Murder Fortissimo by Nicola Slade Page B

drawing-room where she had banked up the fire before going out.
    The best Crown Derby cups, Mother, she thought defiantly as she carried in a tray. And see if I care.
    Prim and petrified they sat on opposite sofas, bought new from Maples in 1923, the big shadowy room lit only by the fire and a lamp on the piano. She wondered about music, should she play some? On what though, Daddy’s big old radiogram? Christiane’s television in her bedroom? Definitely not. Grandpa’s steam radio, circa 1935, that didn’t work any more because she didn’t know if you could still get spare valves? I suppose I could play the piano? She began to rock very gently, wringing her hands in an agony of bashful suspense.
    The companionable pleasant feeling of the evening seemed to have disappeared. What did I do, she agonized, was it asking him in for coffee? Don’t people do that? Her coffee threatened to choke her but she fought the urge to cry and tried to make polite conversation. As she dared to look across at him, wondering when he would make his escape, Neil put his cup down.
    ‘Oh God, Alice, this is awful,’ he said, coming to stand in front of her. ‘I never meant this to happen.’
    She gulped and struggled for some kind of dignity. ‘It – it’s all right, Neil, I don’t mind. You’d – you’d better go.’
    ‘Don’t be silly, he said, sitting down beside her. ‘I don’t
want
to go, that’s just the trouble.’
    He took her in his arms, stifling her squeak of surprise with a kiss that started lightly and somewhere along the line turned to desperation. Carried away on a tide of sensation Alice gave herself up to the feeling completely, her lips, and his, frantic with desperation born of years of unfulfilled longing. She gasped with dismay as Neil broke away, panting: ‘Christ, Alice, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be doing this. What must you think of me?’
    They were on the hearthrug now, firelight gleaming on her bare shoulder, her hair a descending tangle of curls. ‘Don’t …’ she whimpered. ‘Don’t stop, please, please.’
    He gasped and turned her face towards him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. ‘I think I’m in love with you, Alice,’ he whispered.
    As he pulled her close and she melted into his arms she had a last coherent thought: nothing must spoil this, not now, not
her
, not ever.

Chapter Six
----
    Harriet Quigley ate her dinner on Friday with an air of attentive interest that completely deceived the guest beside her as he droned happily in her ear. She knew that Pauline Winslow had done some thorough research into convalescent and residential homes and that was why everyone was moved round on a daily basis to encourage socializing. No cliques or cabals for Matron. Mostly, Harriet thought, it worked very well, the shy guests were saved the ordeal of having to introduce themselves; the neat place cards saw to that. This meant that the bores were shared out among the whole company so that nobody suffered unfairly. Today it was Harriet’s turn to endure, but only for one day.
    ‘Ladies and Gentlemen.’ Matron was up on her feet. ‘As you know, the Oompah Band will be entertaining us tonight. I believe it’s a mixed programme, some Christmas carols and some other old favourites.’
    She looked puzzled as she caught Harriet’s eye. Miss Winslow had obviously spotted that Harriet was concealing a smile at the memory of the recent Oompah offering in her own village, in aid of the organ fund. It was certainly likely to prove a ‘mixed’ concert.
    ‘There’ll be wine and beer available from Mrs Turner, by the door to the kitchen.’ She acknowledged the ragged cheer that greeted this statement, looking round to make sure nobody was offended. ‘I’m sure we’ll all have a wonderful evening.’
    There was a mild ripple of applause and she continued. ‘As I explained the other day, the Oompah Band do a lot of charity work and they assure me that any contributions will be extremely