Evanly Bodies - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,33

in particular, sir?" Evan asked.

"That missing weapon, among other things. I've got nothing new out of Mrs. Rogers. According to her, Martin Roger had no family nearby. He didn't belong to a golf club. He didn't attend a church, unlike her. No close ties at all or interests outside of the university. Doesn't she realize if she can't come up with a likely suspect, the suspicion is all going to fall on her?"

"I think Bragg operates rather like the medieval ducking stool," Wingate said dryly, as they sped through deserted wet streets toward the Rogers's house. "If he holds her underwater long enough, she's going to confess."

Missy Rogers, still accompanied by the same woman police constable, was sitting on the sofa in the drawing room working on a tapestry. The dog, Lucky, lay at her feet. It rose with a deep growl as they came in.

"It's all right, Lucky." She put a comforting hand on his head. "He knows something isn't right," she said, by way of apology for his behavior. "He's such a sensitive animal."

"Is Inspector Bragg here?" Wingate asked.

"I think you'll find your inspector in Martin's study," she said. "I can't think what they hope to find. Martin received no threatening letters, no blackmail, nothing that might be filed away in a study."

"What about a student called Simon Pennington?" Evan asked. "Did your husband mention him to you?"

She frowned, then shook her head. "I can't say that he did. He dealt with hundreds of students, and he rarely discussed his work at home. His research yes, but not the petty problems of the university. He liked his home to be his haven."

"Evans? Is that you?" boomed the voice down the stairs. "I want you up here right now. And Wingate."

The two men gave Missy Rogers a commiserating smile as they heeded the call from above.

"I don't remember giving you permission to question Mrs. Rogers," Bragg said.

"We were just following up on a lead we'd got at the university," Wingate said quickly. "A student who believed Professor Rogers was responsible for his failing to get a first-class degree."

"Then he'd already have left the university last summer, wouldn't he?"

"But he came back a couple of weeks ago and had a shouting match with Professor Rogers," Evan said.

"Have you tried to contact him?"

"I called his home in Surrey," Evan said. "Apparently he's gone abroad."

"How convenient."

"That's what we thought."

"Well, I suppose it's the only credible lead we've got so far, apart from the widow," Bragg said. "Right, let's get on with the job in hand and see what turns up, and Wingate, you can retrace the steps of Mrs. Rogers's dog walk yesterday and see if anyone can vouch for seeing her. Of course, that proves nothing. It would only take a minute or so to shoot her husband and then walk the dog as if nothing had happened."

He was speaking in his usual loud, strident voice, and Evan looked at the open study door.

"I don't think you should give her any idea that you suspect her," he said.

"Of course I should. Make her good and nervous. When you've been in the force as long as I have, Evans, then you can start giving suggestions. Until then you sort through that filing cabinet and keep quiet."

Evan bit back the anger and went over to the filing cabinet. Everything was in meticulous order, ranging from household accounts to historical papers published. Years and years of receipts, bank statements, letters written to the water board to complain about water pressure. Martin Rogers's whole life was documented here, neatly filed to be resurrected if needed. Evan flicked through the household accounts. For every month there was a handwritten sheet stapled to a typewritten sheet. Evan realized that the writing on the first sheet was not Martin Rogers's. It must therefore be Missy's. Account for the week ending September 21. Then beside some of the items, in Martin's small, neat script, some comments: 'Wasteful. Why not buy larger size?' And even against one item: 'Not necessary. Amount not allowed.' On the typewritten sheet was a reconciliation-the amount of money paid into the housekeeping account that year, compared to the previous year. Evan wondered if Martin gave his wife any money for herself. He certainly vetted what she spent on keeping the house running and queried her over trivialities.

He put the accounts back and went on looking. Under letters he found copies of every letter Martin had written. Evan read through the last year or two but