Free Motive for Murder by Anthea Fraser Page B

ahead. Mike flung this open and I found myself in a real, old-fashioned farm kitchen, complete with an enormous white-scrubbed table and a huge open grate.
    A small, thin woman came forward to greet us, nodding her head and watching me with tiny bright eyes. So this was Mrs Johnson’s sister.
    â€˜How do you do, miss, I heard from Patsy as you’m come.’
    â€˜How do you do?’ I turned back to Mike, who was smilingly watching my reactions.
    â€˜Come through to the sitting-room and I’ll get you a drink.’
    We went back down the passage and he opened one of the other doors. This opened into a long, low-ceilinged room prettily decorated in blue and white. The chairs and sofa were floral patterned, and there were some Dresden figures on the mantlepiece. Above the fireplace, dominating the room, was a large portrait of a young girl. Mike noticed my eyes on it. ‘That’s my mother,’ he said.
    â€˜She was lovely.’
    He stood for a long moment, his eyes on the painting, and I remembered Matthew saying how upset he’d been at her death. To distract him, I went on, And what a lovely room – not quite what you’d expect in a farmhouse!’
    He nodded and, as I’d hoped, turned away from the portrait.
    â€˜Yes, I love the place, even if we haven’t been here for generations, like the Haigs at Touchstone. It was actually bought for my uncle, Grandfather’s younger son, but he was killed by a tractor soon afterwards. So when – my father died, Mother moved here with me.’
    He laughed. ‘A Grace and Favour residence, as you might say! Fortunately, we have a marvellous bailiff: Simkins. He’s virtually run the farm for over twenty years.’
    The sun was off the windows now and an autumn coolness breathed through the room. I walked to the log fire and sniffed appreciatively.
    â€˜Apple wood,’ Mike said,
    â€˜Isn’t it rather lonely out here,’ I asked, ‘with only Mrs Trehearn for company?’
    â€˜She doesn’t live in, either. Her husband’s my head cowman – they live in one of the cottages at the back. No,’ he went on reflectively, ‘I can’t say I’m ever lonely.’ He grinned, sliding an arm round my waist. ‘I can usually find company when I want it!’
    â€˜But seriously, Mike, I should have thought Matthew would have invited you to Touchstone more often. After all –’
    He dropped his arm and turned away. ‘I don’t want Matthew’s company any more than he wants mine.’
    â€˜But why? I asked helplessly.
    The door-bell rang, and Mrs Trehearn’s footsteps sounded in the passage as she went to answer it.
    â€˜Mike?’ I insisted, laying a hand on his arm. He paused and looked down at me, an odd expression in his eyes. ‘There are some things I can’t forgive Matthew, Emily, but you needn’t concern yourself with them. Drink your sherry, there’s a good girl, and stop asking questions.’ There were voices in the hall, and as Mike opened the door, Derek staggered in with the crate of beer, Sandra behind him.
    Mike helped him to lay the crate in a corner. Derek straightened. ‘Phew – it’ll be easier carrying that outside than in!’ He bowed to me. ‘Good evening.’
    I wondered if they were as disappointed to see me as I them. They probably feared I would cast a dampener on their evening again.
    I made a conscious effort. ‘Come and get warm,’ I said to Sandra, and she moved over to join me at the fire. She was quite beautiful with her silver blonde hair hanging like a pale curtain and her wide, china-blue eyes – not, I thought suddenly, unlike Linda. But there had been animation on the face in Sarah’s album, whereas Sandra’s, perfect and heart-shaped though it was, was almost doll-like in its lack of expression.
    â€˜Time for a quick one before we eat,’ Mike said, handing