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Nicholas told him what he’d overheard.
Ben said, “This is beyond scary. Does Zachery know?”
“Yes. Mike and I will try to pull the plug. Ben, keep going through all those papers. Be in touch with anything else you find that’s relevant.”
“Yes, all right. Oh, and there is one more thing you need to know.”
“More? I don’t know if I can handle more.”
“Were you aware they’re doing an inquest on Elizabeth St. Germaine?”
Nicholas set down his coffee. “No, Melinda told me it was cardiac arrest. Is that not the case?”
“Melinda said there were concerns about the fact her mother died alone, when everyone, including her doctor, said she was in good health. Melinda said the coroner did a tox screen. Did you know there was a threatened lawsuit by the Kohaths, all to stop the completion and publication of St. Germaine’s second book on the Kohaths, a book that would include all of Appleton’s early letters? In other words, the cat would be out of the bag and it’s possible the Kohaths would be busted. But then Elizabeth St. Germaine died, very conveniently.”
“Ben, you believe those insane twins killed her to stop publication?”
“You’ve met them, I haven’t. But from everything I’ve been reading, those two would stop at nothing to protect themselves and their weather machine. Listen, you have connections, do you think you could find out about St. Germaine’s tox screen? I haven’t said anything to Melinda, but she knows I’m worried.”
“I will do that right away, Ben, and call you back. As soon as I can get Mike out of here, we’re going after the Kohaths.”
Nicholas punched off and dialed a number from memory. Hamish Penderley, his old boss at the Met, answered on the first ring.
“Penderley.”
“Hello, sir, it’s Nicholas Drummond.”
“We don’t want any, or need any, Drummond. Not buying anything you’re selling today. Where the devil are you?”
“I’m currently in Italy. Good to talk to you, too, sir. How are things at New Scotland Yard?”
“Never dull. Now, I know you’re not remotely concerned about the state of the Met. You want something. Spit it out. But I do not want to know what you’re doing in Italy, nor do I want to hear about your involvement in that shoot-out in Venice.”
“No, sir, I won’t say a word about Italy or any shoot-out. I’m calling about Elizabeth St. Germaine. There’s an ongoing inquest into her death?”
“Did her daughter ask you to call and speed things up? Because I’ve told her all I know.”
“No, Melinda didn’t ask me to call. It pertains to a case I’m working on here involving the Kohaths, the family St. Germaine was writing about, until her untimely and very sudden death. If it wasn’t a natural death, sir, I really need to know.”
Penderley was silent for a moment. “You’re saying we should be looking at the Kohaths for this? That’s crazy, to murder someone over a bloody biography.”
“Please, tell me what you’ve discovered.”
Penderley sighed deeply. “Let me muck around in the file. I’ll call you back.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Nicholas’s mobile rang a few minutes later.
Penderley said immediately, “St. Germaine’s death was marked down as a cardiac arrest, but the coroner thought her heart looked off and sent out a for a toxicology screen, which isn’t back yet.”
“What do you mean, the heart looked off?”
“Says here, ‘Hemorrhagic congestion of the heart and lungs, consistent with heart failure.’ But her daughter said she didn’t have a heart condition, and her doctor confirmed it. It was enough to convince the coroner to send off the tox, and we went in and collected evidence from the scene. Only thing we found was a set of fingerprints on a tea tin that doesn’t belong to anyone in the household. Nothing to get too excited about because the tin was part of a gift hamper from Fortnum and Mason, and there were partial fingerprints over everything in it, as you’d expect, but that’s not what made us suspicious.”
“Nicholas, the card with the gift hamper said it was from St. Germaine’s editor at her publishing house, but the editor says no one sent her a gift, and Fortnum and Mason doesn’t have a record of the publisher’s credit card in the system. That’s why we decided to open the inquest. Not to mention this is Melinda St. Germaine’s mother, of course.”
“Was the basket a hand delivery?”
