Truth Will Out Read Online Free PDF

with them if they wanted me to go on earning my money.’
    Confused by the logic, Biddy ignored this line of reasoning.
    Alice investigated the contents of the saucepan and, brightening, reverted to her vision of their week alone. ‘We could get out that old croquet set,’ she suggested, ‘and have a game on the lawn!’ She noticed the cold chicken. ‘Let me guess – chicken pie!’
    ‘Chicken and bacon pie. There’s not quite enough chicken.’
    ‘Mmm! Lovely.’
    Biddy smiled at her warmly. Going in search of the butter, lard and flour distracted her, and she pushed her doubts aside and concentrated on the job in hand. She cut the butter and lard into the flour then broke it up into smaller pieces with her fingers. She lined a pie dish with the pastry, reserving enough to cover it, then broke up the chicken and a lump of cold ham and added them to the dish along with a small chopped onion and two diced carrots.
    She said, ‘We’ll have to be careful when they’re away, always to keep the outside doors closed – and locked – in case the mystery man comes back.’ She glanced surreptitiously at Alice to see if she would also consider the idea sensible.
    ‘He won’t,’ she said confidently. ‘Why should he come back?’
    ‘I don’t know. He might know we’re on our own.’
    ‘But if Mr Brent is at Hastings in the hotel, why would they send someone here?’
    ‘Ah!’ Flummoxed by this obvious question, Biddy felt horribly foolish and was again reminded uncomfortably of how woolly her mind had become. ‘You’re right,’ she mumbled, embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’
    To her relief Alice didn’t laugh at her mistake. Instead she said, ‘So we’ll have nothing to worry about.’
    She whisked out of the kitchen into the garden to help Maude and left Biddy to complete the pie and turn on the oven. As she placed a gauze cover over the pie while the oven heated up, she visualized the complete meal set out on the dining table, and the usual sense of security returned. With a smile on her face, she began to hum a favourite hymn.
    The Barlowe Gallery was situated in Wentnock Street in London and at quarter to nine the following Saturday it was still closed. Opening times on Saturday were from ten thirty a.m. until seven p.m. but Lionel was already there. His secretary, Jane Dyer, would be in some time around half past nine. She had replaced Mrs Breck, who had retired eighteen months ago after twenty-one years of loyal service. Miss Dyer claimed to have studied art history and was reasonably knowledgeable but, due to her shy manner, lacked her predecessor’s easy way with the clients. Lionel, although secretly disappointed, did appreciate her office skills. She managed all the paperwork with clinical attention to detail and nothing was ever mislaid or unaccounted for. She could be trusted to fetch things from the safe when necessary and, although her tea making could never match that of Mrs Breck, she was willing to run the occasional errand, which Mrs Breck had considered beneath her dignity. Jane Dyer also performed well on the telephone and several buyers had commented on her efficiency and pleasant manner.
    His hope had been that she would blossom as the years went on but at twenty-one she still lacked confidence. She lived at home with her widowed mother – a strict churchgoer who had brought up her daughter with Victorian values that many young women were beginning to abandon. She dressed primly and wore no make-up but she was slim, pretty and eager to please and he felt she gave the gallery a certain elegance. In fact, on the few occasions when she was absent, it felt rather dull without her. Glancing at the clock, he saw that he had twenty minutes before she was due to arrive, and set about attending to various matters that he felt needed last-minute attention before setting off for their holiday in Hastings. He telephoned Barlowe and then rang an artist who lived in St Leonards, and