Murder of a Snob by Roy Vickers

‘a girl has to look after herself’—a slogan that was both her creed and her theory of the universe. She had sense enough to perceive that her long, beautiful legs and her curly, conventional prettiness were useless weapons in her present emergency.
    â€œAll right, then—Glenda Parsons,” she admitted sulkily.
    â€œWhat’s that you’re carrying?” asked Crisp.
    â€œMr. Fenchurch’s sketch book.”
    â€œMay I see it, please?”
    She handed him a leather bound sketch book. Crisp opened it and turned the pages, some of which contained line notes. Crisp recognised the leather—no doubt the same which he had seen protruding from Fenchurch’s pocket when he spoke to him on the terrace.
    â€œWhere did you get this?”
    â€œMiss Lofting handed it to me when I was waiting in the hall. She said Mr. Fenchurch must have dropped it.”
    Crisp returned it to her.
    â€œSit down, Miss Parsons.”
    With every sign of unwillingness, she drew an upright chair from the table, removed a piece of wrapping paper from the seat. The chair was the one farthest from Crisp.
    â€œWhy have you come here?” As she seemed to find the question difficult, Crisp added: “What do you want?”
    â€œOnly something that belongs to me. Lord Watlington said if I would slip in here into his study about half-past ten he’d give it to me.”
    â€œThat sounds a very odd arrangement. You were invited to dinner, weren’t you?”
    â€œYes.” She answered with reluctance, fidgetting with the wrapping paper.
    â€œWhy didn’t you turn up?”
    â€œLord Watlington said he would ask me, but I was to make an excuse to Arthur and not turn up.”
    As if protecting her dignity, she was nervously folding the sketch book into the wrapping paper. The noise irritated Crisp.
    â€œI wish you would stop making that crackling noise while I’m trying to talk to you.”
    â€œI’m sorry. But everything is so upsetting.”
    â€œWhy did you have to accept, if it was agreed you were not to come?”
    She pushed the sketch book from her as if to remove the temptation to crackle, then spoke with a frankness which carried conviction: “He didn’t want me to meet his guests, but he was a bit overawed by Arthur, who likes showing off with me.”
    â€œWhat was he going to give you?”
    â€œOnly an envelope with my name on it—‘Mrs. Fenchurch’ I mean. If it wasn’t found in his pockets, I expect it’s in his study somewhere, and I asked the police in the hall to let me go in and look—and they wouldn’t.”
    Crisp nodded to Benscombe, who left the room. In the silence that followed, Glenda reached for the sketch book and Crisp had to endure the crackling, which lasted until Benscombe returned. In his hand was a small correspondence envelope, addressed ‘Mrs. Fenchurch.’
    â€œIn the drawer of the writing table, sir.”
    â€œOh! thank you!” cried Glenda. “I’m ever so sorry I said that about you. It was nerves, really.”
    â€œThat’s all right—please forget it!” smiled Benscombe. But he handed the envelope to his Chief.
    â€œWhat does this envelope contain, Miss Parsons?” asked Crisp.
    â€œIt’s personal,” she answered. “Please give it to me. You know it’s mine, because it’s got my name on—I can see.”
    â€œI am investigating a murder,” said Crisp. “What’s inside?”
    â€œIt’s nothing to do with the murder—really it isn’t. It’s just personal.”
    Crisp slit the envelope, took out a folded cheque.
    â€œâ€˜Pay Bearer five hundred pounds’,” he read aloud.
    Glenda hung her head.
    â€œCan I have it, please?”
    â€œI still don’t see,” said Crisp, “why he didn’t give it you—er—at your last meeting—or your next?”
    â€œHe