Read Online The Secret House of Death by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online

fellow—Heffer or Heller or something—who’s always about in a green car. But my husband put the pipes in himself in the end. There’s nothing he can’t do it he puts his mind to it.’
    â€˜Why shouldn’t he be calling on Mrs North just for business?’
    â€˜Yes, funny business. Well, it stands to reason he’s in the right job for that kind of thing if he fancies it. It’s her I’m disgusted with.’ Seeing Susan wasn’t to be drawn, Mrs Dring dropped the curtain and pulled two kiss-curls, as fluorescent red as Day-glo paint, out on to her forehead. ‘What d’you think of my hair? It’s called flamingo, this shade. My husband did it last night. I always tell him he ought to have gone into the trade. He’d have been in the West End by now.’
    Susan began typing desultorily. Mrs Dring was never silent for long and these mornings she was on edge, constantly distracted from work by futile remarks. Her cleaner, engaged in the first place ‘to do the rough’ had soon made it clear that she preferred polishing and cleaning silver to heavy work and her favourite tasks were those which kept her at a vantage point near one of the windows.
    Now, having observed all there was to see in Orchard Drive, she had stationed herself at the french windows with the plate powder and a trayful of Susan’s silver ornaments. It was half past nine. Although it had begun to rain, the drills had scarcely ceased in the past half-hour. Susan could hardly believe there was anything of interest to see from that window, but Mrs Dring kept craning her neck and pressing her face against the streaming glass until at last she said, ‘They won’t get no tea this morning.’
    â€˜Mmm?’ Susan looked up from her typewriter.
    â€˜Them men. Look, he’s going down the path now.’ The summons couldn’t be refused without rudeness. Susan joined her at the window. A tall workman in a duffel coat, its hood pulled up over his head, was making his way down Norths’ garden from the back door towards the gate at the far end. ‘I heard him banging on the back door. Wants his tea, I said to myself. Canteen’s closed this morning, mate. Madam’s got other things on her mind. Funny that dog of Winters didn’t bark, though. Have they got it shut up for once?’
    â€˜No, it’s out.’
    It was raining steadily. The workman opened the gate. His companions were deep in their trench where one of them was still plying his drill. The solitary man warmed his hands at the bucket fire for a moment. Then he turned, his shoulders hunched, and strolled off along the road that skirted the cemetery.
    Nodding her head grimly, Mrs Dring watched him disappear. ‘Gone to fetch himself a cup from the cafe,’ she said and added because Susan had retreated, ‘Is the car still there?’
    â€˜Yes, it’s still there.’ The rain streamed down its closed windows and over the pale green bodywork. Someone else was looking at it, too, Eileen O’Donnell, who was putting up her umbrella after scuttling out of Louise’s garden.
    â€˜Mrs O’Donnell’s coming round to the back door, Mrs Dring,’ Susan said. ‘Just see what she wants, will you?’
    She was sure she would be called to the conference that was about to ensue, but after a short conversation at the back door, Mrs Dring came back alone.
    â€˜Mrs North asked her to bring some fish fingers in for lunch in case her husband comes home. She says she’s banged and banged at the front door but she can’t make no one hear. She says the upstairs curtains are all drawn but that’s on account of Mrs North not wanting the sun to fade the carpets. I reckon some folks go about with their eyes shut, don’t know they’re born. Sun, I said, what sun? A kid of five could tell you why she’s drawn them curtains.’
    Susan took the package, noting