Murder at Maddingley Grange by Caroline Graham Page B

her mother’s side facing the cheval glass. A long moment passed while Mrs. Saville admired Mrs. Saville and Rosemary admired her inheritance.
    It really was the most magnificent piece. One large diamond blazed, subduing the fire from eight smaller gems. These shone in a setting of seed pearls and sapphires. Mrs. Saville had a superb swoop of a bosom. It started directly beneath the hollow of her neck and finished just a smidgen above what, if only a hint of indentation had been present, could have passed for her waist. As this splendid curvature rose and fell, the necklace oscillated and every color of the rainbow flashed into incandescent life. Darting and dazzling, blinding the eye, stopping the breath, filling the heart with wonder.
    â€œI must say”—she gave the jewels a final soothing pat as if to settle them for the night—“I’m pleasantly surprised by the standard of hygiene.” She wrapped a lace hankie around her little finger and ran it over the bedside table. Not a speck. “Fresh flowers too. And chocolate Bath Olivers. A really thoughtful touch.”
    â€œThe sheets smell of lavender.” Then, catching sight of a blue and white package next to her mother’s evening bag, “Oh Mummy…” Rosemary’s voice filled with irritation. “You haven’t brought your cards.”
    â€œOf course. In a civilized gathering there are bound to be enough people to make up a rubber.”
    â€œYou only played on Thursday.”
    â€œI did not play on Thursday. The game was canceled. Davina Bingley’s mother, if you recall.”
    â€œMmm.” Rosemary twirled slowly—easily distracted by her own image. The sea-green dress was heaven, the slashed hem coming to eight deep points, each weighted with a single pearl, but were the shoes, especially dyed, a precise match?
    â€œI intend to put plenty of distance between myself and those dreadful tinkers from the North.” Mrs. Saville made the North sound like the city of Dis. “We shall be lucky if they don’t eat with their fingers.”
    â€œThat might not be so easy, darling,” said Rosemary, pulling a wisp of chiffon through her thin jade bangle. “I don’t think there’s anyone else here but the minibus load.”
    Mrs. Saville blenched. “Surely,” she cried, aghast, “you’re mistaken.”
    â€œI’ll check, shall I?” Rosemary dashed to the door. “Easily done. I’ll count the places in the dining room.”
    â€œWait—”
    â€œShan’t be a sec.”
    â€œHave you tidied your hands?” But she spoke to the air for Rosemary had gone. Pausing to reflect briefly on how apposite was her installation in a room boasting a portrait of The Spoilt Child , Mrs. Saville picked up her bag and checked its contents.
    Powder, lipstick, comb, scent bottle. She crossed to the dressing table, opened her vanity case and extracted a tiny flask of lavender smelling salts. By the end of the evening she felt she might well be needing them.

    In the bedroom of the Hogarth suite, happily innocent of the opprobrium their presence was causing to seethe in a bosom not a million miles away, the family Gibbs was getting into what Fred called their carnival clobber. Violet feeling the suggested thirties to be “a bit drab and warmongery,” they had opted for the roaring twenties. Fred had put on a brightly checked “bounder” jacket, then spoiled the period effect by adding a modern tie: a satin affair displaying a pair of female legs ending in sequined evening sandals kicking a champagne glass from which tumbled the letters OO-LA-LA!
    â€œHow do I look then?”
    Fred turned and watched his wife, a positive delirium of cerise satin, orange feathers and swinging beads all balanced on legs like fat rosy sausages. “Beautiful, my duck. You’ll be able to dance a right fandango in that lot.” He paused.