Shades of Murder by Ann Granger

alarmingly. A stout woman in corduroy trousers pushed her face hard against the opening and bellowed, ‘Access for all!’ A terrier she had by a leash, put its front paws against the car door and barked its support.
    ‘Yes,’ said Juliet pleasantly. ‘I quite agree. Does that mean I can go through?’
    The woman withdrew a few inches, looking a little disconcerted. She studied the young woman in the car, assessing the fresh complexion, braided hair, round glasses.
    ‘Are you family?’ she asked in the manner of an usher at a wedding.
    ‘No,’ said Juliet. ‘Not even slightly.’
    A bearded man with a worried frown, touched the woman’s arm. ‘Peaceful protest, Mrs Smedley,’ he chided.
    She shook him off. ‘I am peaceful!’ she snapped. The terrier yapped.
    ‘You can go through,’ said the bearded man to Juliet, addressing his remark over Mrs Smedley’s brawny shoulder. ‘We only want our rights.’
    ‘Fine by me,’ said Juliet. ‘I only want mine.’
    The crowd had fallen quiet. Suddenly, a younger man wearing similar spectacles to Juliet’s rushed forward and thrust a handful of leaflets at her through the open window.
    ‘Thank you,’ she said, and put them on the front passenger seat.
    As if this had been the object of the whole exercise, the crowd now fell back and parted like the Red Sea to allow her through. She pressed the window button, just in case, as she rolled past them. Behind her they formed up again and as she reached the front door and parked, she heard, in getting out of her car, their discordant chants begin again, interspersed with shrill barks.
    Her arrival had been noted within. The front door creaked open a few inches. Juliet approached and it was pulled open further, just enough to allow her to squeeze through the gap, which she did. It was immediately shut behind her. In the dark hallway, she found herself faced with a furious old man. Unsure whether this was the owner or some kind of butler, she hesitated and then solved the problem by introducing herself.
    ‘Juliet Painter. I wrote.’
    ‘You are expected, miss,’ said the butler (as he must be). ‘Kindly follow me.’
    Through a maze of chilly corridors, he led her to his employer whom she found staring from an upper window with an expression suggesting imminent apoplexy.
    ‘You chose your day to come!’ he greeted her. ‘Look at ’em! It’s like the blasted French Revolution – hordes of ’em bleating about their rights!’ He turned a bloodshot eye on her. ‘What about
my
bally rights, eh? What about them?’ He breathed heavily for a moment or two before adding more mildly, ‘Want to see over the place?’
    She wasn’t sure she did. However, she’d come this far and braved the mob of latterday
sans-culottes
outside. She might as well view the place though she was well aware by now what she’d find. As expected, it was a mausoleum of Edwardian furniture and grisly hunting trophies. Stag’s antlers lined the corridors and a moth-eaten collection of stuffed birds and small mammals fixed her with beady eyes as she passed by. Disapproving family portraits sneered at her from smoke-blackened walls. Although the day was a mild early summer one, every corner of the house was icy cold.
    After the tour of inspection, they sat down to a lunch served by the furious butler, and punctuated by bearded faces appearing at the windows. It hadn’t been a very good meal, consisting of lumpy vegetable soup, tough cold cuts and a piece of cheese so dried out it had cracked into fissures like an Ice Age rock formation. Juliet suspected the elderly retainer was also the cook. The wine, on the other hand, was exceedingly good, the butler bringing to the table a dusty bottle which would have fetched a high price at auction. Though normally not a lunchtime drinker, especially when on business, Juliet was tempted to a couple of glasses. Partly this was because one didn’t turn up one’s nose at vintage wine and partly because she