So Bad a Death by June Wright Read Free Book Online

Bellamy.”
    â€œThat’s what she said two days ago,” Connie whispered, pushing me out the door. “I do believe he has gone into hiding or something. Harold is positively furious. Do you know the man has been systematically robbing us for years? Is this your little boy?”
    She bent down in front of the pusher. Tony gave her that cruel speculative stare children do to strangers.
    â€œMy dear, the image of you, of course. Where is my Peter? Peter,” she called. “Oh, there he is. At the butcher’s shop as usual. Come here, you bad boy.”
    Peter proved to be not as I had anticipated, a small boy, but a cheeky black-and-white terrier. I had been fully prepared to return the compliment, and say how like he was to Connie.
    I remarked rather weakly: “What a nice little dog.”
    â€œHe’s an angel,” Connie announced, giving him a squeeze. “Such a comfort to me. But his nose will be out of joint soon, won’t it, Peter boy? Poor little pet. You won’t be too jealous, will you, darling? Now jump down and let Mummy Bellamy get on with her shopping. In here, Maggie. I want to pick up some sandwiches. Ham, of course. My dear, I positively crave for anything in the pork line. My own mother was just the same. Can I tie Peter to your pusher?”
    â€œNo,” I said firmly, visualizing her beastly dog dragging Tony and pusher into the middle of High Street. “What about that post?”
    â€œYes, that will do. You are fussy, Maggie.”
    I followed her into the shop. A large parcel of sandwiches was passed over the counter.
    â€œNot all for Mummy Bellamy,” Connie coyly assured me. “It is my turn at the Community Centre today. Afternoon tea, you know. You must come with me.”
    I bought some bacon for breakfast and immediately regretted it, when Connie remarked in her high-pitched voice: “How frightfully coincidental!”
    â€œMy dear,” she confided, as we left the delicatessen, “I’ve got so much to tell you, I hardly know where to begin. Where are you living, Maggie?”
    â€œAt a place called the Dower House. We are hoping to change the pretentious title after six months. At the moment it belongs to the Squire of Middleburn.”
    â€œThe Squire? Oh, you mean Mr Holland, of course. Isn’t he too awesome? Those black bars of eyebrows with that white hair. We all loathe him in Middleburn. The sooner he passes away the happier a lot of people will be. Fancy you getting the Dower! I heard he would never let it go, even after his son’s accident. But,” said Connie, pausing to take breath, “I don’t know if I’d call you lucky, Maggie.”
    â€œI believe I am in these times,” I replied, steering the pusher carefully to avoid Peter’s jerking leash.
    â€œWell, Maggie”—Connie spoke in that tone of voice people use when they are a little envious of another’s possessions—“all I can say is that you’ve walked slap-bang into trouble. I hope you won’t regret it.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?” I asked quickly. I was sensitive to another’s opinion regarding our choice of abode, although I could not say why. I think I must have been uneasy about our connection with Holland Hall from the start.
    â€œI don’t quite know,” Connie confessed, after a moment’s thought. “I just feel trouble, that’s all. Harold says I am psychic. That household simply reeks of mystery. Such a collection of incompatibles,you know. But there! You’re used to that sort of thing, aren’t you, Maggie? Weren’t you mixed up in that funny business at the Exchange a few years back?”
    â€œVery little,” I replied shortly, determined that Connie and everyone else would learn nothing about “that funny business” from me. It brought back too many bitter memories.
    Connie stopped and eyed me for a minute. “I would