Death in Disguise Read Online Free Page A

half the man you reckon, Janet, he’ll jump at it.’
    â€˜What I don’t understand,’ said Trixie, ‘is why Suhami didn’t tell us until the other day who she really is.’
    â€˜Can’t you?’ Janet gave another unamused laugh. ‘I can.’
    â€˜Just as well,’ continued Trixie, ‘that Chris had already started declaring his intentions. Otherwise she might think he was only after her money.’
    A sudden silence greeted this intemperate remark, then Christopher, tight-mouthed, picked up the knives and forks, said ‘excuse me’ and left the room.
    â€˜Honestly Trixie…’
    â€˜It was only a joke. I don’t know…’ She stomped off without carrying as much as an egg spoon. ‘No sense of humour in this place.’
    Now Ken struggled to his feet. He had ‘a leg’ which stopped him doing quite as much as he would have liked around the house and garden. Some days (especially if rain was forecast) it was worse than others. This morning he hardly limped at all. He picked up the breadboard, saying ‘No peace for the wicked.’
    â€˜They wouldn’t know what to do with it if there was,’ said Janet, and Heather put on her patient Griselda face.
    Janet was Heather’s cross and a great challenge. She was so left-brained; so intellectual. It had been difficult at first for Heather to cope. Until one day, appealed to, Ken’s spirit guide Hilarion had explained that Janet was the physical manifestation of Heather’s own animus. How grateful Heather had been to learn this! It not only made absolute sense but brought about an even deeper feeling of caring commitment. Now, using a tone of exaggerated calm she said: ‘I think we’d better get on.’
    Left alone with Janet, Arno looked at her with some concern. He was afraid he intuited some sort of appeal in the whiteness of her face and the strained rigidity of her hands and arms as she hung on to the dustpan. He wished to do the right thing. Everyone at The Lodge was supposed to be available for counselling at any time of the day or night and Arno, although he was by nature rather fastidious about the spilling of his own emotions, always tried to be open and receptive if needed by others. However there were resonances here which disturbed him deeply and that he did not understand. Nevertheless…
    â€˜Is there something worrying you, Janet? That you would like to share?’
    â€˜What do you mean?’ She was immediately on the defensive, as if goaded. ‘There’s nothing. Nothing at all.’ She was irritated by the word ‘share’, implying as it did an automatic willingness to receive.
    â€˜I’m sorry.’ Arno backtracked, unoffended. His freckled countenance glazed over with relief.
    â€˜Unless you go around with a permanent grin on your face, people keep asking you what your problem is.’
    â€˜It’s well meant—’
    But Janet was leaving, her angular shoulder blades stiff with irritation. Arno followed more slowly, making his way to the great hall. It appeared empty. He looked around. ‘Tim…?’ He waited then called again but no one came. The boy had lately found himself a quite impregnable retreat and Arno, appreciating Tim’s need to be safe and lie securely hidden, made no attempt to seek him out. When the Master emerged from his devotions, Tim also would show himself—following in his beloved benefactor’s footsteps as naturally as any shadow. And crouching at his feet when he halted like a faithful hound.
    So Arno put the beehive hood aside for another day. Then he made his way down the long passage to where the Wellingtons, galoshes and umbrellas were kept, found his old jacket and panama hat, and disappeared to work in the garden.

    After everyone had gone and the main house was quiet Tim appeared, edging his way into the hall.
    Here, in the centre of the ceiling, was