Stiff News by Catherine Aird Read Free Book Online

his store of esoteric information, crime having no boundaries – no boundaries at all – enquired with genuine interest, ‘Why a tart at all if they won’t eat it?’
    â€˜So they know there’s more. That way they’ll finish the mousse and the trifle without worrying.’ She jerked a shoulder in the direction of the dining room. ‘Brought up to leave something for Mr Manners, most of ’em.’
    Sloan, who had been brought up by an economical mother to eat everything that was put in front of him and by a police training to take every opportunity of assessing a situation from all angles, offered to give the cook a hand with taking the puddings through to the dining room when the time came.
    Hazel Finch was worrying about something quite different. ‘I don’t like that French apple tart.’
    â€˜I’ve kept a trifle back,’ remarked the cook to no one in particular, adding enigmatically, ‘Better safe than sorry.’
    â€˜Makes a lot of extra, doesn’t it?’ said Sloan, anxious to get the conversation back to the late Mrs Powell. ‘An occasion like this coming out of the blue…’
    Lisa Haines shook her head. ‘We’re used to it. There was the funeral luncheon for Mrs Chalmers-Hyde last month.’
    â€˜I don’t miss her,’ said Hazel. ‘Not like I shall miss Mrs Powell.’
    â€˜And then we had a big party the other week, Inspector,’ said the cook. ‘For the Judge’s ninetieth.’
    â€˜Ever so excited everyone was, about that,’ contributed Hazel, the supply of her next course now safely assured.
    â€˜And his birthday surprise really knocked him sideways, I can tell you,’ chimed in the cook. ‘I saw his face and he was shaken rigid.’
    At which moment the bell marked ‘dining room’ jangled on the board.
    *   *   *
    Muriel Peden was still keeping her eye on the serving of food. She noted with relief that, at long last, without anyone on hand to talk to, Miss Bentley had swallowed the remainder of her salad. The old lady then sat back and surveyed the splendid oak-panelled dining room with a beady eye. Looking round she saw only Matron within earshot, which was perhaps just as well.
    â€˜What’s she doing here?’ Miss Bentley demanded, pointing her stick in the direction of Walter Bryant, round whose wheelchair a visitor – Miss Margot Ritchie – was now fluttering like an anxious butterfly. ‘Mark my words, Matron, before you can say “knife” it’ll be another case of “the funeral baked meats coldly furnishing the marriage feast”.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘And we all know what became of Hamlet’s mother, don’t we?’
    Since Muriel Peden had no satisfactory response to this she simply opened her hands in a gesture of agreement with the validity of the quotation.
    â€˜No better than she ought to be,’ declared Miss Bentley uncompromisingly.
    â€˜Mr Bryant may invite anyone whom he wishes to the Manor,’ murmured the Matron.
    â€˜It isn’t his funeral,’ said Miss Bentley ineluctably.
    â€˜Miss Ritchie was at the service, too,’ she pointed out weakly.
    Miss Bentley exploded. ‘She didn’t even know Mrs Powell like we did.’
    â€˜As a friend of Mr Bryant’s…’
    â€˜That’s one way of describing her,’ said the old headmistress darkly. ‘Wait until his daughters get to know she’s been here again.’
    Muriel Peden sighed. She knew exactly what it was that Walter Bryant’s two daughters were afraid of … their father’s getting married again.
    â€˜If you ask me,’ said Miss Bentley, ‘that woman’s well and truly got her claws into him.’
    â€˜She did send some flowers to the Manor for after the funeral.’ The Matron pointed to a display of red and white roses, quite eye-catching