MURDER ON THE STAIRS

CHAPTER ONE

Mrs Betty Beagle took a last glance at her reflection in the lobby mirror. Not bad for her sixty-four years, yet a few days of being pampered at the home of her neice would give her an added sparkle. And Bernie always appreciates that.

     She picked up her small suitcase, opened the front door of her sheltered-accomodation flat and stepped out. She closed the door and was just turning the key in the lock when she heard quick steps on the gravel path behind her. Without turning, she knew who it was. Joan Phelps, their so-called warden. Busybody supreme.

     'You're going away, then? Anywhere nice?'

     Betty gave a resigned sigh and turned, lifting her case. 'Visiting my neice in Newport for a few days.'

     'Lovely!' The woman standing before her was small and thin, with features as sharp as a ferrett's, and dark cafty eyes to match.

      'Yes, well,' Betty said briskly. 'Can't stop. Picking up a taxi on the main road. Got a train to catch.'

     'What about your flat, Betty?' Joan said hurriedly. 'You need someone to keep an eye on it while you're away. I'll oblige if you'll give me your spare key.'

     Like hell I will, Betty thought, annoyed at the use of her first name. She could not prove it, but gossip made her suspect Joan Phelps of being light-fingered. And she did not look like a ferret for nothing. The thought of those knowing eyes going through her private papers made her shudder.

     'No need, thanks,' Betty said firmly. 'Mr Walters will look in daily.'

     Joan's thin lips twisted in anger. 'What? Bernie Walters? That ex-con! I wouldn't have him in my home.'

     Betty was furious. 'Hey! Watch your tongue!' she snapped. 'Mr Walters is my friend.'

     'Boyfriend, more like,' Joan sneered. 'I know all about you two. Spends more nights in your flat than he does in his own.' Her lip curled in disdain. 'You widows are all the same. Man mad. Disgusting at your age.'

     Betty felt hot blood flood her face. 'You spiteful cow! Spying will get you into serious trouble, I warn you.'

     'Oh, don't get high and mighty with me,' Joan retorted harshly. 'Just because your son is in the police, you think you can throw your weight around.' Her eyes glittered with enmity. 'I wonder what he'd say if he knew you were bedding an old lag.'

     Betty ground her teeth but kept silent. There was no point in getting into a slanging match now. She had to get that train. She gave the other woman a withering look and turned away, walking quickly towards the main road.

     She felt she could have killed the woman and she was still shaking with fury when the taxi picked her up and sped towards the railway station.

     Joan Phelps had a poisonous tongue. She was the kind of nosey, grasping busybody who poked her nose into other peoples' business, whether out of mere curiosity or something more sinister, Betty could not hazard a guess.

     One day she would do it once too often, Betty thought, and decided she would not be surprised to learn that Joan Phelps had ended up dead in a ditch.

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