Dead In The Morning Read Online Free

after her father.
    “I know. I keep thinking of that,” Cathy said, brightening. “Isn’t it awful of me?” She had been ashamed of the prompt way in which this consoling reflection had sprung into her mind the moment she heard her father’s news.
    “Not a bit of it. It’s only natural,” said Mrs Mackenzie. “Now run along, or they’ll be thinking you’ve got lost.”
    “All right. I’ll come and see if you want any help when I’m ready,” Cathy said.
     
    When she had gone, Mrs Mackenzie tipped the frothing soufflé mixture into its dish and put it in the oven, humming under her breath. Then she took up the spoon again, and with the tip of her pink, pointed tongue she licked off the sweet-tasting remnants that adhered to its surface; finally she spooned out and consumed every last tiny vestige of pudding that remained in the bowl.

 
V
     
    “Who was that?” asked Patrick Grant, coming out of the door of Reynard’s to speak to his sister. Jane, in faded jeans and a tartan shirt, stood in the vegetable patch waving at a young girl on a cycle who had just passed the cottage.
    “It’s Cathy Ludlow. A nice child, refreshingly old- fashioned,” said Jane, stooping to pick some chives. “The big house at the end of the lane belongs to her grandmother.” She indicated the direction in which Cathy was riding.
    “Then it must have been her mother whom I saw in the chemist’s shop,” said Patrick. “A tall, good-looking woman with ash-coloured hair. Rather elegant.”
    “That was Phyllis Medhurst,” Jane told him. “Old mother Ludlow’s daughter. Cathy’s mother’s dead. They both live at Pantons with the old girl, who’s a regular tartar, from all accounts. I’ve never spoken to her, but I’ve often seen her out in the car. She’s paralysed or something, spends her days in a wheelchair and leads them all the devil of a dance, according to gossip.”
    “Is there a Mr Medhurst?” asked Patrick.
    “Not any more. He departed some years back, I believe,” said Jane. “I gather that Phyllis was always the dutiful daughter at home, unpaid secretary-cum-bottle-washer and general Cinderella, until the war. Then she managed to escape by joining the army or something. She went abroad and got married, but the marriage went wrong after the war so she came home, and has been there ever since, much gibed at by her mother, so I understand.”
    “Hm. We’ve a youth at Mark’s named Ludlow,” Patrick said. “Cathy’s brother, perhaps? It’s not a very common name.”
    “Her cousin. Cathy’s an only child, but her uncle Derek has two sons and one of them’s up at Oxford. Your lad, no doubt. I didn’t realise he was at Mark’s. Coincidence,” she said. “One of your flock, is he?”
    “Only in the general sense, like all of them,” said Patrick. “He’s reading P.P.E., as you might expect from his somewhat contemporary appearance.”
    “What a charming way of putting it,” said Jane. “Can you really tell what subject they’re doing by their looks?”
    “It’s not infallible. There are exceptions either way, but their styles reflect their interests,” said Patrick. “You get the English scholar who goes in for Byronic curls and lace cravats, and historians who copy the hair-dos of the Stuarts. I amuse myself harmlessly enough by noticing such details.”
    “You are an idiot,” said Jane. “But I must say I hadn’t thought of such a thing myself.”
    “Of course not. All you can think of these days is the needs of that tyrannic infant,” Patrick grinned. “Tell me more about the Ludlows. That’s a big house, isn’t it? Do many of them live under the matriarchal wing?”
    “Technically only Phyllis and Cathy. Cathy’s father has a weekend cottage in what was the stables. The Derek Ludlows - your ones - live on the other side of Fennersham, but they have to drop everything and beetle over whenever the old lady blows her whistle, which is constantly.”
    “Perhaps she holds