A Choice of Victims Read Online Free

thick foliage shielded her from the weeping clouds, but heavy drops of rain plopped noisily off the trees on to the plastic hood, and she kept her head down to shield her face and to watch for the brambles that reached out to tear at her mackintosh. Although the path was little more than one hundred yards in length some of the female helpers were scared by its eerie gloom, particularly in winter, and preferred the longer but more open route that led up to the cottage from Compton Rye. But not Elizabeth. She lacked the imagination to be scared by an atmosphere.
    As she came out into the clearing surrounding the cottage she was again met by the full force of the rain. The once well-stocked and carefully tended garden was now a near wilderness, with the woodland undergrowth relentlessly encroaching. She hurried up the weed-encrusted path to the front door, paused in the porch to remove her hood and shake the raindrops from her mackintosh, rapped twice on the door and went in.
    Claud Philipson was in the kitchen, where he spent most of his days, watching television. He gave her a nod and bade her good-morning and returned his gaze to the screen. Elizabeth knew most of his history. A retired builder and a bachelor, he suffered from a serious heart condition but had thwarted all Doctor Holden’s efforts to get him into a home. A Compton Rye woman, a Mrs Webster, came in twice weekly to do his washing and the necessary cleaning, and his niece, Kate Marston, visited him sporadically. His refusal to leave the cottage was generally ascribed to a spirit of independence, but there were those who held a different view. In his younger and more agile days he had gained the reputation of being a woman-chaser, and although now too old for chasing he still made passes at some of his female visitors, a licence that would have been denied him in a home. The passes were easily evaded and no one complained. ‘If it gives the old boy a kick, what’s wrong with a bit of slap and tickle?’ had been Ivy Bates’s cheerful comment, and Elizabeth had recently heard it rumoured that that hussy Cheryl Mason, for one, even encouraged him. He had never made a pass at Elizabeth, for which she was thankful—even though it might be seen as a slight to her femininity. She was only 39, and considered herself to be not unattractive.
    She dished out the food and put the plates ready for him on the table. Usually the money was there to be collected. Today it was not, and she said briskly, ‘Don’t let it get cold, Mr Philipson, it’s not all that hot. And may I have the sixty-five pence, please?’
    ‘Isn’t it there?’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
    He got up slowly and produced a handful of coins from a trouser pocket. Even at 78 and despite the grey pallor of his skin, he managed to exude an atmosphere of masculine virility. His hair was still plentiful, an unruly white mop crowning his craggy face; a small goatee beard gave length to his chin. He had large, powerful-looking hands, and his lean, upright body showed none of the flabbiness of age.
    He counted the money onto the table. Elizabeth tended to discourage conversation on such visits, aiming to be in and out of the house as fast as decency permitted. After all, the longer she stayed with one the longer the others would have to wait for their meals and the colder their meals would be when they got them. Yet the rumour about Cheryl Mason had intrigued as well as disgusted her, and for once she was tempted to linger.
    ‘You weren’t looking too good when I was here last,’ she said, gathering up the coins. ‘Feeling better, are you?’
    ‘Better ain’t something I’m ever likely to be,’ he said, in his deep, throaty voice. ‘For me it’s all downhill.’
    ‘Oh, come now, Mr Philipson! You’re just being pessimistic.’ Greatly daring, she added, ‘You must get your lady friend to cheer you up.’
    ‘What lady friend?’ There was a challenge in his voice.
    ‘Well, like—’ No, she