Eight Murders In the Suburbs by Roy Vickers Read Free Book Online

She must never be alone.”
    Still Penfold could not see it.
    â€œThat means two nurses. Pretty hefty expense—”
    â€œThere won’t be two nurses. There won’t be one. She can’t get on with nurses. That nice Nurse Hart has gone, and Aunt Agnes says she won’t have another. I must go to her, Arthur. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
    There came a moment of stark panic—a long moment in which he again ran the gauntlet of smiles that masked the universal sneer at the man who cannot hold his woman.
    â€œShe may live for twenty years or more. Do you want to end our marriage, Madge?”
    â€œIt isn’t a matter of what I want,” she evaded. “Remember, she isn’t my aunt, really. She didn’t even like me, to start with—I was the horrid child of a young couple she had met on a pleasure cruise. I’ve never forgotten. All my life I’ve wondered what I could do in return.”
    â€œI’m not belittling her. But what about me? What have I done that I should lose my wife?”
    â€œNothing. You speak as if I were complaining of you—I’m not—it wouldn’t be fair.” The unconscious echo of Julie’s words made him feel faint. “But you don’t need me, Arthur—me in particular, I mean.”
    â€œOf course I need you! To come home in the evening, with no wife to welcome me—”
    â€œYou’ll soon find a quiet girl, whose looks appeal to you—you ask so little, Arthur. Then, everything will be the same for you.” She spoke without a trace of bitterness. “But Aunt Agnes needs me as me! ”
    He did not understand and would not try. The sense of defeat was numbing him. He went into the dining-room and took a stiff whisky. He would put his case firmly but fairly to Aunt Agnes, with every consideration for her feelings. Velvet glove, in fact. Now he came to think of it, her birthday fell on the day after tomorrow. That could be used to help his opening.
    The next day was damp and foggy, increasing his depression, so that he left the office earlier than usual, determined to see Mrs. Blagrove at once.
    Now, by chance—good or ill according to one’s point of view—a popular publisher had decided to stage a come-back for the poetry of Ella Wheeler Wilcox and was flooding the bookstalls with an initial anthology: The Best of Wilcox . There was a double pyramid at one of the bookstalls at Waterloo station, which duly caught Penfold’s eye.
    The very thing! It would help him to open the interview on a friendly note.
    He bought a copy, decided to retain the dust jacket, which carried a design of moonbeams and cupids—‘the old lady’ reacted to that sort of thing when you steered her into the mood for it.
    On arriving at Crosswater at five-three, he reflected that Madge would not be expecting him for another hour—she had said that she would be helping at the vicarage that afternoon. So, instead of going home first, he trudged through the rain and fog to Dalehurst. Mrs. Blagrove was drawing the curtains when he appeared in the front garden. She beckoned and unlatched the french window.
    â€œCome in this way, if you don’t mind. It’s Bessie’s afternoon for visiting her grandmother in hospital. She’s supposed to pay me back the time on. Saturday, but she always has some excuse. You’re home early, aren’t you?”
    He agreed with enthusiasm—went into the hall to deposit his coat and hat, and returned, flourishing The Best of Wilcox .
    â€œThis is just out—an anthology. Thought you might like it. Sort of pre-birthday present.”
    â€œHow thoughtful and kind of you, Arthur! What a perfectly lovely design! I expect I know all the selections—I hope I do!” She lowered herself to the chintz-covered settee and turned over the pages. When Penfold had finished settling himself in an armchair, Mrs. Blagrove was