Wolf to the Slaughter by Ruth Rendell

Author:Ruth Rendell [Rendell, Ruth]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3, pdf
Tags: Mystery, cookie429, Kat, Extratorrents
Publisher: Fawcett
Published: 1967-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

10

There was scarcely any delay between his knocking and the opening of the cottage door. A bright shaft of sunshine fell upon a black and mauve spotted overall and a sharp red face.

‘Turned up again like a bad penny,’ said Mrs Penistan. Burden blinked. He hardly knew whether her remark referred to his arrival or her own unexpected appearance. She clarified with one of her shrill laughs. ‘I saw Mr M’s advert and I took pity on him, said I’d come back till she turns up.’ Leaning towards him, her broom held aloft like a spear, she whispered confidingly, ‘If she turns up.’ She stood aside for him to enter. ‘Mind the bucket,’ she said. ‘We’re all at sixes and sevens in here. Good thing my boys can’t see what I have to contend with. If they set eyes on this place they’d have their mum out of it before you could say knife.’ Remembering the ox-like Penistan men, not surely conspicuous for filial piety, Burden could only give a neutral smile. Their mother thrust her face into his and with a laugh, this time so cheerful as to amount to glee, said, ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if there was bugs in them walls.’ A shrill peal of giggles pursued him into the studio.

Her efforts seemed to have made as yet small improvement in the general dirty disarray. Perhaps she had only just arrived. Nothing had been tidied or dusted and to the normal unpleasant smell had been added a sour stench, possibly coming from the dregs which still remained in the dozen or so empty cups on the tables and the floor. Here, as nowhere else, Ruby’s vigour and acumen were needed.

Margolis was painting. In addition to the tubes of oil colour arranged about him were various small pots of unidentifiable matter. One seemed to contain sand, another iron filings. He looked up when Burden entered.

‘I’ve decided not to think about it,’ he said with as near an approach to firmness as could be imagined. ‘I’m simply getting on with my work. Ann’ll be back.’ He added as if this clinched the matter, ‘Mrs Penistan agrees with me.’

It was hardly the impression Burden had received on the doorstep. Without comment – let the man be cheerful while he could – he held out the lighter. ‘Ever seen it before?’

‘It’s a cigarette lighter,’ Margolis said sagely. So might some authoritative archaeologist identify an obscure find in an ancient barrow.

‘The point is, is it your sister’s?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before. People are always giving her things.’ He turned it over. ‘Look, it’s got her name on it.’

‘It’s got Ann on it,’ Burden corrected him.

A poised broom preceded Mrs Penistan’s entry into the studio. She seemed to find amusement not so much in her employer’s remarks as in his very existence, for, standing behind him as he contemplated the lighter, she favoured Burden with a slow deliberate wink.

‘Here, let’s have a look,’ she said. One glance satisfied her. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no.

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