Sons of Angels Read Online Free

came from the kitchen. The house had been built in the late nineteen-forties by someone who had made a good deal of money in the post-war housing boom. Although not extravagant, it was composed of the finest materials salvaged from bomb sites and closed-down architectural warehouses. Despite the lack of natural light in the hall, the only window being high over the three-turn stairs, the light from the pendant glass lampshades lent a soft glow to the polished oak paneling.
    Niches built between the supporting beams held neo-classical sculptures in bronze and marble, and the clever piece of trompe l’oeil led the eye of any viewer standing at the front door into an Italian vista. Four heavy oak doors, varnished slightly darker than the surrounding panels, led to downstairs rooms, and a passageway under the stairs to the kitchen, scullery and pantry.
    Felicia hated the house with a passion matched only by her loathing for sensationalist art critics.
    Her formative years had been spent skulking through shadows, careful not to leave fingerprints on the polished wood, scratches in the floor or, as a teenager, beer stains on a ceiling recovered from a seventeenth-century church in Whitechapel. Even now she was certain to tread only on the Persian rug, necessitating a rather longer step than usual to get from the end to the relative safety of the stoneware tiles in the kitchen passage.
    A milk bottle in each hand, she negotiated the long step between the hall rug and the tiles, and entered the kitchen where her mother mouthed a “good morning” over the sonorous tones of the radio.
    “Hi.” Felicia mouthed back, crossing to the fridge to put the milk away. She sat, sipping coffee and glancing through the paper while her mother listened to the radio.
    A headline caught her eye.
    Fire claims two victims
    A mother and her young son died last night when their house on Park View caught fire in the early hours of the morning. Neighbors were alerted to the fire when flames broke out of the second-story window and the fire brigade was called.
    Carol Goodwin, 36, and her six-year-old son Peter, died in the inferno which did no damage to the surrounding buildings. Police are investigating, but foul play is not suspected. Pictures on page 7.
    Felicia turned to a photograph of the post-fire scene. There was almost nothing left, just a small pile of bricks, and slates from the roof. The editor had found an old picture of the house when it was built two years previously for comparison, and a neighbor had helpfully supplied a picture of Carol and her son Peter taken in Plymouth the previous year.
    “Tragic.” Her mother spoke only when the radio changed to business news. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”
    “It’s just a fire, Mum. House fires happen all the time. Did you know them?”
    “Park View?” Her mother sneered. “As if I would. They’re all council houses down there.”
    “I’m sure they were lovely people, Mum.” Felicia closed the paper and looked at her watch. “Is there anything you need? I’ll have to go to work in a minute.”
    “I don’t think so, darling, thank you.”
    “Okay then.” She washed up her empty coffee cup and set it on the draining board.
    Her mother clicked her tongue. “Don’t leave it there, Felicia. It makes the place look untidy.”
    “Sorry.” She dried it with a tea towel and put it away in the cupboard.
    “You said you’d been to visit your sister.”
    Felicia was surprised. This was the first time her mother had brought up the subject of her younger daughter in years. “That’s right. She’s doing very well, actually.”
    “She’s still at St. Pity’s then?” Patricia tried to appear disinterested, but Felicia could tell she had a point to make.
    “That’s right. We sat in the rose garden until it started to go dark. Why?”
    Her mother picked up the paper and began to leaf through it. “Have you got an insurance policy on her? One that’s about to