Hugh Hamilton
"On second thought, never mind," said Hugh.
Hogart shrugged and filled his mouth with biscuit.
"Hang on, let's hear him out," said Ben. "It may tie up a couple of the loose threads."
"What loose threads? We know who the killer was."
"Yes, but do we know the motive?"
"The motive of the guy who's stabbed us six times in the past half-hour?"
"Prec-I-see-your-point-ly."
"So you'll be leaving? Splendid." Hogart rose from his seat.
"I guess so," said Hugh. "Ben?"
"Do you have any more of those Christmas tree biscuits?"
"No," said Hogart forcefully. "Those were the l—"
"Who wants biscuits?"
Deirdre was standing in the doorway with a baking tray.
"See?" said Hogart, trying to usher the pair from their seats. "We've only those ghastly pine tree biscuits left. Best head off while it's still night."
"What are you talking about, dear?"
"We've kept these busy gentlemen from their social lives and girlfriends."
"Hey, that's actually true!" said Hugh.
"Since when?"
"Since always."
Ben gave him a familiar look.
"No?"
"No."
Hugh frowned.
"I suppose seeing you all the time doesn't really count as a social life."
Ben smiled and shook his head.
"And I suppose you don't really count as a girlfriend either."
"I would hope not. And don't emphasise 'really' like that."
"Well, gentlemen, it's been a pleasure," sweated Hogart, now simply pointing at the doorway.
"Except for the whole stabbing business, it kind of has," agreed Ben.
"It was certainly one of our odder days."
"That it was."
Hogart closed his eyes. Then he opened them again. They were still there.
"I must admit, I'm rather disappointed there wasn't some sort of overarching conspiracy at the bottom of all this," said Hugh.
Hogart chuckled nervously.
"It certainly had all the right ingredients," said Ben. "Santa Claus, a stabbing, a carrot..."
"An inheritance."
Hugh and Ben turned. Hogart had his hand over his mouth. His eyes were bulging fearfully.
"What was that?" said Ben.
Hogart swallowed. "Just a really peculiar cough I've developed."
"It sounded like you said 'an inheritance'."
"That's the peculiar part."
"You should get that checked out."
"I intend to."
"You know, I think these pine tree biscuits are almost exactly as good as the Christmas tree ones," chewed Ben, no longer caring about that particular thread.
Deirdre smiled. "Oh love, they're not—"
"Deirdre, don't you have some ironing to attend to?"
"No, I did that two days ago."
"What about the clothes I wore yesterday?"
"You're wearing them again today."
"Excuse me." Hogart pushed off his red suspenders, stepped out of the legs and threw the whole at Deirdre.
"Fine," said Deirdre. "Fine."
"I'm feeling really uncomfortable right now," said the pilot.
"Thank you," snapped Hogart. "That's exactly the sort of comment I pay you 15.51 dollars an hour for."
"Well, I think this is about as amusing as this is bound to get. Shall we make tracks, Hugh?"
"I didn't even know you played."
"Come on, you," said Ben, finally standing. He turned to Hogart. "Thanks for the biscuits, cocoa and wound-patching."
"Pleasure," seethed Hogart. "I'm sure you can show yourselves out. You'll find the front door in the front door frame."
"Can I leave my list with you, or what?"
"Hugh."
"Coming."
"Oh, and by the way," said Hogart.
"Mm?" said both.
"That whole conspiracy thing — way off."
"OK," said Hugh.
"This really couldn't be less of a conspiracy if it tried."
"OK."
"I mean, it's not as if the late Die Ölige Dame majority-share co-owner left his share to my idiot son Stephven or anything, or that your arranged association with Freeman's compulsive stabbing was intended to throw you off the scent."
"OK."
Ben and Hugh stopped.
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