Free Murder at Maddingley Grange by Caroline Graham

collect.”
    â€œThe murderer escaped through a priest’s hole.”
    â€œA neat trick. Your jacket could do with a brush—”
    â€œSurely you remember,” urged Derek, taking off his dinner jacket and handing it over. “He stole a ruby from Count Markovitch. On the verge of discovery he flung it into the moat and came back for it later.”
    Sheila frowned. “Was the ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg?”
    â€œExactly!”
    â€œThe Case of the Constipated Moorhen.”
    â€œBrilliant, wasn’t it?”
    â€œMmm.”
    Sheila only half remembered. Derek always read a chapter of a whodunit aloud each night before going to sleep. His wife, who would have preferred something a bit more on the athletic side, could never tell one from another. They all joined up into a never-ending stream of blunt instruments, clueless domestics, rare poisons, sinister daggers (always exquisitely wrought) and little gray cells. Often the plucky ingenue would break down at the end of some exceptionally stringent interrogation and cry: “I can’t take much more of this!” and Sheila knew exactly how she felt.
    She removed a magnifying glass from the pocket of the jacket, handed it back and picked up her shawl. This was a beautiful fringed eau-de-nil silk painted with tiger lilies and ferns. When she had arranged it to her satisfaction she told Derek it was nearly seven-thirty and why didn’t he go and brush his hair. He did not reply. She turned to discover him standing stockstill in the middle of the mom, his nose twitching.
    â€œNow what?”
    â€œSheila—we are being watched.”
    â€œDon’t be silly. Why on earth should we be watched?”
    â€œI can feel them…” His voice sank sepulchrally. “Eyes following me around the room.”
    â€œBut you’re not moving round the room. You’re standing still.”
    Derek, who had been facing the wardrobe, wheeled about. To the left of the four-poster was a somber oil painting of a very old man in judge’s robes. Derek narrowed his eyes. He picked up the dressing-table stool and approached the painting by sidling sideways, dropping on his knees for the last couple of yards. Then he put the stool directly beneath the frame, climbed onto it and placed the tips of his index fingers on the judge’s painted pupils. Crying: “Now we’ll see who watches who!” he poked hard. There was a soft tearing sound.
    â€œOh, my God!” gasped Sheila. “What have you done? That might be worth thousands.”
    â€œNonsense.” Derek climbed down, briskly dusting off his hands. “The fabric was completely rotten; it’s as old as the hills. They’ve probably been waiting for years for a chance to get rid of it. And we are”—he roamed off into the en-suite bathroom—“definitely under surveillance. I feel extremely discomposed. I wonder”—he removed tooth mugs, paste and brushes from a shelf—“if this mirror’s two-way.”
    â€œDon’t touch it!” cried Sheila with such urgency that Derek abandoned any idea of unscrewing the glass from the wall and contented himself by merely draping it with a towel.
    â€œI think we should go now,” continued his wife, “while there’s still a stick or stone undamaged.” She crossed to the door and, as Derek prepared to follow, halted him. “Derek, we are about to attend a formal dinner on a lovely summer evening in a beautiful country house…”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo take that ridiculous hat off.”

    It was nearly seven. Bennet was turning down the sheets, leaving Gaunt briefly, magically alone. He reckoned each operation would take a good five minutes. Four to locate the bed, one to do the folding. Sometimes his brother’s appalling eyesight could be a positive advantage.
    Now Gaunt came into the vast kitchen, closing the door behind him