Several miles south of Lincoln City, Quinlan turned seaward onto a narrow, unmarked, gravel driveway bounded by evergreens and shrubbery. The unpaved driveway stopped at a high stone wall divided by a gate. Quinlan lowered his window and pressed a button embedded in an intercom. Ragland was expected, and the gate swung open as soon as the detective identified their party. As they continued along a paved driveway, gaps in the foliage gave Dillon fleeting views of an unruly ocean. A final turn revealed a modern glass, steel, and weathered wood house that sprawled along a cliff. Below the cliff was a sandy windswept beach.
Quinlan parked and the three men rushed under an overhang that shielded the front door from the fury of the storm. Moments later, the door opened into a flagstone entryway where they were greeted by Robert Chesterfield, who was dressed in neatly pressed slacks, a tan sweater, and a sky blue shirt. Chesterfield asked the deputy DA and the detectives to come in. Their host had a charming British accent, and Dillon imagined him standing in the vaulted hall of an English castle, welcoming members of a fox hunt before the chase.
“How are you, Peter? I don’t think I’ve seen you since we battled over bridge. Sorry you had to drive out in this ghastly weather.”
“The drive wasn’t so bad. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“It’s no trouble. We’re quite isolated out here, and I welcome the company.”
“This is Morris Quinlan and Roger Dillon. They’re the detectives who are investigating Sophie Randall’s murder.”
“Pleased to meet you. Can I get you anything to drink, coffee, tea? In the movies policemen always reject spirits when they’re working, but we’re out of the public eye. Can you imbibe when you’re on duty? I’ve got some exceptional, fifteen-year-old, single malt Scotch.”
“Coffee would be great,” Peter said.
“I’m good,” Quinlan said.
“Coffee for me, if it’s not too much trouble,” Dillon told Chesterfield.
“The houseman and maid are off today, so I’ll have to do the honors. Why don’t you get comfortable while I get the coffee?”
The detectives and the prosecutor walked down three steps into a spacious sunken living room where floor-to-ceiling windows gave a panoramic view of the ocean. The burning logs in a stone fireplace radiated heat into the cavernous space. Ragland chose an armchair near the fire, and the detectives sat on a couch.
“Is Mrs. Dowd going to join us?” Quinlan asked when Chesterfield returned carrying a silver tray with coffee, sugar, and cream.
“Unfortunately, Lily is indisposed. A vicious bug has attacked her. Not unexpected in this inclement weather.”
“Give her my regards,” Peter said.
“I will. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”
Chesterfield sat in a comfortable armchair across from the deputy DA and the detectives. “How can I be of assistance, Peter?”
“We’re trying to get background information about anyone who might have had a reason to poison Sophie Randall or Samuel Moser. You knew Sophie Randall, didn’t you?”
“I saw her around the club.”
“And you know Sam Moser?”
“I do.”
“I understand that you and Sam had a row.”
“We did.”
“It concerned Mrs. Randall, didn’t it?”
“In part.”
“Didn’t she accuse you of making a pass at her?”
“That’s what Moser said. It wasn’t true.”
“Then why did she accuse you?”
“We only have Moser’s word that she did accuse me, and the poor girl is deceased. I assure you that contrary to the vicious rumors Moser’s been spreading, I never said or did anything inappropriate where Mrs. Randall was concerned.”
“Mr. Moser was the recipient of the chocolates that poisoned Mrs. Randall. Obviously, he was the intended victim. You don’t deny that you threatened him, do you?”
Chesterfield looked amused. “Really, Peter, you’re playing this hand as badly as you play bridge. There’s no need to beat around the bush. If you think I tried to kill Moser, why not come out and say so.”
“Well?”
“No, Peter, I did not send poisoned chocolates to Samuel Moser.”
“What about Arthur Gentry?”
“What about him?”
“Did you cause his death?”
“Why would I poison Arthur Gentry? I barely knew the man.”
“Arthur Gentry was an old friend of your wife’s. He wanted to marry her. Gentry stood between you and Mrs. Dowd’s fortune.”
Chesterfield shook his head. “Really, Peter, I don’t know where you get your information. Lily and Gentry were friends, but she had no romantic feelings toward him. Believe me, I didn’t have to poison Arthur Gentry to get him out of the picture when I was courting Lily.”
Chesterfield looked sad. “I’m sorry you have such a poor opinion of me, Peter. You could have saved yourself the trouble of a drive in this awful weather if you’d told me why you wanted to talk to me when you called.”
Chesterfield cast a condescending look in Ragland’s direction. “And, if I did kill someone, do you think I would confess to you and these nice gentlemen?”
Quinlan couldn’t believe how badly Ragland was botching the interview. Chesterfield was making a fool of him. Even worse, he now knew that they suspected that Arthur Gentry had been murdered and he was a suspect.
“You’ve got me all wrong,” Ragland stammered as he scrambled to save the situation. “We’re not accusing you of anything. We just want to know if you have any information that will help us solve these murders.”
“How could I? I resigned several months before Mrs. Randall was poisoned, and I had no contact with the Westmont after I resigned. I’m not surprised that someone tried to murder Moser. He is thoroughly unlikable and he treated me with a total lack of respect. I’m sure I’m not the only person who was upset by his superior attitude—an attitude that I don’t appreciate in an employee. Do you have any more questions for me?”
Quinlan was fed up. “Yeah,” he said, “I got a few. How did you know Arthur Gentry was poisoned?”
For the first time since they’d entered his house, Chesterfield looked flustered. “I … I didn’t. We’ve been talking about poisoning and it just came out. If Sophie Randall had been stabbed, I would probably have denied stabbing Arthur. Was he poisoned?”
“Nice catch,” Quinlan said. “By the way, that accent, it’s phony, right?”
Chesterfield’s jaw tightened. “Pardon me?”
“This whole business about being an English lord, that’s a load of shit, isn’t it? Aren’t you really little Bobby Chesterfield from the Manchester slums who cheats at cards and fucks women old enough to be his mother?”
Chesterfield’s hands curled into fists, and Dillon could tell that it was taking him every ounce of energy to keep from exploding.
“I’ve had enough of this interrogation. It’s time for you gentlemen to leave. If you wish to speak to me again, you can contact me through my solicitor.”
Quinlan smiled as he stood. “We don’t have solicitors in the US of A. We got attorneys, and you should look into hiring a good one who’s up on his criminal law.”