A Fatal Freedom Read Online Free Page B

investigator a cup of tea in the room at the back of the house she reserved for her private use. ‘Ah, Miss Grandison, Mr Jackman has called to see you are settled. Mr Jackman is a good friend, I don’t know what Mr Maple would have done without him sorting out that crook of a builder he had the bad luck to employ. Sit down and have a cuppa, won’t you?’
    Ursula was happy to oblige. Her feet were tired from another day of walking around London in her hopeless quest.
    ‘How pleasant to see you again, Mr Jackman,’ she said, sitting down. ‘Tell me more about the crooked builder.’
    Soon Ursula was enjoying an account of various difficulties Mr and Mrs Maple had had setting up the boarding house. Under her severe demeanour, Mrs Maple gradually revealed humour and warmth and it was evident that she and Jackman had a companiable relationship.
    ‘And how has your day been, Miss Grandison?’ Mrs Maple asked after it had been explained how the crooked builder had been warned off by the investigator.
    ‘Without result, I am afraid,’ Ursula said brightly. ‘However, I have hopes for an interview that has been arranged for tomorrow.’
    ‘I wonder,’ said Mrs Maple slowly. ‘I ran into an old friend yesterday. We knew each other a long time ago. She moves in different circles these days. Mrs Bruton she is now, quite the lady.’ The dry way she said this told Ursula that Mrs Maple’s friend had patronised her. ‘She told me,’ Mrs Maple continued, ‘that Mr Bruton passed on two years ago and she is now out of mourning. She also mentioned that she has need of some sort of secretary. I didn’t give it attention at the time but with you looking for a position, Miss Grandison, I wonder … now, what did I do with the card she gave me?’ Mrs Maple started investigating her pockets. ‘Here it is!’ She handed over a piece of pasteboard.
    The card was stylishly printed, the name ‘Mrs Edward Bruton’ printed in flowing italics, with an address in Wilton Crescent in smaller typeface on the bottom left-hand corner.
    ‘Now you write to her, Miss Grandison, and say you are available.’
    ‘Can’t do any harm,’ said Jackman. He rose. ‘Must be on my way, just dropped by to say hello to Mrs Maple and see you were settled, Miss Grandison.’
    Ursula remembered how they had agreed down in Somerset that they would use each other’s first names. Somehow this didn’t seem the right time to remind him.

    * * *

    Two days later, Ursula met a fluttery woman in her forties who seemed happy to relate her circumstances. Mr Bruton had been considerably older than herself, there had been no offspring of the union, and the widow had been left well provided for. Now out of mourning, she was beginning to involve herself with various activities.
    ‘I wish to enlarge my circle of friends. Edward was a very private person, Miss Grandison.’ Mrs Bruton rearranged the wayward chiffon scarf that was draped over her pale pink crepe de chine blouse, prettily tucked and inserted with lace, the sleeves slightly puffed at the shoulder and anchored in lace-bedecked cuffs, each fastened with a row of tiny pearl buttons. A dark grey slubbed silk skirt, its cut pronouncing that it came from no ordinary dressmaker, managed to suggest that its wearer was slimmer than close inspection revealed.
    The interview took place in the morning room of a fashionable home in Knightsbridge. Sun lit Mrs Bruton’s pale gold hair, artfully arranged in a sort of pillow with escaping tresses that suggested a mind free from too many formal restraints.
    The face was softly plump with only a few lines around the eyes. The mouth had none of the stern qualities Ursula had discerned in those older ladies she had recently met who required companionship – or a genteel slave. The eyes were a gentle blue with heavy lids. Hanging from her neat ears were pearls whose sheen declared they were genuine, as was the long string around her neck. Her hands were soft; diamond