Free The Spring Cleaning Murders by Dorothy Cannell

put in the odd word now and then about holding youth-club meetings on the second rather than the third Thursday of the month, but he was clearly distracted. His eyes kept straying to the windows, with their view of the front garden and the path leading out to the wooded lane. Every time the dogs barked, which they did with unpleasant regularity, he would stiffen as if being told to hold his breath for a chest X-ray, and afterwards exhale slowly. Tom Tingle also appeared on edge, but this was explained when he announced with considerable urgency that he needed to “pay a visit.” I told him that if I remembered correctly, there was a bathroom directly at the top of the stairs.
    “I had two cups of coffee before leaving home”—he scowled as if this were my fault—”so if you will excuse me.” The door clicked shut behind him.
    “Odd little chap.” Sir Robert caught my eye and cleared his throat. “Mean that as a compliment, of course. Understand Tingle’s retired, from the family firm. Came down here for the peace and quiet, I suppose. Funny how people think nothing ever happens to rock the boat in a place like Chitterton Fells.”
    The brigadier wasn’t listening, but I knew Sir Robert had to be reliving the day, not so very long ago, when his first wife was murdered. I’d heard it suggested he’d married Maureen Dovedale on the rebound. I hoped not, because she had been in love with him for years; she deserved some happiness after struggling to make a go of things following her late husband’s death. It pleased me, therefore, when Sir Robert checked the clock on the mantelpiece and pondered aloud whether his wife had got lost looking for the kitchen.
    “No sense of direction, most women!” He was back to flexing those masculine muscles. Giving his cravat a tug, he ambled over to the door. “Better go and see what’s keeping the old girl. Definitely beginning to seem peculiar, our being left kicking our heels this long. Don’t suppose the Millers are trying to put out a grease fire? Or chasing down burglars? What! What!”
    Left to ourselves, the brigadier and I settled into a couple of arm chairs. I remembered I hadn’t brought his raincoat, and uncharacteristically, he said that it didn’t matter. He had also left Ben’s behind. He returned to looking out of the window, while I fixed my eyes once again on the portrait of the Norfolk terrier. The expression in the eyes was soulful, almost saintly. Had it been painted after her untimely death, if indeed this was Jessica? I was wondering how her orphan puppies had fared when the door opened and Vienna came bustling into the room wheeling a wooden trolley crammed with a coffeepot, cups and saucers, and a couple of platefuls of scones and fruitcake. Behind her came Madrid, hands clasped and wearing the otherworldly look of a nun taking her morning constitutional in the convent grounds.
    She flinched when Brigadier Lester-Smith got to his feet, as if shocked to find the room occupied. Her sister apologized for the delay without offering any explanation, and I wondered if the two of them had been having words about the problem Madrid had mentioned on my arrival. It most likely had been something extremely trivial, but Vienna had lost her temper. That strong jaw and firm mouth suggested a woman who didn’t mince words. And I could readily imagine her sister getting unhinged and having to be soothed back to coherence with a thimbleful of brandy.
    “What happened to the others?” Vienna demanded in her deep voice, which tended to vibrate around the edges as if run on a motor implanted in her throat. She glanced from me to the brigadier. “Hope they didn’t give up and scoot off home. I’ve made enough scones for an army and we don’t want to be left with too many, do we, Madrid? Not when we’re both trying hard to watch our diets.”
    She smiled at her sister, a bracing smile, filled with an affection that lit up her no-frills face. I decided it was