Read Online Murder at Maddingley Grange by Caroline Graham - Free Book Online

“Give us a smile then.”
    But Violet, finishing her turn, remained serious and thoughtful. “I’m worried about the girls.”
    â€œDon’t start again. We had enough of that on the train. Consuela can cope.”
    â€œEmerald’s got that rash.”
    â€œIt’s nothing—I told you.”
    â€œShe might give it to the others.”
    â€œCourse she won’t. Don’t talk so daft.” Fred, having crossed to the fireplace, seized on The Countess’s Morning Levee for a snappy change of subject. “Who’s Hogarth when he’s buying a round?”
    â€œHow should I know?”
    â€œThey were a comical lot.” He studied the picture more closely. “There’s a bloke here in long pink drawers and his hair in curlers.”
    â€œThat’s always gone on.”
    â€œSuppose you’re right. I’ve often wondered…you know? There’s money in it…”
    â€œCertainly not, Fred. That sort of thing’s disgusting.” Firmly Violet moved on. “Your mother’s very quiet.”
    â€œ My mother!” Fred staggered in simulated amazement. “I thought she were your mother. All these years we’ve been putting up with her—”
    â€œGo and see what she’s up to.”
    Mother was on the sofa in the adjoining sitting room. Encased in iridescent jet, she glittered like a huge black beetle. Her mandibles moved rhythmically and she was clutching her reticule. Fred popped his head round the door.
    â€œYou’re never still on the chomp. What you got now?”
    The old lady opened her mouth, removed the remains of a bull’s-eye, held it up between the thumb and forefinger of a knobbly mittened hand and popped it back.
    â€œYou won’t want your supper.” Mrs. Gibbs made a loud sucking noise. “And you behave yourself when we get downstairs—all right?”
    At his stern tone the old lady affected bewilderment and gave a timid smile. Beneath the little gray moustache, her remaining teeth showed, yellow and strong like tiny tusks, giving her the air of a puzzled walrus.
    â€œYou needn’t look at me like that,” Fred went on. “You know what I’m on about. You try anything—anything at all— and home you go, toot sweet.”
    â€œI’m as good as gold,” said the walrus.
    â€œThat’ll be the day.”
    â€œIt’s haunted, this place.”
    â€œYou reckon?” Fred’s question was cushioned by respect. The words extrasensory perception could have been invented for his mother.
    â€œI can smell it. Strong. Like raspberry jam on the boil.”
    â€œBlimey.” Fred returned to the bedroom, closing the door carefully. “She says the Grange is haunted.”
    â€œThat should add a few laughs to the weekend then.”
    â€œShe is clean, ’ent she? You did check?”
    â€œCourse I did. Both her handbag and her suitcase. Clean as a whistle.”
    Violet, having discovered the cookie barrel, was tucking in. The pretty little handwritten card said: “Drinks on the terrace at seven thirty,” but that was ages yet.
    Her husband, saying: “You’re as bad as she is,” opened the window and stepped out on the balcony to give the scenery a going over. “Gorr, Violet,”—he shaded his eyes explorer fashion—“you could hang a fair bit of washing out here.”
    â€œThe sort of people who live in these places don’t have washing.”
    â€œThey must be a right mucky lot then.”
    â€œTurn your socks down, Fred. You look as if nobody owns you. And have a Bath Oliver.”
    â€œI’ve had a bath,” came the reply, quick as a wink. “And me name’s not Oliver.”
    While Violet munched and her husband obligingly made a neat cuff on each sock, Mother was sitting very still on her sofa in front of a little papier-mâché bezique table. The room was silent