Death Trick by Roderic Jeffries

had, in fact, seemed the experts were right and his customers, faced with prices higher than elsewhere, would dwindle in number until he was forced to close, but still he refused to sack most of the staff and instal self-service. Then, just in time, there was a reaction from the packaged take-it-or-leave-it of the supermarkets and people returned to favouring a shop, even if it was more expensive, where an assistant welcomed them by name, complimented them on their choices of cheese, offered them one of ten different teas, and suggested they try a newly arrived delicacy. He was, of course, fortunate that Amhurst lay in a prosperous part of the country.
    His wife, Letitia, had had no children (not for want of trying; in the early days of their marriage, her enthusiasm had surprised and often embarrassed him) and so there had been no son to pass the business on to. On his retirement, he had had to sell. And the price he had been offered—for the site, not the business, much to his sorrow—had been far greater than he’d expected. By his standards, he was wealthy. He’d looked forward to a quiet, respectable retirement . . .
    This was when Letitia had dropped her bombshell. Being so honest, if ever asked he would have admitted that he’d never really understood her—which was, perhaps, why they’d been happy together. Among other things, he’d always assumed that like him her roots were too firmly entrenched locally ever to be moved. But suddenly, without a single hint previously given, she’d told him she no longer wanted to live in their small, rather gloomy Edwardian house with a garden darkened by laurel bushes, but wanted to move to a large, modern, and wholly cheerful home in the sun with a garden filled with cannas, hibiscus, oleander . . . Live abroad? Where nobody washed, women didn’t shave under their armpits, and everyone ate garlic . . .
    They’d hired a car and toured Mallorca and looked at property for sale. The fourth house they saw had three bedrooms, three bathrooms, central heating, an integral garage, a swimming pool, and a garden filled with extravagant colour. ‘That’s for us,’ she’d said. He had tried to make her change her mind and when she’d demanded to know what was wrong with so beautiful a place, he had stumblingly admitted that it was just too luxurious for an ex-grocer . . . ‘There aren’t any sumptuary laws these days,’ she’d said, making it very clear that they were going to buy the place.
    He’d been so right, though for the wrong reason. The first cracks had appeared the year after they’d moved in. He’d complained to the builder, who hadn’t been able to understand the problem; all houses cracked. Since he, along with most other builders on the island, was an off-duty waiter, his puzzlement was easily understood. The cracks had increased and worsened and it became clear that the house was suffering the effects of subsidence.
    He’d consulted Roig to see if he could claim compensation from anyone. Roig had greeted him with smiling friendliness, listened to his tale of woe, and assured him that every house was insured for ten years from completion through the insurances compulsorily held by architect, aparejador, and builder.
    ‘Do not distress yourself for one second, Señor Braddon. We write letters to the architect, the aparejador, and the builder, they show these to their insurance companies, and the companies agree to the work being done.’
    As they’d left the building, Letitia had said: ‘There you are, Joe. I told you there was no need to get in such a state.’
    Such had been the force of Roig’s assurances that for a time Braddon had believed she was right.
    The cracks opened up and spread in the summer when the earth dried out, closed in the winter once the rains had come. Repeatedly, he’d returned to Roig’s office, demanding to know when something would be started.
    ‘Señor Braddon, calm yourself. I give you my full assurance, everything is