Ellis Peters - George Felse 02 - Death and the Joyful Woman by Ellis Peters Page B

Armiger’s death. He was of some potential value to them still so long as he remained alive, since in time he might have relented and taken them into favour after all. Especially with a grandson or granddaughter on the way. On the other hand, those who knew him best had said that he was extremely unlikely to change his attitude—and anyone can let fly in a rage, even with nothing to gain by it but the satisfaction of an overwhelming impulse of hatred and a burning sense of injury.
    And there were others who didn’t love him, besides his own son. Clayton, that quiet tough in uniform, had turned out to be under notice, and Armiger had apparently tossed his prison record in his teeth when they fell out, and told him he was “bloody lucky to have a job at all.” Had that been merely a shaft at random, or meant to suggest to him that Armiger could, if he chose, make it practically impossible for him to find alternative employment anywhere in the Midland counties? People have been killed for reasons a good deal less substantial than that. And there was Barney Wilson, who had been done out of the home on which he’d set his heart, merely to satisfy Armiger’s spite against his son. That way the injury might smart even more fiercely than if the blow had been aimed directly at him. And others, too, people who had done business with Armiger to their cost, people who had worked for him.
    Sitting there in the car contemplating the width of the field wasn’t going to get him anywhere. George hoisted himself out of a momentary drowsiness and drove to the head office of Armiger’s Ales, which was housed in a modern concrete and chromium building on a terrace above the cutting of the river. The main brewery was down behind the railway yards, in the smoke and grime of old Comerbourne, but the headquarters staff had broad lawns and flowering trees spread out before their windows, and tennis courts, and a fine new carpark for their, on the whole, fine new cars. Miss Hamilton’s Riley was the only old one among them, but of such enormous dignity and lavish length that it added distinction to the whole collection.
    She drove it well, too, George had often seen her at the wheel and admired her invariable calm and competence. As often as not there would be two or three callow teen-age boys in the car with her when she was seen about at week-ends in summer, recruits from the downtown youth club she helped the probation officer to run. Maybe love of that beautifully-kept old Riley had been the saving of one or two potential delinquents within the past few years.
    Raymond Shelley was just crossing the entrance hall when George appeared. He halted at once, obviously prepared to turn back.
    “Do you want to see me? I was just on my way out, but if you want me, of course—” He had his briefcase under his arm and his silver-grey hat in his hand; the long, clear-featured face looked tired and anxious, and there was a nervous twitch in his cheek, but his manners would never fall short of the immaculate, nor his expression fail of its usual aristocratic benevolence. “One of your men was in this morning, so I rather assumed you’d done with us for to-day. I was going out to see Miss Norris. But I can easily telephone and put it off for an hour or two.”
    “Please don’t,” said George. “I’ll talk to Miss Hamilton, if she’s free. You go ahead with whatever you were planning to do.”
    “You’re sure? Naturally if there’s anything further I can do to help I’ll be only too pleased. I’ll bring you to Ruth’s room, at least.” He reached a long, thin hand to the polished balustrade of the staircase and led the way. “We have already accounted for ourselves, of course,” he said with a wry smile.
    “I happened to see you leave the premises with Miss Hamilton last night,” said George, returning the smile. “I was in the hall when you left.”
    “Good, that puts us in a very strong position. I wish all the other problems