Murder Fortissimo by Nicola Slade Page A

late shift. It wasn’t difficult; all she had to do was check on each of them to see if they were settled comfortably for the night.
    ‘Don’t forget to knock first,’ Matron urged when they met on the stairs. ‘You must always respect their privacy, you know, you wouldn’t just walk into a hotel room and these aren’t senile patients, they’re highly intelligent, professional people. Remember not to treat them like children, Gemma.’
    She smiled as the girl carried on upstairs. It really was working out well, her dream, her vision. Careful selection hadmade sure that she had a good mix of guests and the odd misfit only made her determined to be a good deal more choosy in future. There were one or two mistakes. She wasn’t a snob; money was necessary, of course, Firstone Grange was expensive. She decided, though, that the main requirement was to maintain the harmony she worked so hard to create. She frowned at the thought of Ellen Ransom. Plenty of money there, but Mrs Ransom was definitely not contributing to the harmony of the house and to top it all, she had a sour, spiteful disposition as well.
    And the other one, Mrs Marchant, pity I can’t expel her. Matron gave a small, down-turned smile. But she’s paid up in full for the month and to tell the truth I don’t think I could do that to her poor daughter. Especially now, not when she’s looking so happy, so alive. Matron straightened a holly wreath and tweaked a gold-sprayed teasel firmly into place. I’ll not let anything interfere though, she vowed, specially the likes of Christiane Marchant.
    Most of the guests were already in bed and happy to call out in answer to Gemma’s knock, but Harriet Quigley beckoned her inside.
    ‘I’m fine, dear,’ she answered Gemma’s look of concern. ‘It’s just that I thought you looked a bit worried earlier on and I wondered if there was anything I could do?’ Harriet’s shrewd blue eyes noted the slight withdrawal, the anxious frown, the twisting fingers, and she continued. ‘I’m a very good listener, Gemma, if you ever want to talk about anything.’
    Well, what did you expect you silly old fool, she told herself, closing the door behind Gemma who mumbled something and fled. I’ll be glad to see Sam tomorrow, she decided, I don’t think there’s anything we can do but it’ll be good to talk through some of these insane fantasies of mine.
    Gemma hesitated at the end door, tempted to go straightpast, but her conscience smote her and she knocked, ready to hare downstairs as soon as she had done her duty. The door opened immediately, Christiane Marchant must have been poised at the ready.
    ‘Well,’ she smirked. ‘If it isn’t the sex siren of Firstone Grange. Expecting visitors again tonight, Gemma? I do hope Matron doesn’t find out, it would be an awful pity to lose your job, wouldn’t it?’
     
    Neil drove cautiously along the overgrown drive and pulled to a halt.
    ‘Would … would you like a coffee?’ Alice stuttered with nervous tension. Apart from a couple of innocuous teenage forays, she had never been out with a man. Would he think she was pushy?
    ‘That’d be great, thanks.’ Neil was jittery too. It had been so long since he’d taken a woman out, other than his ex-wife, and that had been years ago. He’d lost the knack and was terrified of scaring Alice away, afraid she’d think he was bent on seduction. Newspaper stories of dates gone wrong made his tongue cleave to the roof of his mouth.
    The evening had so far been a great success. Over a pleasant meal in the Christmassy pub restaurant the conversation had swooped in grasshopper leaps from likes and dislikes to schools and childhood to plans for the business. Both were glad to discover similar interests and shyly delighted to find that a clash of opinions just added to the spice. They had fallen silent as they neared the dilapidated old house and Alice seized on the opportunity to make coffee, leaving Neil to warm up in the