Hobby of Murder by E.X. Ferrars Read Free Book Online Page A

them. Actually I don’t do the trick with a rabbit, because I shouldn’t be able to look after the poor creature properly. But I’m coming along quite nicely. Strictly as an amateur, but I believe I could keep a children’s party entertained, at least if the children were very young.
    Eleanor was saying, ‘I used to know Luke years ago, before he became successful. Such an unassuming, modest young man he used to be, but very reserved. I suppose all the ideas he had were already beginning to go round in his head, but he never talked about them.’
    Mollie stood up and started handing round a plate of canapés that she had made, and Ian brought round more wine. The party broke up about eight o’clock, with the Waldrons leaving first, having extracted a half-promise from Audley that he would at least think about attending their dinner, though they were by no means to expect him. Audley himself left soon after them, then Eleanor and Brian. Felicity Mace was last.
    Standing in the doorway, just about to leave, she said, ‘Ofcourse, Ernest will go to the dinner, but don’t be surprised if he manages to make some sort of scene. He may even be working out now just what kind of scene to make.’
    ‘I didn’t know solicitors made scenes,’ Andrew said. ‘I thought they left that to barristers.’
    ‘But solicitors are said to be human,’ Felicity said. ‘Of course, his scene might simply consist of refusing to notice Luke Singleton’s existence. Cleverly done, it could make all of us feel very uncomfortable. Good night now, my dears, and thank you for the party.’
    ‘I’ll come with you,’ Ian said, and went to see her home.
    She evidently lived quite near, for he was back in a few minutes. In the quiet that came to the room when all the guests had gone, Ian poured out one more drink for the three of them who were left, which they drank almost in silence, pleasantly relieved of the necessity to talk, then Mollie went out to the kitchen to heat some Cornish pasties in the microwave, put the nectarines that Brian had brought her out in a bowl on the table there, and made some coffee.
    Andrew went to bed early, claiming to be very tired. At least, he said that he was going to bed, and it was true he felt very tired. The day seemed to have been a very full one, and nowadays he was finding that even a quiet little party of the kind that he had been at that evening seemed to fret his nerves in a way that made him feel an acute desire for peace. But once in his room and in his pyjamas, he did not get into bed, but put on his dressing-gown and sat down in a chair by the open window.
    The night sky was starry and there was a soft scent in the air of green things that were just beginning to feel the breath of autumn and yield a little to the first touch of decay. He had an Agatha Christie with him, one that he knew he had read at least once before, but which he was fairly sure he had managed to forget. One of the things forwhich he admired her was the number of times that he could read one of her books as if it was for the first time. He was most unlikely, even at a second or third reading, to remember who had done the murder. Most of his reading nowadays tended to be re-reading. He seemed almost to be on the defensive against new writers. Those who were recommended, or even lent to him by his friends had a way of remaining unread. He told himself frequently to resist this failing, but in the end he generally fell back on old friends.
    But this evening, even Agatha Christie did not engross him fully. He found himself thinking with some apprehension of the Waldrons’ dinner-party. The idea of it, based on the menu of an eighteenth-century parson, sounded amusing, but he was sure that he would find it a great strain, even if nothing dramatic happened in the way of a quarrel between Ernest Audley and Luke Singleton. He hoped that Ernest Audley would stick to what he had proclaimed and stay away. Andrew had never been an