Die Laughing by Carola Dunn Page B

the other side of the room, where they muttered darkly together.
    Daisy had decided earlier that the best way to deflect questions she couldn’t or shouldn’t answer was to float a red herring. “I’m sure we’re all safe, Miss Petherington,” she said, “not being dentists.”
    Several people gasped.
    â€œYou mean there’s a maniac going around killing dentists?” Mrs. Grantchester asked, all agog.
    â€œWho can blame him!” said Mrs. Tebbit. “I’ve always thought you have to be a bit of a sadist, in the modern idiom, to become a dentist.”
    â€œOh, Mother, how can you say such a thing?”
    At that moment, the parlourmaid came in to announce luncheon.
    Miss Cobb, a particular friend of the hostess, glanced around the company and asked, “Didn’t you say you were going to invite Mrs. Walker, Julia?”
    â€œI did, Ettie,” said Mrs. Grantchester in a voice heavy with significance, “but she declined . Shall we go through, ladies?”
    Shepherded into the dining room with the rest of the flock, Daisy pondered the significance of Mrs. Walker. There might well be more than one lady of that name in the neighbourhood, but the one her memory turned up was the wife of a Major Walker. Offhand, Daisy couldn’t remember anything else about her.
    Over luncheon, to her relief, the subjects of murder and dentists were studiously avoided. She was not lulled into
imagining either had been abandoned. It was just the effect of the middle-class belief, not shared by the aristocracy, that if one didn’t mention something in front of the servants they would not find out.
    The talk was mostly of bridge and the relative merits of various resorts for summer holidays. To liven things up, Miss Petherington had a premonition that the south coast would be hit by a tidal wave in August. Hearing this, the parlourmaid almost dropped the sauceboat. However, under the eagle eye of her mistress, she recovered herself after merely dripping parsley sauce on Miss Cobb’s sleeve.
    Fortunately Miss Cobb didn’t notice, being intent on proclaiming the superiority of her favorite resort, Buxton Spa, well out of reach of tidal waves.
    Miss Tebbit, sitting beside Daisy, ventured to mention that she had enjoyed her last article in Town and Country magazine and to ask her about her next. Before Daisy could respond, Mrs. Fletcher said from across the table, “Such a nice hobby for Daisy, since she doesn’t care for bridge.”
    Daisy was tempted to respond that writing was her profession and sleuthing her hobby. She decided it was better not to remind people of the sleuthing. They might take fright and not tell her things if they couldn’t pretend they were just exchanging gossip with someone like themselves.
    So she held her peace, unlike Mrs. Tebbit, who said, “Writing is a dashed sight less of a waste of time than bridge. More lucrative too, I should hope. Though there are those who make a good thing of bridge.” She glared at her hostess.
    Mrs. Grantchester bridled and changed the subject to the
new dressmaker in the High Street. Over treacle tart and custard, it was agreed that the competition with Delia’s, the current favourite, ought to lower prices but probably would not. The conversation moved naturally to the pros and cons of the High Street hairdressing salon.
    â€œI don’t believe I’ve ever seen Mrs. Alec Fletcher at our local Salon de Beauté, ” observed Miss Cobb.
    â€œI go to a hairdresser in Chelsea,” said Daisy. “It’s where I had my hair cut short, just last year. They did a good job with the shingle, and besides, it gives me an excuse to visit friends in the neighbourhood.”
    â€œSuch interesting people live in Chelsea,” said Mrs. Grantchester.
    â€œIt’s not nearly as bohemian as it was in my young day,” Mrs. Tebbit said regretfully.
    â€œIt’s not a good place