Read Online A Quiet Kill by Janet Brons - Free Book Online Page B

him—white ax handle tipped in red—he said it sounded a lot like what the Canadian hunters use to club seal pups.”
    â€œSo you’ve been a busy boy. I suppose all of this is supposed to make me feel guilty about going for my ride.”
    â€œNot at all,” said Hay, “you’ve brought back a nice little note. I think that we might spend some time now in trying to identify its author. I have a few hunches of my own.”
    â€œSo have I,” agreed Liz, “but first I have to call home and see how Rochester’s doing.”
    â€œYou have a lover called Rochester?” Hay asked, lifting an eyebrow.
    â€œI have a mongrel dog called Rochester,” she answered, choosing to ignore the other part of the question. “But you know,” she continued gravely, “you really ought to try horseback riding. With your name . . .”
    â€œDon’t push your luck, Forsyth,” he grumbled.
    Annie Mallett had been meeting Ethel and Sybil on Saturdays for close to twenty years. They had started at The Cock and Lion but had gone off the food after that trouble with the haddock. Then The White Hart had burned down, and they settled on The Victoria and Albert. They never ran out of things to talk about. Sybil’s aches and pains alone could keep them going for hours. Annie smiled to herself. Not that Sybil’s problems ever stopped her going to the pub, especially not on a Saturday. Anyway, the girls would always show for what they liked to call “a good old natter.”
    Today, Annie was early. She knew she would be the center of attention and had dressed for the part. Today it would be Annie who had all the news because of all the exciting goings-on at the High Commission. So she was wearing her new rust-colored wool dress from M&S. Who said you had to be twenty and thin to wear a wool dress? She looked womanly, curvy. The dress Annie had carefully accessorized with the little pewter and amber brooch her Lily had sent her from America. Her hair was carefully back-combed upward in an orange—well, Annie called it auburn—flame, and she had on her tiny pearl earrings. Real pearls, mind, not artificial ones.
    Of course Annie had a theory about the murder, but she wasn’t about to tell the girls. She might tell that detective chief inspector, though. He would surely be impressed if she solved the case all by herself. She might be a type of Miss Marple, really. She was certainly clever enough. Though much younger, of course. Annie had become quite impressed by the DCI of late. He didn’t have a pretty face, but it was strong. Full of character, she thought, although he didn’t smile much. Maybe he didn’t have much to smile about.
    The landlord, wiping glasses as landlords are wont to do when bored, glanced over at Annie and smiled. There she was, sitting bolt upright in a dimly lit booth. These funny old birds came in every Saturday, sipping their sherry and munching their scratchings. He shouldn’t laugh, really—they tipped well and didn’t start fights.
    â€œCooo-eee!” cried Sybil from the doorway. “Hallo, luv!” called Ethel. They bustled over and squeezed in beside Annie Mallett. “Now, my dear,” breathed Sybil, “tell us all about it!”
    Lester Wilmot, proprietor of the Great North Furrier in East London, was about to close the store early. Trade had been a little slow today, except for that small rush of browsers about an hour ago, and Lester could afford to shut the doors and get home to Mrs. Wilmot’s chicken pot pie. Lester chuckled, wondering why he and his wife had insisted on calling each other “Mr. Wilmot” and “Mrs. Wilmot” all these years. Everyone else called him Lester. He supposed it was just one of those little private jokes that married people had—a small thing in itself, yet ultimately intimate, meaningful.
    The move to London two years ago was the