Fate Worse Than Death by Sheila Radley Read Free Book Online Page A

she knew she hadn’t. She had packed the cases with nothing but clothes, and had left them in advance in the rented cottage where she had intended to begin her married life. After changing her mind about getting married she had gone to the cottage to pick up the clothes; and it was then that he had come for her, tricked her, blindfolded her and brought her here, suitcases and all.
    She had no spray, then. But that was the kind of thing she needed, something that would prevent him from seeing for long enough to allow her to escape. What could she use? If only she could concentrate, if only she didn’t feel so lightheaded …
    And then the answer came to her, such a simple one that she laughed aloud with relief. She could hear her own laughter, so high and cracked that she imagined for a moment that it must come from someone else.
    Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? He would bring her the weapon she needed – he would literally hand it to her on a plate. Breakfast wouldn’t do, because that was invariably a sandwich. But in the early evening, just before six o ‘clock, he brought her a main meal of cold meat with lettuce and a tomato. And with the meal he always brought a dish of stewed plums covered by a thick yellow blanket of cold custard – a gooey, throwable custard pie …
    She imagined herself talking to him to distract his attention as she balanced the pudding dish in her hand and took aim. The ruse would work, she felt sure. As long as she flung the contents squarely in his face, she could be well away before he finished wiping the mess out of his eyes.
    In health she could run much faster than he could, she had no doubt about that. It was not knowing which way to run that bothered her – that, and the possibility that in her weakened state she might stumble or trip. She dare not dwell on what he might do if she fell and he caught up with her. He kept protesting that he would never harm her, but by abducting her he had already forfeited her trust. He was odd, unpredictable. He might do anything …
    Despite the heat Sandra felt a momentary shrinking of her flesh, a goose-pimpling presentiment that someone was walking over her grave.

Chapter Eight
    In the kitchen of her Regency Gothic cottage on Fodderstone Green, Constance Schultz – née Tait, and known to her relatives and friends as Con – was making preparations for her nephew’s visit.
    Most of the ten cottages on the Green were owned by the Forestry Commission and occupied by its employees or pensioners. Geoff Websdell, who lived with his wife Beryl at number 8, worked as a forester. But two of the cottages were in private ownership.
    Numbers 9 and 10 had changed hands many times since the third Earl of Brandon’s estate had been broken up in the 1920s. Middle-aged summer visitors fell in love with the cottages and bought them for holidays and eventual retirement, without taking into account the hard work that would be involved in keeping up the large gardens, and without realizing what a bleak, isolated place Fodderstone Green was in the winter. Con Schultz had stuck it for longer than most – for ten years, ever since she had retired from her job as an assistant public librarian in Ipswich – but she was by preference a solitary person. She was also an enthusiastic gardener, and she had always wanted to live somewhere where she could keep bees.
    Her neighbours at number 10, Marjorie and Howard Braithwaite, had been in residence for two years. Howard, formerly the managing director of a light engineering firm in Chelmsford, spent his retirement fishing; he set off with pike rod and tackle every morning of the season for the lake in what had once been the grounds of the Hall. His wife, like Con, was a keen gardener.
    Their love of gardens was the only thing the two women had in common. Even in this, they differed. Con’s gardening was a random activity, her pretty garden not so