Killing Me Softly Read Online Free Page B

survive a few feet of flood water. The house, too, come to that, though I believe the basement did flood once, sometime in the past. But the garden’s one of the reasons I want to move. I’m not passionate about gardening, and I could do with somewhere less time-consuming. I’ve seen a small property near Brome, in need of some renovation and with a more reasonably sized garden, that might, or might not, do. Seems ideal, on the surface, but at the same time, I’m not sure I want to live out of the town. I know I’m the one who has to make the ultimate decision, but I’d appreciate another opinion. Clare, would you care to look at it with me?’
    â€˜Well, if you think I can be of any help, certainly.’ She was surprised and flattered.
    â€˜Thank you,’ he said gravely. ‘Would Saturday morning suit you? I could collect you about eleven, and then, afterwards – perhaps you’d lunch with me? Brome Country Club does very decent food, I hear.’
    â€˜Oh, I’m sorry, but I’ve promised to have lunch with my father. The afternoon would be fine, though.’
    â€˜No problem. One time’s as good as another,’ he said easily. ‘Shall I call for you at your father’s house?’
    â€˜Do. I’ll make sure we have an early lunch,’ she answered, thinking that he should make use of that attractive smile more often. ‘I’ll look forward to going with you.’
    When Clare told Ellie she was going out with David Neale on Saturday, she was put out by Ellie’s downbeat reaction.
    â€˜Well, Clare, honestly!’
    Was she, just a teeny bit, jealous of a perfectly innocent occasion? Ellie, with all her men friends? Jealous of an outing with David ? A stuffed shirt, she’d called him when he’d first started with them, laughing at Clare’s championship of him, unable to see that beneath the reserved Scottish exterior, David Neale was pure gold.
    Or was she having an attack of guilty conscience?
    â€˜You can’t!’ she said, looking utterly disbelieving. Which was unfair, and rich, coming from Ellie. But Ellie’s mores were her own.
    The ancient house at the end of the area known as the Bagots had, once in its chequered history, been an inn. Every now and then, a little more of it collapsed into ruin, leaving a shrinking but still rambling confusion of small rooms and unexpected staircases. It resembled an illustration out of a Dickensian novel, tumbledown, leaning, with roofs sloping almost to the ground, crooked chimneys and sagging lintels. It had what might be described as a floating population, which, it seemed to Jem, might one day be literally true, if the river rose far enough. It was another contributory factor to all the things which were worrying him just now, though it was nothing new. The water which regularly seeped through into the cellar was an ongoing problem.
    Tonight, when he’d taken a flashlight and gone down to make an inspection, it had been awash with several inches of water. It didn’t bother anyone else living in the house because none of the other occupants ever ventured down the gruesome, slimy steps, not even Morgan.
    The damp had risen throughout the house. Clusters of black mushroom growths fruited in the corners of the kitchen ceiling, skirting boards were rotten, and what paper was left on the walls hung down in great swathes, where it wasn’t drawing-pinned up. There was a sweetish odour of mould and rot, mingled with other smells, mainly cannabis.
    The house today, as always, reeked of it. Luce drew the line at anything else, she was very strait-laced about some things and it was her house, left to her by her grandfather. She was away for a few days, however, and Jem wouldn’t trust the newcomers, Ginge and Sheena, not to take advantage of her absence. The house hadn’t been worth much when Luce inherited it, but now that the developers had won their battle to