Free Murder on the Hour by Elizabeth J. Duncan

wishing to be part of it, turned and walked the short distance to Mrs. Lloyd’s sturdy charcoal grey stone house with its slate roof.
    Florence unlocked the door and stood aside as the other two entered. “Now just leave your coat there, Jean,” said Mrs. Lloyd, “and Florence will bring us our tea in a minute. We were talking about having tea, anyway, just before we met you, so before you say anything, this is no trouble at all.”
    Mrs. Lloyd’s sitting room was comfortable and although it might have seemed old-fashioned to some, it was furnished in a tasteful, Country Life kind of way. The walls were painted a pale yellow, the sofa was a Wedgewood blue, and a couple of comfortable wing chairs in a floral pattern flanked each side of the slate fireplace. Magazines and library books were neatly stacked on side tables and a few photographs in sliver frames added a personal touch, as did the bouquet of fresh flowers in a crystal vase on a walnut table in front of the window. The room had a pleasant, clean smell of furniture polish.
    Mrs. Lloyd waved her visitor to one of the wing chairs. Jean lowered herself gingerly into it, then perched on the edge, knees together and turned a little to one side. She lifted the hem of her purple plaid pleated skirt and tugged it downward and adjusted the sleeve of her lavender-coloured blouse.
    The room was silent except for the oddly comforting ticking of a carriage clock on the mantelpiece.
    Mrs. Lloyd breathed a small sigh of relief when Florence arrived with a laden tea tray that she placed with experienced precision on the largest of a series of three nesting tables.
    â€œWell, now, Jean, how do you take your tea?” asked Florence, pouring a cup. “They always say you need some sugar at a time like this, so you’d better have some. Milk?” Jean nodded and Florence handed the cup to her. She accepted it with a trembling hand and then looked around for a place to set it. Mrs. Lloyd brought over the smallest of the nesting tables and placed it beside her chair.
    â€œYou can put it here,” she said, taking the cup from her and setting it on the table. Florence placed a small plate with two biscuits on it beside the cup, then poured tea for herself and Mrs. Lloyd.
    â€œYou know, Jean, I hope you don’t mind my mentioning this, but I think I’ve seen you someplace before, and just recently, too, but I can’t quite place you. Something about you seems familiar,” said Florence.
    â€œI’ve just started a new position with the library,” Jean replied, “so it could be that’s where you’ve seen me. I noticed you have a few library books.” She gestured at the little stack of books on the side table.
    â€œOh, well, I expect that’ll be it, then,” said Mrs. Lloyd. “Florence is a great patron of the library, but me, I prefer my magazines. I have subscriptions.”
    They sipped their tea and Jean nibbled at a biscuit. The silence stretched on and even Mrs. Lloyd, usually never at a loss for words, seemed unsure how to break it. And then Jean spoke.
    â€œYes, anyway, I recently started a new position at the library. I live in the Junction and I’ve been coming to work on the bus, but they’re too unreliable and too infrequent. Plus, they take so long, when you add in the bus time, a half-day job becomes a full-day job, if you know what I mean. By the time you get ready and factor in wait times.”
    Mrs. Lloyd nodded. “Indeed I do know what you mean. I was the postmistress here in Llanelen for many years and my husband owned the green grocer. We always walked to work. It’s by far the best way.”
    â€œExactly,” said Jean. “So I saw the advertisement in the newsagent’s window for a room to let and I thought that might do me while I looked around for something more permanent. This is a pretty little town and I quite like it. I had come round to see if the