Murder Comes Calling by C. S. Challinor Page A

standing around arguing. What’s his name again?”
    “I forget. Sorry. I only know he’s a chemistry teacher.”
    Rex referred to his notes. “Mr. Woods, according to Lottie.”
    He strode up the cobbled path, which felt uneven underfoot. Loosening the plaid muffler around his neck, he drilled the doorbell. Seconds later, he heard heavy footfalls approach from the inside, followed by a pause as the person presumably looked through the peephole. The door flew open.
    “What d’you want?” demanded the red-faced resident, a burly man in his fifties, balding on top.
    “I simply wanted to ask a few questions relating to the sale of your house, Mr. Woods. I’m not a detective or a reporter.”
    “Are you a buyer?”
    “No, I—”
    The door slammed in Rex’s face, resulting in a panel of varnished wood mere inches from his nose.
    “Charming,” he said under his breath as he turned away and retraced his steps.
    Malcolm looked gleeful. “I did warn you.”
    “What put a bee in his bonnet?” Rex groused.
    “He’s the sort of person who’s irate at the entire world. He’s threatened to throttle the loud dogs next door. It’s been going on for a year. He’s called the police and our local council, and who knows whom else. I suppose, in the end, it was just easier to move, though he must know it’ll be harder to sell his property with those noisy brutes next door, not to mention the murders, and he probably feels trapped.”
    “The stress is obviously getting to him.” Rex looked back at the hostile abode.
    “You were lucky. I saw him hose down one of our resident Hells Angels who was distributing window-washing flyers. ‘Get off my lawn, you effing lout!’ he yelled, chasing him to his motorcycle and giving that a good dousing, too.”
    “I’ll give him a wide berth in future.”
    “You should have seen the obscene gesture that long-haired hoodlum made as he drove off on his bike!” Malcolm’s face grew pink with indignation. “It was Wes, Big Bill’s right-hand man. He wears a studded leather dog collar and chains. Oh, how I’d love to round up the whole lot of them and send them packing.”
    “Inflict the bikers on someone else?” Rex retorted in good humour. “Come on. Let’s try the next ‘For Sale.’” They crossed the street. “This one looks more appealing, don’t you think?”
    Perennials planted in pebbled borders on each side of the path greeted the visitors with their cheerful splash of colour on this dreary grey day. Behind a pair of drawn curtains a lamp palely glowed, holding out hope that someone was home.
    “Do you know the owners?” Rex asked Malcolm.
    “I don’t.”
    “Lottie mentioned a Charlotte.”
    “Lottie is a walking directory.”
    “She’s an asset in our endeavours,” Rex reminded his friend.
    He pressed on the bell and stepped back beside Malcolm. The door opened, catching on a chain. A pair of green female eyes looked out, appraising them with kind interest.
    “I’m Malcolm Patterson,” Rex’s friend said, taking the initiative. “I live on Badger Court. This is an old acquaintance of mine, Rex Graves, QC, who’s conducting a private inquiry into the recent murders.”
    Rex presented his card through the gap in the door. The emerald eyes flicked over it.
    “And what do you want with me?” asked the woman, an attractive brunette in her forties, from what Rex could see of her head. She sounded more curious than alarmed, and Rex explained that he had heard about a young couple looking at Ernest Blackwell’s property and wanted to know if such a couple had been shown hers.
    “Maybe,” she said with a teasing twinkle in her eyes. “You’d better come in out of the damp.” She unhooked the chain and opened the door wide. “My bronchitis acts up in this climate. That’s why I’ve decided to move.” She closed the door behind them and gestured to her right. “Go on in,” she invited and followed the two men into a living room where a central