Chapter Ten #2
Arthur, who was viewing all of this with the mistrust that came naturally to all Buncombe-upon-Woolly natives when visiting their more fetching rival, cleared his throat. “Do we have any notion of where Councillor Lettercross might be on a Saturday morning?”
“Yes,” Georgie said with a grimace. “Mrs. Penbaker told us that he hosts a sort of open house at the council office, so that villagers might stop by and say hello, share any of their problems—that sort of thing.”
“How—” Miss Singh began.
“Charming,” said Georgie, Arthur, and Miss de Vere.
“Well,” Miss Singh said, looking a bit sheepish. “Rather.”
The council office was a pretty stone building covered in ivy, with cheerful bunting strung over its door, which was flung open to let in the fresh air.
Georgie’s footsteps slowed as she approached, and she glanced at Miss de Vere and Miss Singh.
“Are you certain you understand what you’re doing?
” she asked in an undertone. Sebastian had been the one to approach the ladies the evening before, loitering at the Shorn Sheep until they had once again put in an appearance, and Georgie was feeling rather nervous about commencing a plan that she had not been entirely in control of from inception to conclusion.
“Miss Radcliffe,” said Miss de Vere, a steely note creeping into her voice, “you need not worry in the slightest. We are Detective Devotees, and we are going to help you solve this case.”
“Not a case,” Georgie said hastily, shooting an alarmed look at Sebastian. “Merely a bit of… curiosity.”
“Hmmm.” Miss de Vere sounded skeptical. “Well, I am a master of discretion, so you needn’t worry that I’ll give anything away.”
“She is,” Miss Singh put in with an appreciative nod. “It’s quite useful.” She and Miss de Vere exchanged a glance.
“All right, then,” Georgie said, still a bit reluctant but not seeing anything else for it than to let the women and Arthur go about their work. She turned to Sebastian. “Ready to do a bit of sneaking about?”
“Always,” he said readily, before adding, “It feels quite relaxing to be doing so without having to remove a single article of clothing or risking an irate husband trying to kick me in the—well,” he said, looking winsomely bashful. “You know.”
Georgie was momentarily lost for words, and with a grin, he reached over with a finger, which he stuck under her chin to close her gaping mouth.
“You know, darling Georgie, you’re frightfully easy to rile,” he said cheerfully, and then offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
As they walked away, Miss de Vere, Miss Singh, and Arthur approached the entrance to the council office, the women exclaiming loudly on the enchanting setting and beautiful weather.
Arthur had his notebook out and appeared to be taking copious notes.
They vanished inside, and Sebastian and Georgie ducked round the corner of the building and waited, poking an occasional cautious head around the side to watch the entrance.
Less than five minutes later, the Murder Tourists and their reporter companion emerged again, this time in the company of a man dressed in—Georgie grimaced—a pin-striped suit, flashing a blindingly white smile.
She recognized him as Lettercross; she’d seen the man in passing on more than one occasion.
He was speaking in a booming voice, and his words easily carried to Georgie’s ears.
“—say that you are staying in Buncombe-upon-Woolly itself? I don’t wish to alarm you, but I must say it seems a rather dangerous place these days. If, perchance, you were interested in visiting somewhere similarly charming but a bit safer…”
His voice faded as they continued out of earshot, moving at a somewhat meandering pace; Lettercross appeared to be pointing out any number of town landmarks to Miss Singh and Miss de Vere, who were playing their roles to perfection, all nodding eagerness.
Arthur was scribbling dutifully away, and Georgie spotted Lettercross giving him a considering glance, which suggested that Arthur’s plan—of giving a strong impression that the article he was writing was likely to be picked up by the London papers—had been a success.
They waited another minute or so, to be safe, and then Sebastian offered her an easy smile and extended his arm, which Georgie took, trying hard not to notice its firm, reassuring strength beneath her hand.
She and Sebastian approached the entrance to the council office, moving at a leisurely stroll that suggested that they were nothing more than a couple out for a pleasant Saturday meander around the village.
“Hello,” said a smiling woman sitting behind a tidy, elegant Queen Anne–style desk.
She was very pretty, with rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, and chestnut hair that was cut stylishly at her shoulders and pinned back with pearl hairpins.
A typewriter sat on her desk, as well as a neat stack of papers and a diary that, at a glance, looked to be full of appointments. “Can I help you?”
“I am Miss Radcliffe,” Georgie said, “here to see Mr. Lettercross.”
The woman straightened a bit in her seat at the sound of Georgie’s name, but then wrinkled her brow. “I’m so sorry, he’s just stepped out—was he expecting you?”
“No,” Georgie said, “but Mr. Fletcher-Ford and I have come on the train from Buncombe-upon-Woolly, on official village business, so it’s rather important.”
“I see,” the woman said, her smile fading. “Well, if you’d like to wait for him to return…” She gestured at a pair of armchairs in a striped silk pattern that flanked the fireplace opposite her desk.
“We would, thank you, Miss…” Sebastian trailed off with an inquisitive smile.
“Lettercross,” the woman said, dimpling at him.
“Ah,” he said. “Then am I to assume that Mr. Lettercross is—”
“My father, yes,” she confirmed. “I’m his secretary.”
“How delightful,” he said, grinning at her, and she smiled back, her cheeks coloring further beneath the power of that smile. He leaned his hip against the edge of her desk. “Do you enjoy your work?”
Georgie, who at this point thought the best course of action was to draw as little attention to herself as possible and allow Sebastian to get on with it, shrank back toward the armchairs, watching this forceful display of charm the way she might have observed animal behavior at a zoo.
“I do,” Miss Lettercross said, smiling coyly up at Sebastian. “You meet such… interesting people.”
“I’m so glad to hear it,” he said, his smile—if possible—widening. “I myself am just visiting from London, and I’ve begun to hear the most alarming tales of, well”—he dropped his voice dramatically—“murder in Buncombe-upon-Woolly.” He shook his head regretfully.
“Oh, they’re not just tales,” Miss Lettercross said, leaning forward now, a bit breathless.
“There have been four murders in the past year. It’s very shocking.
” She shook her head. “I have been following them all, and—well—” She flicked a glance at Georgie, who promptly made a great show of looking around the room, as if she were not listening to a word being uttered.
“—Miss Radcliffe has helped the police solve some of them, you know.”
Georgie stilled briefly; she supposed it was unsurprising that word of her exploits would have traveled the scant miles between the two villages, particularly given the existence of The Deathly Dispatch.
“But,” Miss Lettercross continued, “it’s only a matter of time until…” She trailed off in theatrical fashion; Georgie thought that Abigail would have approved of this performance.
“Until?” Sebastian prompted.
“Until a killer strikes again,” Miss Lettercross said, her tone ominous. Sebastian allowed a second or two of appropriately impressed silence and then wrinkled his brow slightly.
“Why do you say that?” he asked, all innocent curiosity. “I thought that the culprits had been apprehended in all of the cases.”
“Well,” Miss Lettercross said, faltering, “they have, yes—but once a village becomes a Murder Village, it is impossible to dispel the criminal atmosphere that descends upon it. It’s like a plague!”
“A plague of… murder?” Sebastian asked.
“Yes.” Miss Lettercross gave a quick, sharp nod.
“This all sounds very alarming,” he said solemnly. “I was reading the latest issue of The Deathly Dispatch, and the account of Mr. Marble’s final moments was harrowing.”
Harrowing, and completely fabricated, considering no one had been present, Georgie thought irately, but she did not interrupt, sensing that Sebastian was really getting into the spirit of the thing.
“Yes, well,” Miss Lettercross said with a little shake of her head, “you needn’t worry about anything like that happening here.” She gave Sebastian a flirtatious smile—one he returned easily.
“Such a relief,” he agreed. “The articles in the Dispatch caused a chill to run down my spine, I don’t mind telling you.”
“Well, perhaps you ought to consider Bramble-in-the-Vale when you are planning your next holiday, Mr. Fletcher-Ford,” Miss Lettercross said.
The faintest smugness crept into her voice, and she darted a quick glance across the room at Georgie.
It took everything within Georgie not to allow her natural protective instinct on the part of Buncombe-upon-Woolly to rise up and loosen her tongue.
“Perhaps,” Sebastian agreed, sticking his hands in his pockets and commencing a stroll around the room. “I don’t suppose you have the latest issue of The Deathly Dispatch to hand, have you? The one I was reading was last week’s edition.”
Miss Lettercross’s smile faded slightly. “No, I haven’t.”