Slight Mourning by Catherine Aird

remarked Superintendent Leeyes, who took good care of his own inner man. “Drink?”
    â€œYes.”
    With exaggerated patience Leeyes said, “Not did they drink, Sloan, but what did they drink.”
    Sloan opened his notebook and read out carefully, “A wine called Dienheimer Falkenberg Spātlese 1964 Rheinheissen, we think.”
    â€œHow did you get that?”
    â€œI didn’t, sir.” Sloan hesitated. “Constable Crosby did.”
    â€œCrosby? How come?”
    â€œI understand,” said Sloan sedulously, “that it was on Tuesday night.”
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with …”
    â€œBefore the dustbins were emptied.”
    Leeyes let out a long groan. “He didn’t take them? Not that …”
    â€œFive green bottles,” said Sloan. “All empty.”
    â€œWithout a warrant?”
    Sloan nodded.
    â€œTheft during the hours of darkness,” intoned Leeyes gloomily. “Does his mother know he’s out?”
    â€œHe said he thought it might be helpful.”
    â€œA fine thing to happen,” moaned the Superintendent. “A constable of mine coming up before the beak for theft during the hours of darkness.”
    â€œHe wasn’t seen.” Sloan offered a crumb of comfort.
    Leeyes went on keening. “It’s enough to make my old station sergeant turn in his urn.”
    â€œHe said he happened to be out late and thought he would see what he could see.”
    â€œYou didn’t give him permission, I hope.”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œThat boy’s still wet behind the ears.”
    Sloan looked up at the ceiling and observed thoughtfully, “It is easier than half the Force going through the Corporation tip on their hands and knees though.”
    Leeyes grunted.
    â€œAnd not finding anything,” added Sloan.
    Leeyes paused and then he said, “Sloan, those five green bottles …”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œAnything in ’em?”
    â€œJust the dregs, sir.”
    â€œAnd nothing in the dregs that would help us?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œAnything on them?”
    â€œFinger-prints, you mean, sir?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThe deceased’s and others not yet identified.”
    â€œYou’ll have to make Crosby your chain-of-evidence officer in the case, Sloan, then. You do realize that, don’t you? He’s the only one who can depose where those bottles came from. We might get by that way … otherwise they’ll have to be lost You understand that, Sloan, don’t you?”
    â€œPerfectly, sir.”
    â€œThe rest of the meal,” he growled, “how did you find out about that?”
    â€œThere was a young person employed that evening up at the Park to help with the washing up. Name of Millicent Pennyfeather. Crosby has been—er—chatting her up this week.”
    â€œAt least,” said Leeyes, “he hasn’t done any breaking and entering to get at the larder. I suppose that’s something.”
    â€œIf,” said Sloan, “he sees much more of her we’ll have her mother after him wanting to know if his intentions are honourable.”
    â€œCoo-ee! Coo-ee! Ursula, where are you? It’s me, Marjorie.”
    The Dalmation dog at Ursula Renville’s feet stirred, lifted its elegant head inquiringly, and then sank back into torpor.
    â€œWe’re in the garden,” responded Ursula. “This way.” She and Cynthia Paterson were still drinking their coffee in the old loggia under the shade of the wistaria. “We’re being ever so lazy sitting here. We haven’t moved an inch since luncheon.”
    â€œI’m coming. Ah, there you are.” Heavily overweight and very hot, Marjorie Marchmont stomped round the corner of the house. “I thought I might catch you out here in this heat.”
    â€œCome and sit down, Marjorie. Funerals do take it out of one, don’t