Free The Oxmarket Aspal Murder Mystery by Andrew Hixson

you to meet.”
                  A thin fair-haired pale woman ran lightly down the stairs.
                  “This is John Handful, the private detective.”
                  “Oh,” Mrs Hogg appeared to be startled out of speaking. Her very pale blue eyes stared at me apprehensively.
                  “Pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking her proffered hand.
                  “We heard that you were staying in Oxmarket Aspal,” she said.  “But we didn’t know-” She broke off.  Her light eyes went quickly to her husband’s face.
                  I uttered a few phrases and left with the impression of a genial Dr Hogg and his tongue-tied, apprehensive wife.
                  So much for the Hoggs, where Faith Roberts had gone to work on Tuesday mornings.
     
                 
    10
                  Norbert House was a solidly built Victorian house approached by a long untidy drive overgrown with weeds.  It had not originally been considered a big house, but was now big enough to be inconvenient domestically.
                  I asked the young Polish woman who opened the front door for Lady Osborne.
                  She stared at me and then said:  “I do not know.  Please to come.  Miss Bird perhaps?”
                  She left me standing in the hall. It was in an estate agent’s phrase ‘ fully furnished ’ – with a good many curios from various parts of the world.  Nothing looked very clean or well dusted.
                  Presently the Polish girl reappeared.  She said:  “Please to come,” and showed him into a chilly little room with a large desk.  On the mantelpiece was a big and rather evil-looking copper coffee pot with an enormous hooked spout like a large hooked nose.
                  The door opened behind me and a girl came into the room.
                  “My mother is lying down,” she said.  “Can I do anything for you?”
                  “You are Miss Osborne?”
                  “No, my name is Chloe Bird.  Lord Osborne is my stepfather.”
                  She was a plain girl of about thirty, large and awkward.  She had watchful eyes. 
                  “I was anxious to hear what you could tell me about Faith Roberts who used to work here.”
                  She stared at me.  “Faith?  But she’ dead.”
                  “I am aware of that,” I said gently.  “But I would like to hear about her.”
                  “Oh.  Is it for her life insurance or something?”
                  “It’s got nothing to do with life insurance, it is a question of fresh evidence.”
                  “Fresh evidence.  You mean – her death?”
                  “I’ve been asked by the solicitors for the defence to make an inquiry on Marcus Dye’s behalf.”
                  Staring at me, she asked:  “But didn’t he do it?”
                  “The jury thought he did. But juries have been known to make a mistake.”
                  “Then it was really someone else who killed her?”
                  “It may have been.”
                  “Who?”  She asked abruptly.
                  “That,” I said, “is the question.”
                  “I don’t understand at all.”
                  “No?  But you can tell me something about Faith Roberts, can’t you?”
                  “I suppose so,” she said rather reluctantly.  “What do you want to know?”
                  “Well – to begin with – what did you think of her?”
                  “Why – nothing in particular. She was just like anybody else.”