Free The Oxmarket Aspal Murder Mystery by Andrew Hixson Page A

“Talkative or silent?  Curious or reserved?  Happy or miserable?  A nice woman or a not very nice woman?”

              Chloe Bird reflected.  “She worked well but she talked a lot.  Sometimes she said some rather strange things.  Personally, I didn’t really like her very much.”
                  The door opened and the Polish girl came into the room. “You’re mother say: please to bring.”
                  “My mother wants Mr Handful to go upstairs to see her?”
                  “Yes, please, thank you.”
                  Chloe Bird looked at me doubtfully.  “Will you go up and see my mother?”
                  “Of course.”
                  Chloe Bird led the way across the hall and up the stairs and said inconsequently, “I wish the agency would send us someone who could speak more than just broken English.”
                  I ignored her statement, reflecting that Chloe Bird seemed rather ignorant in her views, ignorant to the point of gaucheness.
                  The room upstairs was crowded with knick-knacks. It was the room of a woman who had travelled a great deal and who had been determined wherever she went to have a souvenir of the place.  Most of the souvenirs were clearly made for the delight and exploitation of tourists.  There were too many sofas and tables and chairs in the room, too little air and in the midst of it all was Lady Osborne.
                  Lady Osborne seemed a small woman – a pathetic small woman in a large room. That was the effect.  But she was not really quite as small as she decided to appear.
                  She was reclining very comfortably on a sofa and near her were books, a mini I-pad with headphone, a glass of Prosecco and a box of chocolates.
                  “You must forgive me for not getting up,” she said brightly, “but the doctor does insist on my resting every day and everyone scolds me if I don’t do what I’m told.”
                  I took her proffered soft hand and shook it gently.
                  Behind me, uncompromising, Chloe said:  “He wants to talk about Faith Roberts.”
                  The delicate hand that had lain so passively in mine tightened and I was reminded for a moment of the talon of a bird.  Not really a piece of delicate china but a scratchy predatory claw.
                  “Don’t be so ridiculous, Chloe,” Lady Osborne said, laughing slightly.  “Who is Faith Roberts?”
                  “Oh, Mum, for God’s sake.  She worked for us.  You know, the one who was murdered.”
                  Lady Osborne closed her eyes and shivered.
                  “Stop it.  It was all so horrid.  I felt nervous for weeks afterwards.  Poor woman, but so stupid to keep that amount of money under the floor.  She ought to have put it in the bank.  Of course I remember and I just don’t like thinking about it.”
                  “He wants to know about her, Mum,” Chloe said stolidly.
                  “I’m curious, Mr Handful.  Please, take a seat.  Keldine Hogg just telephoned to say that she had just met a private detective, and she described you.  And then, when Agata described you, I told her immediately to send for you.  I must admit though, you are more handsome in the flesh.”
                  “Thank you,” I smiled.  “I understand that Faith Roberts worked here on Wednesdays and she was murdered on a Wednesday.  So, I just wanted to know whether she had been here that day.”
                  “I can’t remember. It was a while ago.”
                  “So, you can’t remember if she said anything out of the ordinary that day?”
                  “She was a chatterbox,” Lady Osborne