By a Narrow Majority by Faith Martin Page A

gnomes.’ Janine hated gnomes.
    Hillary grinned, then quickly turned it off as the door opened, revealing a woman of about her own size and weight, but with iron-grey hair and eyes to match. She was wearing an old-fashioned flowered pinafore, the kind that looped over your neck and tied at the back in a bow. ‘Yes?’
    There were generations of country-bred Oxonian in that single word and Hillary smiled briefly. ‘Mrs Rita Matthews?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Hillary held out her ID card, and nodded to Janine to do the same. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Greene, this is Detective Sergeant Tyler. Is your husband in?’
    ‘Yes.’ For a moment, Hillary thought the woman was going to leave it at that, and simply stand there. Though she had considerable experience of country phlegm, that, she considered , would be really taking it too far. After another second, however, in which the old woman’s dark eyes took stock of her visitors, she stood back. ‘Come on inside. The kettle’s on. I’ve just made some bread pudding.’
    Hillary carefully wiped her feet on the rough mat outside, before stepping straight into a kitchen. Of course, such a tiny cottage would have no call for anything so grand as a hall, or even a corridor, where muddy boots and coats could be dispensed with. Inside, instant heat hit them, along with the smell of cooking. ‘He’s in the living room,’ Rita Matthews said, waving a hand at a large wooden door bearing a simple, hundred-year-old black iron latch.
    Hillary nodded and went through, finding herself in a small room, with a real log fire blazing away in the hearth. A single settee, with a matching armchair, faced it. There was a utility cupboard, made just after the war by the looks of it, standing against the back wall, which was bedecked with photographs of the Matthews’ offspring and assorted grandchildren, alongwith the usual selection of cherished but inexpensive ornaments . The pale cream walls were bare of any paintings or hangings. Bright emerald-green curtains hung at a single bay window. On the window-sill, in pride of place, was a big photograph of a grey cat.
    The old man sitting in the armchair and reading a copy of the Oxford Mail slowly lowered the newspaper into his lap and looked at them in some surprise. Hillary heard the door close behind them and knew that Mrs Matthews had followed them inside. Janine cast a quick look at Hillary, wondering if she wanted her to usher the old woman out. Hillary gave a bare shake of her head as she headed around the sofa.
    ‘That’s a lovely fire, Mr Matthews,’ she said, and again introduced herself.
    ‘Police?’ Percy Matthews echoed, surprised. ‘Well, sit you down, sit you down. Want a cup of tea?’
    ‘No, thank you,’ Hillary declined. ‘We’re here to talk about Mr Malcolm Dale, Mr Matthews.’
    At once, the old man’s face darkened. He was a small, wiry man, with tufts of hair at his eyebrows that seemed to move like independent caterpillars. As had his wife, he had a lovely country accent. ‘Oh, him,’ Matthews sneered. ‘What about him? Been complaining about me, has he? Ha, much good it’ll do him. I’ll get him yet.’
    Behind her, Hillary heard Rita Matthews give a small sigh. Hillary settled a little more comfortably into the sofa, for she had the distinct feeling that she was going to be here some time. Percy Matthews, she noticed, was becoming flushed and animated as he charged on without waiting for any explanation of their presence.
    ‘You see that, there,’ he said, pointing imperiously to the photograph of the cat. ‘That was Wordsworth, our cat. A beauty, weren’t he?’ Percy demanded, all but defying her to say otherwise. Not that Hillary was inclined to. Although not a thoroughbred, the photograph depicted a big, muscular Tom, with a dense, short-haired, dappled grey coat. Big greeneyes and slightly tattered ears showed signs of a battling nature. He wouldn’t have surrendered to the hounds without a fight, she