Death of a Mystery Writer Read Online Free PDF Page B

the grip on his arm which seemed either proprietorial or conspiratorial. “I said I would be nice to him on Saturday. That is the limit of my oath.”
    â€œIt’s a start, anyway. . . .”
    â€œSunday I do not vouch for. Sunday I said nothing to Bella about,” said Oliver Fairleigh with grim relish. Relieving himself of her arm he turned abruptly and, kicking Cuff to follow him, stomped toward the house.
    â€œOh, Bella . . . ,” said his wife wistfully.
    She turned and resumed her walk. The garden was looking lovely, though of course Oliver was the last person in the world to appreciate it. A garden to him was a sort of backdrop to his own performance; to her, since her children had grown up, it had become almost the most important thing in her life. She walked around, more briskly now that Oliver had gone, noting what was coming on well and what had not recovered from the drought last year. Finally she made for Wiggens, relaxing over his spade, and gave some directions about the flowers to be cut to decorate the house for Saturday.
    â€œFamily do, then, is it?” asked Wiggens, who had only been with them six months.
    â€œYes, Sir Oliver’s birthday. All the family will be there—Bella, and Terence, and Mark.”
    â€œOh, Mr. Mark too?” asked Wiggens, and it struck Lady Fairleigh that he gave her a rather odd look.
    â€œYes,” she said firmly. “Mr. Mark too.” And she turned and went toward the house.
    When she walked into the kitchen to see—in her vague way, for food did not interest her, except as a way of keeping her husband in an equable mood—what was happening about lunch,she knew at first glance that Mrs. Moxon had something to confide in her. Mrs. Moxon was ample, reliable, and talented, and her only drawback was an insatiable curiosity and an unstoppable tongue. It was not just that one could not avoid hearing the affairs of everyone in Wycherley retailed at inordinate length; there was the question of what went in the other direction, from the manor to the rest of the village, and that worried Lady Fairleigh intensely. Not that it did her husband. He liked being talked about.
    â€œI was sorry to hear about it, madam, I really was,” said Mrs. Moxon, rubbing her doughy hands on her apron, and putting on an expression of sympathy profound enough for a family death.
    â€œSorry, Mrs. Moxon? There’s nothing to be sorry about. Nothing has happened.”
    â€œOh, then you’ve not heard about it, then, madam? Well, I’m sorry I mentioned it, I really am. Just that I thought you looked worried, so I supposed you must have heard.”
    â€œHeard what, Mrs. Moxon? Please don’t be so mysterious. Come straight at it.”
    â€œWell, it’s Mr. Mark, my lady. What he said at the Prince Albert in Hadley last Saturday.”
    â€œHe was drunk, was he?” said Lady Fairleigh-Stubbs, with a watery smile. “Well, you’ve been with the family long enough to know that’s nothing new, Mrs. Moxon. And he is still young.”
    â€œOh, it’s not that, ma’am. Of course I know all about that, and locking the spirits away, and all. Though never a word has crossed my lips, of course. But it’s what he said—screamed through the whole pub, they say.”
    â€œWhat did he say?” asked Eleanor Fairleigh, her heart thumping against her ribs.
    â€œIt was about his father,” said Mrs. Moxon, now frankly enjoying herself. “He said he ought to be shot. Straight out like that, shouted it through the whole pub. All the village is talking about it.”
    Eleanor Fairleigh turned to go up the stairs. “I expect it was just a joke,” she said. Even to herself she sounded feeble and defeated.She went up to her bedroom, and sitting wanly on the bed she found that her forebodings about Saturday had returned in full measure.
    Friday
    It was early evening, and Oliver