2 Murder Most Fowl Read Online Free

was covered with old, gray, broken aluminum blinds that looked as if they could do with a good dusting. I wondered what Mr. Buttons would make of it, and hoped he would not be interviewed in this particular room.
    “You moved here recently?” Detective Roberts said, and I nodded. He seemed to be in charge, and he asked most of the questions while Detective Henderson scribbled furiously in a notepad. “Why did you move here?”
    I went over the whole story again of how my ex-husband had arranged for me to rent the cottage and had paid the first six months’ rent. I explained that at the time I had assumed this was on the advice of his lawyer, but found out later that he wanted me near his girlfriend, Alison Turner, a maid at the boarding house, so she could poison me after poisoning her own husband.
    They exchanged glances throughout my story. Detective Henderson left the room and returned with three paper cups of coffee. He handed one cup to me. I sipped it. It was lukewarm and tasted like battery acid, so I set it aside with a grimace.
    “Have you ever tended the garden or fed the poultry?” Detective Roberts asked.
    “No.”
    “Are you sure?”
    This was the bit I didn’t like about being questioned by the police: having to go over the same information again and again. I wondered if people ever confessed to crimes they didn’t commit, just to put a stop to the infernal round of repeated questions.
    “Yes,” I said, somewhat tersely. “I’m sure. I think I’d remember if I did tend the garden or feed the poultry.”
    “And did you ever prepare food at the boarding house?”
    I sighed. “Look, no, I didn’t prepare food at the boarding house, weed the garden, or feed the chooks – not ever, not once.”
    “And why did you comment on the note affixed to the victim’s body?” Detective Roberts leaned forward, and even Detective Henderson stopped writing for a moment.
    I shrugged my shoulders. “Why wouldn’t I? I knew what it meant; no one else seemed to know.”
    “Not many people would know what the note meant,” Detective Roberts said, and I was affronted by the suspicion in his voice.
    “Anyone who has studied philosophy would know,” I pointed out, “and don’t forget, the boarding house was full of philosophy professors, all of whom were about to attend a seminar on Socrates.”
    “And you studied philosophy at university?” Detective Roberts continued.
    I said that I had, wondering where this line of questioning was going.
    “And were you ever taught by Martin Bosworth?”
    I shook my head. “No, I studied at Sydney University, not the local one. I only did philosophy for one semester anyway, so if Martin Bosworth ever came to Sydney University for a seminar, I knew nothing of it. I’d never met him before he became a boarder,” I said for the umpteenth time.
    “Has Cressida Upthorpe ever mentioned him, or any of the other new boarders? As in having known any of them previously, before they were boarders.”
    I thought for a moment. “No, not as far as I know.”
    The questions droned on and on. I felt like I had been in that small, suffocating room for an eternity. I was tired right down to my bones from the relentless questions that were being asked of me time and time again. I felt like I was a criminal.
    Finally, just as a headache was beginning to throb at my temples, they told me I could go. Detective Henderson escorted me to the waiting room and beckoned Cressida into the corridor.
    “Could you wait for me, Sibyl?” she called over her shoulder.
    “Sure,” I said, as she disappeared.
    Mr. Buttons looked up from polishing the front desk of the police station with a can of furniture polish. “What happened?” he asked. “You were in there for ages.”
    I looked at Constable Andrews before answering. He held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. I took the can of furniture polish from Mr. Buttons and led him back to the green, plastic chairs against the wall. “They