Chapter Nine
Georgie had come to an unfortunate conclusion: she was never to have any peace from Murder Tourists.
Disliking the idea of listening to Sebastian’s complaints of hunger pangs for the rest of the morning, she led him to the Scrumptious Scone in the hopes that he would eat a quick scone (or four) and then they could be on their way.
By the time they arrived at the tearoom, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, though the sky overhead remained unrelentingly dark.
Georgie carefully skirted a rather large puddle outside the front door and stepped inside, the bell overhead jingling to mark her entrance; she felt her hair begin to frizz even further, if that were possible, as soon as she walked into the inviting warmth.
“Mr. Fletcher-Ford!” came a tinkling voice from one corner, and Georgie glanced over to see two Murder Tourists holding court at the choicest table, a pot of tea steaming before them.
They looked—well, they looked like precisely the sort of women Sebastian might have sidled up to in a pub, Georgie thought grumpily; they were both extremely pretty, wearing the sort of pressed white linen dresses that were wildly impractical for countryside life, but which visitors seemed to delight in wearing on their holidays.
They looked to be about Georgie’s age; one had light brown hair that curled attractively around her chin, green eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the other had darker skin and a heap of shiny dark hair that fell in stylish waves just past her shoulders.
“Miss de Vere, Miss Singh,” Sebastian said, smiling winningly at them as he led Georgie to the table next to theirs; both women beamed back at him. “Allow me to introduce Miss Radcliffe—though I daresay her reputation precedes her.”
Georgie spared a frown for Sebastian at this introduction, which prompted an incoherent babble of delight and praise from the ladies the second Georgie’s name was uttered.
“—read everything about you that we could manage—”
“—were here in January, after the Mistletoe Murder—”
“—and imagine our delight when we happened to plan another visit, and poor Mr. Marble died, too!”
Georgie, sensing that little in the way of reply was currently required of her, gave a discreet wave to Mrs. Chester, who appeared with a teapot and cups a moment later.
A murmured word from Sebastian had her bustling away to the kitchen.
The matter of food settled, Georgie turned her attention back to the rhapsodizing Murder Tourists, who were now watching her rather expectantly.
She cleared her throat. “Well, I am… glad… that our criminal activities have been so entertaining to you.” She thought she was keeping her tone quite friendly, but the scolding sort of frown Sebastian leveled at her indicated that she might not have managed it as well as she thought.
“It’s just that we’re awfully fond of reading,” Miss Singh explained, leaning forward in her seat. “Do you enjoy the novels of Mrs. Christie?”
“I have not read them,” Georgie admitted, taking a sip of tea.
“What about Dorothy Sayers?” Miss de Vere asked. “I think I actually prefer hers—Harriet Vane is my type of woman. I do hope she’s not going to let that idiot Wimsey convince her to marry him eventually.”
“But Stella,” Miss Singh said, turning to her friend and looking distressed, “think how romantic it would be.”
“It’s not romantic when an intelligent woman settles for a man who isn’t as smart as her,” Miss de Vere said definitively. “Though I will grant you that Wimsey does have a certain charm about him.”
“And yet, Miss de Vere, do I not detect an engagement ring on your own hand?” Sebastian asked. He adopted an air of mournful disappointment. “Much as it pains me to even contemplate such a thing.”
Miss de Vere smiled at him. “You’re rather over-the-top with your flattery, Fletcher-Ford, but I won’t deny you look very handsome when you pout.”
“Would you believe that three separate women have told me the same thing?” he asked winningly.
“I wouldn’t,” Georgie said, and the rest of her table companions glanced at her, startled. “I would not believe that it was only three,” she clarified, and Miss de Vere let out a hoot of laughter.
“I do like you, Miss Radcliffe.”
“Well, Mr. Fletcher-Ford?” Miss Singh added, looking between Georgie and Sebastian with some interest. “Is Miss Radcliffe correct?”
“She is,” he conceded, after a theatrical pause. “It was actually five.”
Miss Singh laughed, delighted, while Miss de Vere gave Georgie a thoughtful look. “How is it that you have come to be here with Miss Radcliffe?” she asked, looking back at Sebastian.
“I’m an old family friend,” he said easily. “Couldn’t resist the opportunity to rusticate in the countryside for a bit.”
Georgie ground her teeth together at the word “rusticate,” but managed to avoid interrupting.
“And since I’ve been here,” he continued, “Georgie here has been getting me up to date on all the violent happenings. Never realized the countryside was so dangerous,” he added, with a regretful shake of his head.
“I thought it was all cheese and lambs and village fetes, but now I’m a bit worried a murderer is going to pop out around every corner. ”
“Surely no one would try to harm you,” Miss Singh said, gazing at him with something perilously close to adoration. “You’re so… strong.”
Sebastian beamed at her. “I’ve been known to carry the odd rowing team to victory with the strength of my arms, I’ll grant you. Georgie, are you all right? That snort sounded quite unhealthy.”
“Simple hay fever,” she said blandly, and buried her face in her teacup.
“It is curious, don’t you think?” Miss de Vere said, reaching for the teapot to refresh her own cup. “It’s been an awfully long trail of bloody corpses for a village this size.”
“They weren’t really bloody though, were they?
” asked Miss Singh thoughtfully. “An awful lot of poisonings.” She reached into her handbag and produced a leatherbound notebook; when she opened it to the first page, Georgie caught sight of the words “DETECTIVE DEVOTEES: OFFICIAL NOTES” in block capitals, and suddenly wished it were a socially acceptable time of day to drink.
Miss Singh nodded as she perused her notes.
“Yes, three poisonings, and just the one stabbing at”—she darted a quick, starstruck glance at Georgie—“Radcliffe Hall at Christmas. Awfully odd, really. Agatha Christie would never let that many crimes in a row take place with the same method of killing. It really would seem like lazy writing, wouldn’t it? ”
“Perhaps,” Georgie said, extremely dryly, “reality doesn’t have as strong a concern for a satisfying narrative arc?”
“Too right, Miss Radcliffe,” Miss Singh said, snapping her notebook shut.
“And more’s the pity,” Miss de Vere said. “If this were a proper novel, there would be a romance developing alongside all the mysteries. Miss Radcliffe, you haven’t got a secret paramour, have you?”
“What an intriguing question,” Sebastian murmured, taking a sip of his tea.
Georgie busied herself stirring her already-stirred tea. “I don’t think we need romance in a mystery, Miss de Vere.”
Miss de Vere frowned. “That’s very dull of you, Miss Radcliffe.” She sounded, briefly, as though she were disappointed that her heroine was not living up to her expectations, but quickly rallied. “I suppose you’ve too much else to do, though! Crime never ceases!”
“Well,” Georgie said, once again feeling peculiarly protective on behalf of her village, “it does, actually. Most of the time there’s no crime at all in Buncombe-upon-Woolly.”
“That hasn’t been our experience,” Miss de Vere said.
“Truly,” Miss Singh agreed. “Corpses everywhere! We met a group yesterday who had read the most gruesome details in The Deathly Dispatch of the state of Lady Tunbridge’s corpse after she was stabbed.
” She shook her head, looking faintly horrified.
“This is why I don’t like The Deathly Dispatch—it provides a bit too much detail.
I like my murders nice and cozy, don’t you? ”
“Absolutely,” Sebastian agreed, dropping another lump of sugar into his tea. “What else do you ladies plan to do on your visit?”
Miss de Vere shrugged, reaching for the pot of strawberry jam on the table before her.
“We might visit the murder exhibition at the village hall again—we’ve been three times already, but I do enjoy the poison garden—and the display featuring the Mistletoe Murder weapon. The bloody knife is very gruesome.”
“You do realize that’s not the actual knife that killed Lady Tunbridge?” Georgie asked. “It’s one of Mrs. Penbaker’s kitchen knives—I believe Mr. Penbaker asked the butcher for a bit of blood to make it look properly gruesome.”
Miss de Vere and Miss Singh were identical portraits of disappointment. “You mean the blood comes from an animal?” Miss Singh asked, her eyes wide and horrified. “I don’t mind if it’s human blood, but the thought of some poor creature being butchered…” She shook her head.
Miss de Vere glanced at the clock on the wall opposite their table and started.
“Asha,” she said, “the Murderous Meander starts in five minutes!” Both ladies drained their teacups, Miss de Vere reaching for her handbag and producing a shilling that she placed on the table.
They rose, but then hesitated for a second, eyeing Georgie.
“Yes?” she asked cautiously.
“It’s only…” Miss Singh trailed off, looking nervous, and then said in a rush, “would you please sign our notebook, Miss Radcliffe? The autograph of a celebrity sleuth would mean so much to us.” She extended the Detective Devotees notebook and handed Georgie a pen, and Georgie, feeling that it would be unnecessarily churlish to refuse, quickly scrawled her name.
“Not a word,” she said to Sebastian as the Murder Tourists departed amidst a few more breathless proclamations of their admiration. “Not a single word.”