Murder's Little Sister by Pamela Branch

Author:Pamela Branch [Branch, Pamela]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781471912313
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Published: 2013-08-14T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

ENID MARLEY had not read Kidder’s story in the Echo, nor indeed any other part of that journal. In her opinion, it was, like tobacco, an evil best ignored. She knew that occasionally her husband had smoked a furtive cigar behind the locked doors of the garage; she knew that her butcher occasionally delivered the Echo wrapped around a piece of meat. If she discovered evidence of either occurrence – a hidden stub or a crumpled, bloody sheet of newsprint – she would lift it at arm’s length, carry it between finger and thumb to the boiler, and there discard it with an eloquent shudder. To Enid Marley, tobacco and the Echo headed a long list of things utterly taboo.

To Mrs Pickett, her charwoman, the Echo and a cigarette were breakfast. She consumed both avidly on the bus every day on her way to work. That morning, she had prodded a crony and announced with quiet pride, ‘My old cow certainly copped a packet yesterday.’

Her friend had read the story, handed the paper back, and said scornfully, ‘That’s nothin’. Not as if she’s dead. You ’ear ’bout Lil’s eldest, poor thing? Well, see, there was this mad ’orse what caught on fire . . .’

Mrs Pickett had countered with the tale of her grandson and the Negro in Tottenham Court Road and the affair of her employer had paled into insignificance. Nevertheless, on her arrival at Enid Marley’s flat, she had thought it only nice to mention the matter.

‘See you took a tumble, dear,’ she had murmured non-committally, splashing about in the sink.

Enid Marley had gazed at her for a long moment and then said frigidly, ‘I was murdered, Mrs Pickett, and kindly don’t forget it.’ She had given Mrs Pickett ten shillings without explanation, disappeared into her bedroom, and closed the door.

Some hours later she emerged wearing a black suit, a grey toque, and a single rope of pearls. Talking, to Mrs Pickett, was as necessary as food or air. She talked all day long, even in her sleep. She therefore followed her employer through into the hall and plunged at once into the story of a searing, inexplicable pain which had attacked her right thigh during the early hours of the morning.

Enid Marley was not listening. Drawing on her gloves, she said, ‘Mrs Pickett, suppose for a moment that you were obliged to accuse somebody of Murder. How would you do it?’

The charwoman pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘Well, I’d get Tom,’ she offered.

‘And then?’

‘An’ then Mick – ’e’s a treat in a brawl! – an’ then Fred an’ Dora’s boys an’ . . .’

‘And if you had no supporters?’

‘Wot, not one?’

‘No.’

‘Well.’ Mrs Pickett drew a deep breath. ‘I’d think meself, “Now why ’aven’t I got no supporters? Is it ’cos I’m some’ow ’orrible? ’Ave I wronged ’im? Did I drive ’im to it with me nasty, lashin’ tongue?” An’ if, after I really searched meself, I was forced to answer meself in the infirmative, I’d go off an’ see ’im.

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