An Appetite for Murder by Linda Stratmann

of a butcher’s shop. ‘Ah, a great many people make that assumption,’ he said. ‘No, Mr Finn senior was not my father, he was my great-uncle. Of course, he did sometimes allude to the crime, which grieved him deeply. It was not so much the theft of the money, but the violent assault on Mr Gibson, who was a trusted employee of many years standing, and of course, the terrible betrayal by Mr Sweetman.’
    ‘He thought Mr Sweetman to be guilty?’ said Frances, surprised. ‘I had heard otherwise.’
    ‘Yes, I am sure you have. My uncle was a good, charitable man, who liked to think the best of everyone, and right up to the trial he believed Sweetman’s protestations of innocence, and did everything he could for him, but he admitted to me later in confidence that once he had heard the evidence there seemed to be no other conclusion.’
    ‘Did he ever tell you what became of Mrs Sweetman and the children after the trial?’ asked Frances. ‘Mr Sweetman is very anxious to find his family, and I do not, as the police do, believe he had any hand in the death of his wife.’
    Finn sighed and, young as he was, he looked for a few moments almost aged as his heavy features sagged into deep crevices. ‘That is a horrible business. We heard of it only yesterday and could scarcely believe it. How can such tragedy strike a respectable family twice? All I know,’ he went on, ‘and all that my uncle ever knew is that after Sweetman was found guilty the family went away. I expect they did not like to be pointed out in the street as the wife and children of a criminal.’
    ‘They might have changed their names,’ suggested Frances.
    ‘It would not surprise me to learn that they had, but if they did my uncle was not told what it was.’
    ‘Did he offer Mrs Sweetman any monetary assistance after she left Garway Road? He cannot have done so without knowing her new address.’
    ‘My understanding,’ said Finn, carefully, ‘and this is only from small comments that were dropped into conversation and never elaborated upon, is that she found some other means of financial support. In those circumstances my uncle might well have ceased to assist her.’
    ‘A man, do you think?’ said Frances, drawing the inevitable conclusion from his delicacy of expression.
    Finn bent his head over Frances’ letter, although he hardly seemed to be looking at it. ‘I think nothing,’ he said after a few moments, glancing up again. ‘It is all story and rumour and very unpleasant and may not even be true, and I was far too young to know more. Even that much I was probably not intended to hear.’
    There was a smart double rap on the door of the office and a gentleman was admitted. He was neither tall nor short nor was he plump or slender, but compensated for this lack of distinction in his form by sporting a beautifully groomed beard of horticultural proportions, tinged at the margins with a less than natural red. He was neatly attired after the manner of a clerk, with a large leather document case tucked under his arm, from which he extracted some invoices, laying them on the desk. Although from Frances’ point of view they were upside down, the printed illustrations announced them to be more related to gentleman’s attire than business matters.
    ‘Thank you Yeldon,’ said Finn, picking up the packet of letters from the desk and handing them to the new arrival. ‘Could you deliver these and also arrange for two bottles of Apollinaris Water to be sent tomorrow?’
    ‘At once, sir,’ said Mr Yeldon, casting a look of intense curiosity at Frances, then, turning swiftly on his heel, he departed.
    Frances, from her days as her father’s assistant in the chemists shop, was familiar with Apollinaris Water; a naturally sparkling table water from a German spa, noted for its healthful digestive properties. She could not help but wonder what young Mr Finn ate to make him so large. It was a condition one saw all too often in middle aged and less