Death at Breakfast. John Rhode

      JOHN RHODE

       Death at Breakfast

       Copyright

      COLLINS CRIME CLUB

      an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

      1 London Bridge Street

      London SE1 9GF

       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      First published in Great Britain by Collins Crime Club 1936

      Copyright © Estate of John Rhode 1936

      Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1936, 2017

      John Rhode asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

      A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

      Source ISBN: 9780008268756

      Ebook Edition © October 2017 ISBN: 9780008268763

      Version: 2017-09-08

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Copyright

       Prologue

       Chapter I: A Mishap While Shaving

       Chapter II: Clues in Abundance

      

       Chapter III: ‘Stanley Fernside’

      

       About the Author

      

       About the Publisher

       Prologue

      Victor Harleston stirred uneasily. He grunted, then opened his eyes. Was he awake? Yes, he thought so. He stretched himself, to make quite sure of the fact.

      It was still dark behind the closed curtains, on this January morning. Too dark for Harleston to see the time by his watch, which lay upon the table beside his bed. He was too lazy to stretch out his hand and switch on the light. Instead of this, he lay still and listened.

      Very little noise came to him from without the house. Matfield Street was a backwater, lying not far south of the Fulham Road, and comparatively little traffic passed along it. One or two early risers were evidently about. Harleston could hear the hurried tap of a woman’s heels upon the pavement. This passed and gave place to a popular tune, whistled discordantly. A boy on a bicycle, probably. Considering that the window of his bedroom looked out at the back of the house, it was surprising how distinctly one could hear the noises from the street, Harleston thought idly.

      But these were not what he was listening for. His ears were tuned to catch a familiar sound from within the house. Ah, there it was! A rattling of crockery. Janet would be along soon with his early tea. Harleston pulled up the eiderdown a few inches, and composed himself for a few minutes doze.

      Then, suddenly, his memory returned, and in an instant he was wide awake. It was the morning of January the 21st, the day which was to make him rich! No more dozing for him now. Rather an indulgence in luxurious anticipation. Before the day was out, he could be his own master, if he chose. He hadn’t decided yet what he should do. Better not throw up his job at once. People might wonder. On the whole, it would be best to wait until the Spring, then take a long holiday and consider the future. There was no earthly need for a hurried decision.

      He heard a door slam, somewhere downstairs, and then steps approaching his room. Janet, with the tea. It must be half-past seven.

      Then the expected knock on the door, and a girl’s voice, ‘Are you awake, Victor?’

      ‘Yes, come in,’ he replied.

      The door opened, and the girl placed her hand on the switch, flooding the room with light. She wore a gaily coloured apron, and was carrying a tray. Seen even this early in the morning, she was not unattractive. Full, graceful and unhurried in her movements. A slim figure, with her head well set upon her shoulders. Her face was certainly not pretty, but, on the other hand, it could not be described as ugly. Plain Jane, she had been called at school. And the nickname aptly described her. Janet Harleston was plain, without anything special about her face to capture the attention.

      If you looked at her twice, you did so the second time because your curiosity was aroused. You wondered if her expression was natural to her, or whether something had occurred that moment to cause it. You noticed the sullen droop of her lips, the hard, unsympathetic look in her grey eyes. A sulky girl, you would have thought.

      Her behaviour on this particular morning would have strengthened that impression. She put the tray down upon the table by Victor Harleston’s bed, and left the room without a word.

      He made no effort to detain her. His mind was too full of plans for the future to find room for trifles. He raised himself to a sitting position, blinking in the sudden light. Seen thus, his face appearing above his brightly striped pyjamas, he was definitely unlovely.

      Victor Harleston was a man of forty-two, and at this moment he looked ten years older. His coarse, heavy face was wrinkled with sleep, and his sparse, mouse-coloured hair, already beginning to turn grey, had gathered into thin wisps. These lay at fantastic angles on his head, disclosing unhealthy looking patches of skin. What could be seen of his body was flabby and shapeless. His eyes were intelligent, almost penetrating. But there was something malefic, non-human about them.

      He yawned, disclosing a set of discoloured teeth, in which were many gaps, and looked about him. Janet was still upset, then. She hadn’t troubled to draw the curtains or light the gas-fire. Well, he couldn’t help her troubles. She’d get over them in time. She’d have to.

      This last reflection