Murder Fortissimo by Nicola Slade Read Free Book Online Page A

fervour. ‘And please, Lord, forgive me for not taking to him; help me to find something likeable about him. And the new guest, Mrs Marchant,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘Please let things continue to go well, it’s all so lovely, so perfect. I’ll die if anything goes wrong.’ The frown deepened. ‘I think I’d
kill
anyone who spoilt it.’
     
    There was no official rest period after lunch at Firstone Grange. ‘They’re not toddlers,’ Pauline Winslow had been quite fierce when someone suggested it to her. Some of the guests disappeared to their rooms for an hour or so but others preferred to sit in the drawing-room, either reading or nodding over the paper until the two-thirtyish time suggested by Matron to potential visitors.
    Today Doreen and Vic Buchan arrived promptly on the dot of half-past two and sat down beside Vic’s father in the bay window. Stifling an exclamation of dismay Harriet Quigley shrank back in her corner chair, lest Doreen Buchan spot her, hoping the shadows would conceal her. If her cousin Sam found out where she was holed up he’d be ringing the door bell in record time, along with friends from Locksley village, and Harriet was uncomfortably aware of her straggling hair and roots showing grey. Time to fish out the semi-permanent wash-in colour that was tucked into her sponge bag. It should be possible, she thought, to do that in the hour or so between tea and dinner. In the meantime she twitched the heavy cream brocade curtain and leaned back out of sight behind its loosely hanging folds.
    Doreen Buchan gave Fred a cool peck on the cheek and sat down with her back to Harriet, who relaxed into her corner and reached for her book. Vic tried to engage his father in conversation, with little success, so he indulged himself by slipping into his favourite topic, talking about the business.
    Doreen sat back and tried to look happy about her surroundings. I hate these places, she shuddered, they’re all the same. Oh, I know I’ve been telling everyone how nice it is here, and I suppose it is, it ought to be, costs enough, but it’s still a Home, still an Institution. In the end it all boils down to the same thing, just dressed up pretty.
Prettily,
she caught herself up, it’s a place to put people who aren’t safe outside, because they’re ill, or old, or … not right. Her thoughts panicked around inside her head. Don’t think about Mum, she urged, don’t let yourself remember; it’s all over, all gone and nobody knows. Especially Vic, he’ll never know, he mustn’t know. Ever.
    ‘Hullo? I know you, don’t I? From a long time ago?’
    The voice was in her head and her head was going to split open at the shock, coming so pat on her tangled thoughts. It
was
in her head, wasn’t it? Doreen gasped and looked round, straight into the shrewd, glittering black eyes of an old woman in a wheelchair. A woman whose face had an eager, almost lustful look, curious and waiting for her answer.
    ‘No, no, I don’t think so,’ she stammered, pleating the fine blue wool of her Country Casuals skirt with troubled fingers.
    ‘Oh, I think I do, dear,’ the woman went on, her voice warm, interested, curious. ‘Didn’t you live in Surrey Road when you were little, dear? In Bournemouth? With your auntie?’
    The shock knifed into Doreen, icy fingers twisting her stomach, her heart juddering as she stared, anguish glazing her eyes, at the older woman. Did she know? What did she know? How could she, how could
any
one here possibly know? Her aunt had kept herself to herself, never gossiping. Besides, the name had been different, but secrets had a way of seeping out through the cracks. Doreen said nothing, was hardly capable of speech anyway, and slumped in her chair in a frozen terror.
    ‘Not feeling well, dear?’ The concern sounded false to her tormented listener. ‘I say, excuse me, but I think your wife’s feeling poorly.’
    Vic turned round. ‘You all right, Dor? You’re looking a