Staging Death by Judith Cutler

eleven-thirty,’ I added, in the voice of one making a great concession. I was hardly going to say I could nip straight round, was I?
    Perhaps she was playing the same game. ‘Mrs Frensham has a very tight schedule, Ms Burford. She does expect cooperation from those she employs.’ Such as her poor secretary, no doubt.
    I would have given much to be able to retort tothat, if that were her attitude, I did not consider myself her employee any longer. Not that I was. I was self-employed. I was independent.
    Despite the steel entering my spine, wiser counsels prevailed. My tone was almost conciliatory. ‘Assure Mrs Frensham that I have her best interests at heart. The reason that I cannot come at two is that I am sourcing carpets for her.’ I was sourcing carpets and I was busy at two, but of course, there was no connection. Did that make it a lie? ‘There are some appointments one cannot break,’ I added with regretful firmness. ‘I can clear my diary for Monday, however.’ Best to end on a positive note.
    ‘I’m afraid Monday is not possible.’
    I sensed a subtext. What was going on here? ‘Would you like to tell me when Mrs Frensham is free? Then I can try – as far as I can – to reschedule. I should tell you, by the way, that on the basis of the instructions Mrs Frensham left yesterday with Mr Frensham, I have several weeks’ work planned already. Another few days’ delay in our meeting will not affect our overall timing. But I do need to know when I can book a carpet viewing for her.’ I was beginning to hate this third-person conversation. It might have worked for Jeeves but it was tiring my brain.
    ‘Hmm. Very well.’
    Why was she oozing disapproval? Was itsomething to do with wet and then dirty boys? Was Allyn planning to sack me for that offence under the guise of non-cooperation in the work for which I was contracted? Or – and to my intense fury my face went hot at the thought of it – had she seen the way Toby touched my hair?
    ‘Ah, Ms Burford, I see a slot here at eight this evening.’
    ‘In that case I am more than happy to fill it,’ I said promptly.

    I had been waiting about ten minutes in fitful sunshine when a silver Mercedes newer than Greg’s quietly joined the Ka on the gravel in front of Knottsall Lodge, parking without fuss and flurry. The occupants took a moment to sort themselves out, she reaching for a bag and he checking a file from which they removed the particulars. All this seemed very businesslike and I prepared to warm to them.
    Mr Gunter was much smaller than Mr Brosnic, but exuded the same sense of power. For a moment I had a frisson of fear, but if he was armed he did not show it. He was sprucely dressed, but his Italian jacket was cut so tight and high in the chest it gave him an unfortunate resemblance to a pouter pigeon. He was about forty-five, which in my ignorance I thought a bit old for a venture capitalist – I’d always had amental image of them as thrusting young lions, likely to burn out by the age of thirty. Or was that share traders? If only I’d learnt more about money maybe I’d have made more. Or kept what I’d earned.
    His wife, not, to his credit, a young and voluptuous trophy model, was about forty, and her outfit sang aloud of money. There were her accessories for a start – Gucci shoes and bag, the twin of the one I’d coveted at the clothes exchange. She wore beautifully cut trousers, and a jacket the suede of which was so soft it hung almost like silk.
    ‘This is one of the loveliest houses on our books,’ I tell them, truth adding to the warmth of my professional enthusiasm. ‘You’ll find a wealth of original features, and where changes have been made they’re in character. Let’s start here in the entrance hall, shall we?’ And I began my spiel.
    I showed them in turn the morning room, the dining room, the fabulous drawing room, with views of rich woodland, and the kitchen. It dawned on me that they would prefer my silence to my