Murder Fortissimo by Nicola Slade Read Free Book Online

her thought processes kicking back into operation. I simply will
not
think about her, she decided and, with a determined slam, she shut the door behind her and went upstairs to get changed for work.
    The thought of the office sent a shaft of sunshine through the gloom. Neil! She recalled his kindness when she stumbled over the words as she tried to explain her reaction to his offer of promotion.
    ‘I’m not taking that as final,’ he told her. ‘I know what it’s like, living with an invalid,’ he had explained and told her a little about his own mother.
    Alice’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. Neil’s mother and Christiane Marchant sounded as much alike as Maria von Trapp and Lucrezia Borgia but plainly Neil meant her to take the job, come hell or high water. ‘These invalids can be tyrants,’ he had observed as he drove her back to Chambers Forge that day. ‘But you mustn’t let her get you down. You have to try and keep a life of your own.’
    Neil had given a wry smile then himself, she recalled now, then he had laughed abruptly, shaking his head. ‘Just listen to me,’ he conceded. ‘It’s easier said than done; I know that only too well.’
    Today Neil was expected in the office to discuss the final details of the handover with Barry Williams and to go over some of the files with Alice. Instead of wearing her usual depressed navy, Alice found herself putting on her best jumper, the daffodil yellow one and the good wool and cashmere cocoa brown skirt that she had found last week in a charity shop in Winchester.
    Alice adored clothes, good clothes, and she loved charity shops, thrilling to the excitement of the treasure hunter stalking a designer label. Hitherto, though, she had gone for hard-wearing quality rather than colour and beauty.
    Idiot, she chided herself, looking at her reflection with dissatisfied eyes, then she squared her shoulders. Why not? What was wrong with trying to look half-way decent? Better, surely, than sinking into a depressed, premature middle-age and withering away.
     
    Pauline Winslow was an evangelical in her chosen field of geriatric nursing and the unexpected but entirely deserved legacy from a grateful patient, of the large Edwardian house, Firstone Grange, had enabled her to set up her dream enterprise. She had inherited a modest amount of cash along with the house but her financial prayers had been answered when she discovered with delight that an old nursing colleague was already in charge of the existing residential home next door.
    ‘As you know,’ her friend had explained. ‘Hiltingbury House caters exclusively for nursing cases at present which, of course, is why we were happy to make no trouble over your planning permission. After all, Firstone Grange is in a quite different category, comfortable short-stay visits, so there’s no clash of interest. However, we would like to upgrade and move into permanent residential facilities for the less infirm; you knowthe kind of thing, reasonably able-bodied people but too frail to want to go on living alone. Sheltered flats with all the benefits of a community and care at hand but a degree of privacy and independence as well.’
    Pauline Winslow had been interested, wondering where this was leading.
    ‘We have plenty of land at the back of the house,’ explained her friend. ‘But we could do with more. Our most pressing need is for a decent driveway from the proposed new building out to the main road. We don’t want to use the existing entrance. Now do you see what we’re after?’
    The money from the sale of land at the side and rear of Firstone Grange was a godsend and Pauline Winslow was happy to give all the credit where it was due. ‘Thank you, Lord,’ she acknowledged on the morning of Christiane Marchant’s first day. ‘Thank you for giving me this chance, and please, dear Lord, please look after poor Mr Buchan and don’t let him have been too upset.’
    She frowned and prayed aloud with renewed