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

personalities they all had! I suppose Florie’s told you how she loved to hear me tell about the ornamental hermit?’
    Until Mrs Wilks had got going on the topic of Cragstone and the Tamershams, George had thought her unlikely to put more than four or five words together at one time. Now he finally found himself relaxing, thoughts of a cup of tea forgotten, as she explained that what he’d taken to be a garden ornament was something – someone – much more interesting. She had many more stories to tell about Cragstone, of the very sort he’d hoped would be connected with Mullings. So absorbed did he become that he failed to notice that Florence sat silent.
    For a few moments she too was captivated. This was the woman who had brought enchantment into her childhood, fuelling her imagination and stirring up a thirst for all the stories to be found in books. These were wonderful gifts for which she would be forever grateful, but there crept upon her a discomfort that shifted painfully into a revelation – one so clear she was startled she had not seen it before. It had to be sensing George’s reaction that had brought enlightenment. Her mother had in a sense stopped living after leaving Cragstone. Any real enjoyment she experienced came from memories of that brief, gilded period of her youth. As a result, her own husband and children had always had limited reality for her – except as listening ears – and Florence had been the best listener. Other than that, she and the rest of her family had been pasted over by far more interesting images. One painful thought followed another. Florence could no longer believe her mother had refused her and Robert’s invitation to come and live at Farn Deane because she had too many family ties in Westbridge. How much more likely that she’d been glad to have the house to herself at last – empty of human distractions, as it was of any comforts that might take her prisoner to the present. All she needed, all she wanted, was somewhere to sit and wait for time to dissolve into a mist, through which she could step at will to find Cragstone and the Tamersham family unchanged.
    Florence wondered if she was exaggerating, as her mother’s voice flowed on past George’s occasional, interested questions. After all, her mother had been very interested in hearing about Mullings when Florence had first gone there, and still sometimes asked her to describe it and the Stodmarshes. But then she realized that was because her mother could make comparisons, as she had just now when saying how much the larger Cragstone was of the two houses, and bringing up the superiority of Lady Tamersham’s health to that of Lady Stodmarsh, ignoring the fact that the mistress of Cragstone was a younger woman at the time.
    Florence felt wicked for allowing such thoughts; but she couldn’t will away the realization now it had forced its way in, after perhaps subconsciously poking at her for years. She would love her mother none the less for it, but with the knowledge that no deep feeling was returned.
    â€˜I’ll go and make a pot of tea,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘No,’ seeing a large figure start to rise from the inadequate chair, ‘you stay put, George, it’s been good listening to you and Mother chatting away, and perhaps you can tell her some stories about the Dog and Whistle.’
    â€˜Yes, that would be nice.’ Mrs Wilks’ voice floated after Florence as she went out into the hall. ‘There was a Tudor inn not a mile from Cragstone, and the story goes that in the early eighteenth century the Tamersham heir set up a row of tankards on a shelf for target shooting and ever after claimed he’d proved himself a crack shot by getting the innkeeper square in the eye.’
    â€˜Well, that’s one to tell my regulars,’ said George.
    Florence couldn’t tell from his voice whether this tidbit had gone