A Fatal Attachment by Robert Barnard Page B

fact, could remember the house being built, and how she had thought it disfigured the village. The boys barged in through the front door and shouted to their father.
    â€œDad! Mrs Perceval’s here.”
    Nick Bellingham had obviously been doing his paperwork in a state of comfortable dishabille. His shirt was open to his paunch, and he was struggling with his belt. His fly was just about done up, but it looked like a near thing. He was in his stockinged feet, and wildly looking round for somewhere to stub out his cigarette. He looked, in fact, a mess.
    â€œOh, Mrs Perceval. I wasn’t expecting you. You must excuse the mess—”
    Lydia was gracious.
    â€œI won’t notice it, because I won’t come in. I thought it was such a lovely evening that I’d just come down with the boys and make myself known to you.”
    Nick was still feverishly buttoning himself up.
    â€œWell, it’s a great pleasure—and I want you to know I appreciate what you’re doing—we all do—”
    Lydia waved his gratitude aside.
    â€œIt’s pleasure on my part, I assure you, Mr Bellingham.”
    â€œThey’ve been good, I hope.”
    â€œOh Dad !—”
    â€œOf course they have. You’ve two very promising boys there. Now I won’t disturb you any more, and I must be off home.”
    And smiling goodbye to the boys Lydia wafted out, leaving Nick Bellingham with the vague feeling of having been visited by royalty.
    Lydia walked back through the village, rather pleased than otherwise thather image of the Bellingham father as pretty louche and unsatisfactory had been so thoroughly confirmed. She walked quickly past the Hoddle house, in case anyone should come out and she be asked in. The last person she ever wanted to meet again socially was that disastrous wife of Maurice’s. She turned up the hill, where street-lighting soon stopped. The way was so well known that she went without hesitation. She had left lights on in the cottage, so it stood gleaming at the top of the hill, a beacon. Lydia felt very happy—at peace with herself and with life.
    As she let herself in by the gate she thought: it’s years since I’ve been so happy, so hopeful. She took the key from her pocket and let herself in the front door. Coffee, she wondered? No, perhaps a cup of drinking chocolate. She went into the kitchen and put a saucepan of milk on the hot-plate.
    Then she remembered her missed appointment of the afternoon. Really it would be only courteous to ring Oliver Marwick at home and apologise. And make an appointment for Tuesday or Wednesday, because she wanted to get the thing done. She walked through to the study, picked up the phone, and dialled.
    â€œOliver? I do apologise for this afternoon. I was over in the library at Boston Spa and I got so immersed in things I didn’t notice the time. The book’s at a very interesting stage . . . You’re sure? I do hate failing to keep appointments. Now when can I—?”
    She was disturbed by a tiny noise. She turned her head, startled.
    â€œWhat’s that? But—. Rob—?”
    That was the last Oliver Marwick heard. The line went dead, and thinking that “Lydia had had an unexpected visitor he went back to watching television.

CHAPTER 9
    T HE news was brought down to Bly by a farmer’s wife who had been hailed down by a distraught Molly Kegan at Lydia’s gate.
    â€œShe’s been murdered!” she kept saying. “I can’t go back in there. And they say you mustn’t touch anything.”
    Molly had stayed at the cottage gate and the farmer’s wife, on her way into Halifax, had stopped at the post office to Bly and rung the police from there. The news had caused a great sensation among the two old people who were collecting their pensions and the postmistress, who saw her function as keeping the community alive by spreading any piece of information or