Free Murder at Mullings--A 1930s country house murder mystery by Dorothy Cannell

down one more blinking time.’
    What Florence was noticing with a pang was her mother’s yellowed white hair and wrinkles. Had she looked so old a few weeks before? She was only sixty-three. Could it be that the lank navy dress and cardigan were the cause, or had she just woken from a nap? She’d been such a pretty girl once – prettier than Florence had ever hoped to be; photographs provided the proof. The curly, dark hair and deep blue eyes suggested some Irish in her background.
    With little further said, Mrs Wilks led the way into the only downstairs room except for the kitchen. Here there was wallpaper that had to be sixty years old, with only one enlarged photograph hung from the picture rail, a sepia-tinted view of a grandiose house, at least three times the size of Mullings. A scarred dining room table and chairs occupied one corner. There was no couch; instead a scattering of mismatched, misnamed easy chairs huddled up to the unlit gas fire. Despite there not having been a hint of a chill to the day, its glow would have been welcome, if only to add a little colour.
    Though he was rarely self-conscious, George wondered if the maroon tie he was wearing with his one and only suit might be a little too bright, and if he should have put on the black one he’d worn to Mabel’s funeral. Then he realized from Florence’s expression that things weren’t going quite as well as she’d hoped and he beamed as if he felt right at home. When invited to sit down in the chair between Mrs Wilks and Florence, he did so to a cantankerous creaking of springs – not surprising, given his weight, although a fly landing on the seat would have brought the same result.
    â€˜It’s kind of you, Mrs Wilks, to let me come along with Florence.’
    â€˜That’s all right. She’s told me a bit about you, of course. It’s nice to know she has a new friend; so many of the old ones die off, even at her age.’
    â€˜Well, so long as there’s still some of us left kicking,’ George managed jovially.
    â€˜My other daughter, Ada, and her husband should’ve been here by now. Fred’s got a cold or something.’
    Florence wasn’t entirely sorry that her brother wasn’t coming; he’d grown sour since his wife had left him for a man who showed up at the door selling bibles. ‘She must have read that passage about “whither thou goest”,’ Hattie Fly had said when hearing about it. But Florence didn’t remember that now; her focus was on her mother. When had her voice become so flat? Where had the remembered magic flown?
    â€˜How are you, Mother?’ she asked.
    â€˜Not so bad.’
    Had she always sounded like this when she was not talking about what really interested her? Surely not. Or, a thought nudged unwillingly, had she always talked and not listened?
    â€˜You look a little tired.’
    â€˜No more than usual. You mustn’t have Mr Bird taking me for an invalid, like your poor mistress at Mullings.’
    â€˜A lovely woman, as more than Florence would tell you,’ enthused George, wondering if he should offer to go and make the tea. There were no cups or saucers, let alone anything else set out to suggest it was forthcoming. It couldn’t be expected, of course, the poor old lady didn’t look or sound as though there was much spark left in her. Then, suddenly, it was there in her face and voice, a glimpse of how she must have looked when young and wholly alive.
    â€˜Lady Tamersham was always the picture of bloom and health.’ Her eyes went to the photograph on the wall. ‘That’s Cragstone, the Tamershams’ estate in Northumbria, where I was in service as a girl. I still believe there isn’t another place to equal it. A dozen chandeliers in the drawing room, and the library designed by Sir Christopher Wren, and oh, the thrilling history of all the people who lived there before! Such