Murder at Maddingley Grange by Caroline Graham Page A

in the Hogarth suite,” said Laurie, once she had. “I thought as there were three of you you might appreciate a sitting room. And the other Mrs. Gibbs is just across the landing. Simon,” she added loudly, “will help you with your luggage.”
    Simon, on the point of disappearing, came back rather tight about the mouth, and picked up two cases.
    â€œAaahhh…” Violet sighed over one of the peacocks now making its stately way across the drawbridge. “Look at his lordship. Isn’t he lovely? If you ask him, will he open his tail?”
    â€œI’m afraid not.” Laurie’s hard-won confidence fled. She felt an abject failure, convinced that the next two days would be full of people asking her to do and arrange things that were quite impossible.
    â€œHe’s not trained then?”
    â€œNo.” She strove to justify such shameful lack of zeal. “They’re very independent.”
    â€œMind of his own, has he?” said Fred. “You got to be firm with animals. Show them who’s boss.”
    â€œHe’s always had a way with dumb creatures.”
    â€œCan’t have a happy marriage otherwise, my love.” Fred stretched out his hand to the peacock. “Come on then…chuck, chuck…”
    The bird stopped, gave Mr. Gibbs a look of unspeakable disdain and made a mess on the planks. Mortified, Laurie turned her attention to the final guest and immediately a little of her confidence returned. For here was someone as shy and constrained as herself.
    Mr. Lewis dropped his jacket, missed shaking hands and blushed. They exchanged tentative smiles and Laurie led the way to the Watteau room, where she left him standing with his suitcase in the middle of an expanse of aubusson and looking, she thought, rather endearingly lost.

Chapter Six
    I t had been Aunt Maude’s conceit to name each bedroom at the Grange after a famous artist and illustrate accordingly. But as Uncle George’s reserves would not stretch to even the most modest original canvas of a famous artist, an Oxford painter had been hired to copy the works to be placed in situ. The results, though pleasant enough to an untutored eye, would not have fooled the serious gallery goer for a moment. Mrs. Maberley, however, quite unabashed, would describe them firmly to visitors as “My Renoir” or “My Degas,” and woe betide the first to quibble.
    Later, in the Greuze room, beneath an overly vivacious representation of The Spoiled Child , Mrs. Saville surveyed her daughter critically.
    â€œI don’t know why it is, but even when young people get the costume and cosmetics and hairstyles of another period absolutely right, they still look unconvincing.” Complacently resplendent in coffee lace, Mrs. Saville had replaced her diamond earrings with star sapphires. Now she crossed to the dressing table and opened a black velvet case lined with crinkle satin.
    â€œMummy…” Rosemary asked for the umpteenth time, “are you sure you wouldn’t rather sleep in that adjoining room?”
    â€œQuite sure, thank you, darling.”
    â€œOnly—this opening directly on to the corridor might be noisier. People going by and so on.”
    â€œI must have a room with a window,” declared Mrs. Saville. “You know me and fresh air.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œThat is an end to the matter, Rosemary.” Mrs. Saville removed a dazzling necklace from the case and returned to her original theme. “Our family have always understood the art of the ensemble. Your grandmother’s tea gowns were the talk of Fuller’s.”
    â€œI couldn’t have stood the underwear. Rubber suspenders, metal hooks and eyes. And all that slithery stockinette. Ugh.”
    â€œFasten this, please.”
    Dutifully Rosemary came forward and took hold of the necklace. The clasp was two large flattish oval pearls. She linked them together, then stood at