Free Well-Schooled in Murder by Elizabeth George Page B

colour black. The woodwork at the windows, along the roofline, and on the door had long since lost its last flake of paint. She shuddered to think how long it would take to return that innocent decorative carving to its original condition. Drainpipes down the side of the house were rusted through, spouting like sieves whenever it rained. They would have to be replaced entirely. As would the front garden, which was not a garden at all but a square of concrete-hard dirt upon which she parked her Mini, its rusting condition a suitable complement to the environment in general.
    Her survey complete, she got out of the car and went into the house. Noise and odours assaulted her. The television blared from the sitting room, while poorly cooked food, mildew, woodrot, unwashed bodies, and old age all battled to be the ascendant smell.
    Barbara laid her shoulder bag on the wobbly rattan table by the door. She hung her coat with the others on the line of pegs beneath the staircase and walked towards the sitting room at the back of the house.
    “Lovey?” Querulously, her mother spoke from above. Barbara stopped, looked up.
    Mrs. Havers was standing on the top stair, clad only in a thin cotton nightdress, her feet bare and her hair uncombed. The light behind her, shining from her bedroom, served to emphasise each angular detail of her skeletal body through the insubstantial material. Barbara’s eyes widened at the sight of her.
    “You’ve not dressed, Mum,” she said. “You’ve not dressed today at all.” She felt a great weight of depression settle upon her as she said the words. How much longer, she asked herself, would she be able to hold down a job and still care for two parents who had become like children?
    Mrs. Havers smiled vaguely. Her hands slid over the nightdress as if for confirmation. Her teeth caught at her lip. “Forgot,” she said. “I was looking at my albums—oh, lovey, I did so want to spend more time in Switzerland, didn’t you?—and I must not have realised…Shall I dress now, lovey?”
    Considering the time, it seemed a rather useless expenditure of energy. Barbara sighed, pressed her knuckles to her temples to stave off a headache. “No, I don’t think so, Mum. It’s almost time for you to be in bed, isn’t it?”
    “I could dress for you. You could watch me and see if I do it proper.”
    “You’d do it proper, Mum. Why don’t you run yourself a bath?”
    Mrs. Havers’ face wrinkled at this new idea. “Bath?”
    “Yes. But stay with the water. Don’t let it overflow this time. I’ll be up in a moment.”
    “Will you help me then, lovey? If you will, I can tell you my ideas about Argentina. That’s where we’ll go next. Do they speak Spanish there? I think we’ll have to learn more Spanish before we go. One so likes to be able to communicate with the natives. Buenos días, señorita. ¿Como se llama? I remember that from the telly. I know it’s not nearly enough. But it’s a start. If they speak Spanish in Argentina. It could be Portuguese. Somewhere they speak Portuguese.”
    Barbara knew her mother might go on in this disjointed fashion for an hour or more. She had often done so, sometimes coming into her bedroom at two or three in the morning to chat aimlessly, unmindful of Barbara’s entreaties that she return to her bed.
    “The bath,” Barbara reminded her. “I’m going to check on Dad.”
    “Dad’s well today, lovey. Such a man. So well. See for yourself.”
    That said, Mrs. Havers flitted back out of the light. In a moment water began to splash noisily into the bath. Barbara waited to see if her mother would leave the tub unattended, but apparently the idea of watching the water had been planted well enough in her mind to ensure her staying put for at least a few minutes. Barbara went to the sitting room.
    Her father was in his usual chair, watching his usual Sunday night programme. Newspapers covered most of the floor where he had dropped them once he’d given them