Murder Comes Calling by C. S. Challinor

young couple had an interest in his house? News to me.”
    “An acquaintance of mine has a home listed with Chris Walker and had such a couple come by, but they seem to have vanished into thin air.”
    “I suppose Mr. Walker’s had other things on his mind, if what I hear is true. It’s a regrettable situation for his clients, but I can hardly step in and take over.”
    “Are you acquainted with him?” Rex asked.
    “Not well. My business operates out of Bedford. We cater to a more international crowd. Perhaps you could try Covington’s. They’re in Godminton. It’s only them and Walker now. Home Sweet Home closed its doors over a year ago.”
    Rex thanked Mr. Gleeson, who was beginning to sound impatient. Ending the call, he continued on his way. He felt certain he would get no more joy from Covington’s. Charlotte Spelling’s suspicious couple were proving impossible to trace.

eleven
    The evenly spaced streetlights reflected off the puddles in the gutters, leaving pockets of darkness in between the pools of illumination. Rex pulled up his coat collar and slanted his brolly against the drizzle coming down with dreary persistence. While the knuckles of his right hand holding the brolly stem dripped water, his other was warmly ensconced in his pocket.
    A few cars pulled into driveways and were swallowed by garages. Lights dotted the windows of the uniform homes he passed. Occasionally, voices and barks sounded from within, muffled by the walls and the insulating rain. He could not recall the sun having made the ghost of an appearance all day.
    Once or twice, a curtain twitched and a face peered out into the gloom. He walked on and crossed into Otter Court, where the houses featured the same deep-set, small-paned windows and exposed beams across tan stucco, skirted by a brick basement. All sat in fenced-in gardens with their squares of lawn, shrubs and bushes cast in shadow. As on Badger Court, the north row backed onto the river, invisible from the street.
    Rex’s spirits soared when he saw the lights on downstairs at the Ballantine house, which stood at the far end of the cul-de-sac on a corner lot. A silver car was parked to one side of the driveway. At least one person was home.
    He strode up to the front door and rang the bell, immediately aware of a movement in the drapes to his right. A minute later, a footfall sounded on the other side of the door, which remained resolutely closed. He held his business card in front of the peephole. The door finally opened as far as the chain would allow, and a bespectacled female face narrow in structure and framed with lank, brown hair, appeared. Her voice quavered, “Yes?”
    “Mrs. Ballantine? My name is Rex Graves. Sorry to bother you when it’s dark. I called on you earlier and no one was home. I’m a friend of Malcolm Patterson’s on Badger Court.”
    “I know Dr. Patterson. The widower?”
    “Correct. I wanted to ask if any people have come to view your house. Malcolm and I are conducting an independent inquiry into the murders. I spoke to your house agent, David Gleeson, just now and he said no one had expressed an interest so far, but I wondered if anyone might have come to you direct.”
    “With so many murders, you can see why I’m hesitant to open my door,” the lady of the house explained without yet making a move to open it further.
    Rex could certainly understand her reluctance and said as much. “Let me call Malcolm on my mobile, so he can vouch for me.” He pulled out his phone, praying that Malcolm would not ignore his call so he could continue watching the cricket match.
    “Oh, that’s all right,” the woman declared. “I’ve seen you about with him. Please come inside.” She unhooked the chain and invited him into the living room. Dressed in slippers, a pleated skirt, and a buttoned cardigan, she stood with her arms folded tightly across her flat chest. Rex towered over her. “You must think me rather trusting to let a stranger into my