Free Murder at Maddingley Grange by Caroline Graham Page A

with great care. The room, full of fragrant smells and the soft plop and bubble of simmering food, appeared to be empty, but he still checked the walk-in broom cupboard and washing-up annex before approaching the portable oven and easing open the vitreous enamel door a minim at a time, as if afraid it might creak. He peeped inside and let out a hiss of relief. Finding a hiding place had been a matter of some urgency and Gaunt had known, even as he stashed away the life-enhancing juniper juice, that the oven left a lot to be desired. It was so square and white and visible. Exactly the sort of place a certain person might suss first.
    Gaunt resented deeply Ben’s lack of faith. Really, it gave a man no encouragement to try. And Gaunt was trying. He had been cutting down for three weeks. He was pacing himself, preparing his lights and liver and other dependent tissue for the sustained shock which a gradual change in the constituency of their amniotic fluids must inevitably bring. For gradual the procedure had to be. You could not just suddenly stop imbibing alcohol. Gaunt had done this once (one Easter Sunday morning) to please his mother and had become a trembling heap of flummoxed jelly by lunchtime. No, easy was definitely the way to do it. Something the rest of the family either couldn’t or wouldn’t understand.
    He unscrewed the cap from the gin bottle and looked around for a drinking receptacle. Nearest to hand was a cream jug. He filled this and drank the contents down, pausing to breathe halfway. Then he replaced the cap, puckered his forehead up into a frown of concentration and, Beefeaters in hand, started to wander round the room. But the more he wandered the more bereft did the kitchen seem of bottle-shaped nooks and crannies. Then he spotted a largeish stone crock that proved to be three quarters full of flour. There was a little brass scoop inside. Using this, Gaunt made a space, laid the gin tenderly to rest and covered it with the displaced flour. The cream jug had provided such a generous helping of nourishing reserves that Gaunt felt he might not need refueling till the morrow. But just in case…
    A savage sudden ringing in his ears made him jump and another quick nip was necessary before he was able to once more take up his duties and answer the telephone.

    The library at Madingley Grange was rarely used. The pristine books in their diamond-paned cases seemed never to have been sullied by anything so coarse as the perusal of the human eye. They were all in sets: leather bound, gold tooled. Sets of encyclopedias and sets of Dickens. Sets of Thackeray, Trollope and Austen. Though the various authors were bound in different cloths, the effect, even allowing for the thrusting scarlet Brontës, was virginal throughout.
    â€œI think Uncle George bought them by the yard, don’t you?” Laurie asked her brother. “Six of brown, three of green and one of red to brighten the dark corners. Isn’t it sad there are no children’s books?”
    â€œWhat’s sad about not having children? Grotty little pests.”
    â€œNo shabby Nesbits with cocoa stains and trapped cookie crumbs. No Wind in the Willows . No Pooh—”
    â€œOh, do shut up.”
    â€œI’m nervous.”
    â€œWe’re all nervous.”
    â€œYou’re not nervous. You wouldn’t be nervous if someone was pushing you off a cliff.” Laurie gave her damp lace handkerchief a wring, noticed the appalling state of her nails and tucked her hands out of sight. “It’s the thought of them all up there rampaging about.”
    â€œNobody’s rampaging. It’s as silent as the grave.”
    â€œOh, God—so it is!” Laurie sprang to her feet. “Why is it so quiet? What are they all doing?”
    â€œGetting ready for dinner, I expect. Sit down.” Simon waved his long shagreen cigarette holder at her, and Laurie reluctantly sat, saying: “Then there’s