Free Murder At Wittenham Park by R. W. Heber

which revealed a great deal more than it concealed and kept both Welch’s and Hamish’s eyes on her most of the time.
    However, Hamish had dressed decently, almost overdressed himself, in a dark-blue velvet smoking-jacket with enough loops of black braid on its sleeves to satisfy a four-star general.
    As for Welch, he was in another of his Mafia-style blue suits, causing Adrienne embarrassment and anger. She had told him to pack a dinner suit and he’d refused. “What, tog meself up for that toffee-nose?” he’d snorted “You have to be joking!” Why did George have to be so obstinate and always put people’s backs up? There were times when she had really had enough. “Reely,” she’d told her mother last week, “now I’ve wormed that million of insurance out of him, I’d be better off if he did drop dead. No more having to beg him for money all the time and I’d be able have my friends round when I want.”
    It had taken little short of the rack and thumbscrews to get George to buy that insurance, but the threat of more Lloyds losses had done the trick. She’d pointed out that Lloyds could take every penny if he died unexpectedly, whereas an insurance payout would be inalienably hers. She suspected he’d given in because having done so gave him a kind of licence to womanize. She felt a lot more secure as a result, but was still furious at the way he kept sneaking glances at Loredana’s well-defined nipples. That woman was no more than a high-class tart, she decided. Trust George to be spellbound!
    Gilroy’s fears regarding his guests’ enthusiasm were justified when the rest were given their clues. Welch read his and scrumpled it into a pocket. Hamish made a sotto-voce comment and did the same. Loredana handed hers to Hamish, protesting she had nowhere to put it. Possibly not, Jemma thought wickedly, since she was neither carrying a handbag nor wearing a bra, though lacking a handbag was strange. She was probably worried she’d end up leaving it in the wrong room. The vibes about Loredana and Hamish had been easy to pick up.
    Dulcie’s reaction was the most intriguing. She smiled to herself as she read the clue, then carefully folded it and tucked it into her evening bag. What caused that smile? Jemma wondered.
    The stilted conversation was mercifully cut short by Priscilla Worthington making her entrance, wearing a low-cut black evening gown with a gauzy see-through top up to her neck and down to her wrists. Priscilla knew how to pile on the glamour.
    â€œDarlings,” she announced, swaying slightly as she accepted her clue, “how too mysterious for words. We must all keep our ears to the ground!” She advanced on Dee Dee. “Dear Mrs. Sketchley,” she accented the “dear” heavily for effect, “how good it is of you to ask all your family for the weekend. Such a privilege for me to meet them all again. A companion’s life is not always a happy one.” Then she added to the others in a hissing undertone, “Actually I hate the old bitch.”
    Total silence greeted this theatrical foray.
    Hamish’s face froze, as though she’d impugned the honour of the McMountdowns, or a cab driver had addressed him as “friend.” Hamish was starchily snobbish about virtually everything.
    Dee Dee decided Priscilla must be tanked up to the eyebrows, and was working out how to prevent her getting any more to drink, when Dodgson saved her by announcing that dinner was served. As soon as the guests had gone through, he whispered throatily to Dee Dee that Tracy, the maid, insisted on speaking to her.
    â€œThis moment?”
    â€œYes, milady.”
    Oh God, Dee Dee thought, she can’t be going to give in her notice now! She agreed to see the girl very briefly and, when the guests had been taken to the dining-room, Tracy came in looking flustered.
    â€œWell, Tracy,” Dee Dee