Sleeping Murder Read Free

bright and cheerful. Little bunches of poppies alternating with bunches of cornflowers … Yes, that would be lovely. She’d try and find a wallpaper like that. She felt sure she had seen one somewhere.
    One didn’t need much furniture in the room. There were two built-in cupboards, but one of them, a corner one, was locked and the key lost. Indeed the whole thing had been painted over, so that it could not have been opened for many years. She must get the men to open it up before they left. As it was, she hadn’t got room for all her clothes.
    She felt more at home every day in Hillside. Hearing a throat being ponderously cleared and a short dry cough through the openwindow, she hurried over her breakfast. Foster, the temperamental jobbing gardener, who was not always reliable in his promises, must be here today as he had said he would be.
    Gwenda bathed, dressed, put on a tweed skirt and a sweater and hurried out into the garden. Foster was at work outside the drawing room window. Gwenda’s first action had been to get a path made down through the rockery at this point. Foster had been recalcitrant, pointing out that the forsythia would have to go and the weigela, and them there lilacs, but Gwenda had been adamant, and he was now almost enthusiastic about his task.
    He greeted her with a chuckle.
    â€œLooks like you’re going back to old times, miss.” (He persisted in calling Gwenda “miss.”)
    â€œOld times? How?”
    Foster tapped with his spade.
    â€œI come on the old steps—see, that’s where they went—just as you want ’em now. Then someone planted them over and covered them up.”
    â€œIt was very stupid of them,” said Gwenda. “You want a vista down to the lawn and the sea from the drawing room window.”
    Foster was somewhat hazy about a vista—but he gave a cautious and grudging assent.
    â€œI don’t say, mind you, that it won’t be an improvement … Gives you a view—and them shrubs made it dark in the drawing room. Still they was growing a treat—never seen a healthier lot of forsythia. Lilacs isn’t much, but them wiglers costs money—and mind you—they’re too old to replant.”
    â€œOh, I know. But this is much, much nicer.”
    â€œWell.” Foster scratched his head. “Maybe it is.”
    â€œIt’s right, ” said Gwenda, nodding her head. She asked suddenly, “Who lived here before the Hengraves? They weren’t here very long, were they?”
    â€œMatter of six years or so. Didn’t belong. Afore them? The Miss Elworthys. Very churchy folk. Low church. Missions to the heathen. Once had a black clergyman staying here, they did. Four of ’em there was, and their brother—but he didn’t get much of a look-in with all those women. Before them—now let me see, it was Mrs. Findeyson—ah! she was the real gentry, she was. She belonged. Was living here afore I was born.”
    â€œDid she die here?” asked Gwenda.
    â€œDied out in Egypt or some such place. But they brought her home. She’s buried up to churchyard. She planted that magnolia and those labiurnams. And those pittispores. Fond of shrubs, she was.”
    Foster continued: “Weren’t none of those new houses built up along the hill then. Countrified, it was. No cinema then. And none of them new shops. Or that there parade on the front!” His tone held the disapproval of the aged for all innovations. “Changes,” he said with a snort. “Nothing but changes.”
    â€œI suppose things are bound to change,” said Gwenda. “And after all there are lots of improvements nowadays, aren’t there?”
    â€œSo they say. I ain’t noticed them. Changes!” He gestured towards the macrocarpa hedge on the left through which the gleam of a building showed. “Used to be the cottage hospital, that used,” he said. “Nice place