Chapter Three #2
They continued to stare at him, veering precariously close to gaping, before Georgie decided that a bit of diplomacy was called for.
“We are intrigued to make your acquaintance,” she said, which she supposed wasn’t an inaccurate assessment of the situation. “And though the letter came from me, it was really a collective effort, from Mr. Crawley and Constable Lexington and myself.”
Fletcher-Ford gave Georgie a winning smile. “I can’t tell you how disappointed I am to hear it, Miss Radcliffe. I do so love to receive letters from enchanting young ladies.”
Georgie frowned; Arthur coughed.
“So,” Fletcher-Ford said, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “I hear you’ve a spot of murder?”
“Rather,” Georgie said. “Four in the past year—but I suspect it might be five.”
“Well, I suppose that’s what I’m here to investigate, isn’t it?” Fletcher-Ford said brightly. “Not, of course,” he amended, “that I would presume to fault your work, Constable.”
“It’s Miss Radcliffe’s work, in truth,” Lexington said, which caused Georgie’s feelings toward him to warm appreciably.
She’d never disliked Lexington—he was vastly less frustrating to deal with than every other member of the constabulary, and particularly Detective Inspector Harriday—but she had not thought him the sort of man to openly credit the efforts of an amateur detective over his own.
An amateur lady detective, at that. It made her wonder, a trifle uncomfortably, if she didn’t entirely know what sort of man he was at all.
“Except for the latest case,” Georgie corrected. “Mr. Marble, who owned the cheese shop, was poisoned, and the police have arrested his wife—I had nothing to do with that.”
“Nor did I,” Lexington said in an undertone, looking distinctly discomfited. Before she could pursue this, however, Fletcher-Ford jumped in.
“Well, I’m happy to assist both of you in whatever way I can—I know I’m not old Fitzy, but I expect I can sniff out a murderer in a pinch.”
Georgie and Lexington both stared at Fletcher-Ford in astonished silence for a moment—the reference to “old Fitzy” had taken a second to process—before Georgie nodded.
“We… appreciate your willingness to visit.” This was uttered a bit reluctantly, but Fletcher-Ford merely offered her an easy smile and a wave of the hand.
“I rather leaped at the chance,” he said. “Haven’t been to Somerset in positively ages.”
“You’re in Gloucestershire,” Georgie said stonily.
“Potato, tomato,” Fletcher-Ford said with an airy wave of the hand. “Rolling hills, sheep, cheese! All rather the same, what?”
“I wouldn’t say that too loudly,” Arthur advised.
“Just so!” Fletcher-Ford said, laughing heartily. “Wouldn’t want to offend the locals, I expect—might see fit to make me their next victim!”
Georgie cleared her throat, attempting to steer this conversation back on track. “We would appreciate your, well… discretion, if you wouldn’t mind. The local police—other than Constable Lexington, obviously—don’t know that we’re investigating.”
“I am the soul of discretion,” Fletcher-Ford said, his expression suddenly solemn. “You cannot imagine the number of ladies in London whose reputations are only intact because of that virtue.”
“I believe I can imagine,” Georgie muttered.
“I do admire a woman with a good imagination,” Fletcher-Ford offered with a smile. Georgie did not return it.
Arthur, perhaps sensing danger, said hastily, “Perhaps we ought to discuss the investigation, then?”
“Don’t suppose we could do so over a bite to eat?” Fletcher-Ford asked, looking around excitedly. “I ate on the train, but I do find that travel causes one to work up a terrible appetite, don’t you?”
“I suppose,” Georgie began, already weary after three minutes’ conversation with this man, and he beamed.
“Capital!”
“We could go and see if there’s a room at the Sleepy Hedgehog as well,” Georgie said, naming one of the village inns, owned by her school friend Iris and her husband, Henry.
Fletcher-Ford frowned. “But I thought I was to stay at—er—Radcliffe Hall, was it?” He fixed a guileless gaze upon her. “It’s what you said in your letter to old Fitzy, after all.”
Georgie bit her lip to prevent a curse from escaping.
Inviting a middle-aged, eminently respectable, and renowned detective to stay at Radcliffe Hall was one thing; inviting this creature was something else entirely.
She could not imagine Abigail’s reaction if she showed up with Fletcher-Ford in tow.
“Er,” Georgie said, thinking quickly.
“I do love a nice sojourn on a country estate,” Fletcher-Ford continued, oblivious to her distress. “I brought my tennis racquet and my riding boots!”
“Radcliffe Hall is entirely lacking in both tennis courts and horses,” Georgie informed him, and he seemed unfazed.
“Don’t fret, Miss Radcliffe,” he said in a consoling sort of way. “I expect it has plenty else to recommend it, even if its entertainments are less obvious.”
Georgie opened her mouth to reply, but Fletcher-Ford continued blithely, “Now, come, Miss Radcliffe—food must come first, I always say! What’s the point of a trip to a delightful, albeit dangerous village if it doesn’t begin with a nice cream tea?
” Before Georgie could work out how to respond to this, he was bounding athletically toward his luggage, which he hoisted effortlessly over his shoulder before positively leaping toward the ticket office to store it temporarily.
In no time at all he was back, beaming at them.
“Now,” he said cheerfully, “let us find this oh-so-delightful hamlet’s finest cup of tea, shall we?” He began to stride toward the station exit, obviously entirely confident that the rest of them would follow.
And, to Georgie’s very great annoyance, they did.