Murder at Maddingley Grange by Caroline Graham

his life and was so used to its appearance that he was quite unprepared for the sudden gasps of surprise and murmurs of appreciation as the last curve in the road through the surrounding parkland was negotiated and the house suddenly swung into view. He tried to see it through his passengers’ eyes and failed, merely observing to himself that hideousness on such a profoundly confident and flamboyant scale must surely be some sort of virtue in its own right. He was sorry to see, as he bumped over the drawbridge, that the swans were round the back, but one of the peacocks made up for this by elegantly sauntering into view as Simon crunched to a halt by the iron-studded main doors.
    For the umpteenth time he congratulated himself on his idea of a thirties setting. The trio on the steps (where was Hugh?) could have stepped straight out of an early Christie. Reading from left to right—Gaunt, grave of feature in his swallowtails…Bennet, thin as the wind, lips clamped respectfully together, graying hair scraped back under her starched cap. And Laurie…
    Good old Laurie, thought Simon. She really has gone to town. His sister was wearing the geometric-patterned silk dress and high-heeled shoes. Her normally glowing complexion had quieted down to a smooth peach and her glossy wine-dark lips were parted in a determined smile.
    Simon slid open the door of the bus and jumped down, suffused with satisfaction at the appropriateness of it all. And if there isn’t a body in the library, he thought, by this time tomorrow, it won’t be due to any lack of initiative on my part. He walked around to the trunk and started taking out the cases. Gaunt and Bennet flowed forward to assist.
    Laurie greeted the first guest to descend: “Hullo—I’m Laurel Hannaford. Welcome to Madingley Grange,” and found herself shaking a hand like a damp flounder. It belonged to a tall man now arched into a comma of eager salutation. He had round watery green eyes and a thick, dry, shaggy moustache like a little straw mop.
    â€œI’m Arthur Gillette, known as Gilly. Hard G of course.” He gave a high-pitched, neighing laugh, “hinnire…hinnire… ” and Laurie, imagining it ringing from the rafters for the next forty-eight hours, flinched.
    She said: “I do hope your stay will be a happy one.” She had learned half a dozen opening gambits while waiting and now realized that she had completely forgotten the other five. I’m going to sound like a parrot, she thought, by the time we’ve got them all safely stowed away.
    A pretty, hard-faced girl alighted next, followed by a tall woman of formidable aspect. She looked around, seeming especially taken with the gargoyles—no doubt in some kind of subliminal recognition.
    â€œDelightful,” she exclaimed. “A noble house.”
    Then came an aesthetic-looking man pointing like a gun-dog. The sun glinted on his steel-rimmed glasses and he gazed up at the great doors and dusty ivy in a seemingly ecstatic trance. “Marvelous…marvelous…Baskerville Hall to the life…”
    â€œDerek—you’re blocking everyone’s way.”
    Simon instructed Gaunt to show the Gregorys to the Vuillard room and they went off together, Derek still quite moony with delight. Gawping his way through the hall he bumped into a pedestal on which stood a large yellow and turquoise Chinese vase. Sheila caught it just in time.
    Mother got stuck on the steps again. Laurie, alarmed, amused and repelled in equal measure by this occurrence, tried to help. Eventually the old lady came out with a forceful pop like a champagne cork and Laurie staggered back under the impact.
    â€œPut that lady down.” Fred started as he meant to go on. “You don’t know where she’s been.”
    â€œPleased to meet you, dear.” Violet shook hands. “You’ll be glad to get your breath back.”
    â€œYou and your husband are