“He’ll live, if you want him,” said the Saint casually. “I only broke his arm.”
He picked up the revolver that Freddie had dropped, spilled the shells out, and laid it with the other exhibits on the dresser while Freddie clutched at his reddening sleeve and whimpered. It seemed as if the whole thing took so little time that Lissa was still recovering her balance when he turned and looked at her again.
“The only trouble was,” he said, “that you married him too soon. Or didn’t you know about the will then?”
She stared at him, white-faced, without speaking.
“Was he drunk when you did it?” Simon asked.
After a while she said, “Yes.”
“One of those parties?”
“Yes. We were both pretty high. But I didn’t know he was that high.”
“Of course not. And you didn’t realise that he wouldn’t mind framing you into a coffin to keep his gay playboy integrity.”
She looked at the collection of exhibits on her dresser, at Freddie, and at the Saint. She didn’t seem to be able to get everything coordinated quickly. Simon himself showed her the marriage certificate again.