you pretend for just five minutes that you don’t have utter contempt for what I do?”

Setting her whatever-she-was-reading aside, Hanna swivelled around and sat with her legs crossed, a tiny ball of fierce energy. “It’s a bit of a jump from ‘I don’t like what you’re doing right now’ to ‘I don’t respect what you do in general.’”

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