She approached his wheelchair reluctantly, aware of something unpleasant that was giving him a feeling of pleasure. If he felt fear at the nature of the sixth warning, he showed no further trace of it.
“Go ahead, Delia.” He held out an engraved certificate. “It won’t bite you.”
“What are you up to now?” growled Crowe. He strode forward.
“You saw them earlier today, Macgowan,” said Keats. Crowe stopped, uneasy. The detective was watching them all with a brightness of eye he had not displayed for some time... watching them all except Wallace, whom he seemed not to be noticing, and who was fussing with the barbecue as if he were alone in the room.
Delia Priam read stiffly, “Harvey Macgowan.”
“Sure is,” boomed her husband. “That’s the name on the stock, Delia. Harvey Macgowan. Your old man, Crowe.” He chuckled.
Macgowan looked foolish. “Mother, I didn’t notice the name at all.”
Delia Priam made an odd gesture. As if to silence him. “Are they all―?”
“Every one of them, Mrs. Priam,” said Keats. “Do they mean anything to you?”
“They belonged to my first husband. I haven’t seen these for... I don’t know how many years.”