A Choice of Victims Read Online Free Page A

couldn’t say it. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t got a lady friend.’
    ‘Maybe.’ A sly grin lit his face. ‘You offering, then?’
    She managed a laugh. ‘I’m sure you can’t be that hard up.’ Lacking the nerve to probe further, she put the money in her purse and picked up the food containers. ‘Well, I must be off. It’s after one o’clock and I’ve other calls to make.’
    The rain was still pelting down, and she paused in the porch to adjust her hood. But as she hurried into the woods her mind was fixed on the rumour about Cheryl Mason. Just what did she and the old man get up to together?
    *
    Moira Bassett stared at her brother in dismay. Water dripped from his hair to run in rivulets down his cheeks. His mackintosh had darkened with the rain. His breeches were soaked, his boots and leggings caked with mud.
    ‘What in Heaven’s name have you been up to, Toby?’ she exclaimed. ‘You look half drowned.’
    He reached for a kitchen towel to dry his hair. ‘It’s raining,’ he said.
    ‘I know it’s raining. But you couldn’t have got that wet just coming back from the pub.’
    He ignored that. ‘Dinner ready?’ he asked.
    ‘Of course it’s ready. Been ready half an hour. But you’re not sitting down like that.’
    ‘I wasn’t aiming to.’
    He removed his mackintosh and boots and went upstairs. When he returned, changed and dry, he sat down and watched her spoon stewed cod and mashed potatoes on to his plate. It was always fish on Fridays. The Bassetts had been brought up as Catholics, although Toby had long since ceased going to Mass. Normally cheerfully garrulous, he ate now in silence, the hint of a frown puckering his brow. Moira wondered what was bothering him.
    ‘Nothing’s bothering me,’ he said when she asked.
    ‘Come off it, Toby! Like I said, you didn’t get that wet just coming back from the pub. So where’ve you been, eh?’
    ‘I’ve been checking the traps, haven’t I?’
    ‘In this weather?’ Moira hated his poaching, as she hated his other illegal pursuits. But he was her brother and she loved him, and she knew she could never change him. ‘About all you’ll have caught is a cold.’
    He put down his knife and fork. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, my girl,’ he said. ‘I’ve caught me the biggest rabbit you’ve ever bloody well seen.’ He shook his head. ‘Trouble is, I’m not sure I know what to do with it.’

 
    Chapter Two
     
    Although Westbourne House, the Compton Rye home of the Holden family, was undeniably old, it comprised such a medley of periods and styles that it was difficult to date accurately. The roof sloped and curled in all directions, the ground floor was on varying levels so that one had to watch one’s step or mind one’s head when moving from one room to another, the upper floor sloped from front to back, the floorboards creaked and groaned underfoot, doors did not fit neatly into jambs nor windows into frames. With so many outlets for heat loss the cost of running the oil central heating system was prohibitive, and the Holdens used it sparingly, relying on coal or log fires on all but the coldest days. Yet they loved the house. Situated some six hundred yards west of the village on the Compton Morris road, it had considerable charm, with a delightful garden and superb views to the south and west. During the fourteen years they had lived there they had talked repeatedly of rectifying some of the faults. But it had seemed that one undertaking would inevitably lead to another, and the probable cost of the total had shocked them into doing nothing. It would have to wait, at least until after the children had finished their education.
    Frances Holden was one of the most popular women in the tight little community of the four villages. Her husband Tom, and Natalie and Victor, their two children, adored her. So did Whisky and Soda, the two cairn terriers, and Smudge the cat. Hiawatha, the tortoise, was not a demonstrative animal, but