Read Online A Series of Murders by Simon Brett - Free Book Online Page A

Paris.’
    Well, thought Charles as he put the phone down, what on earth was all that about?
    On Saturday morning Charles rose late, more or less reassembled himself with coffee, and by half past eleven was feeling ready to go out to his local for a few pints and maybe even one of their range of Designer Ploughman’s Lunches. What would it be today? A Brie Ploughman’s? A Boursin Ploughman’s? A Terrine de Canard Ploughman’s? A Bratwurst and Sauerkraut Ploughman’s?
    He sometimes wondered what had happened to pub food in the last few years. In the old days, when you ordered a Ploughman’s Lunch, you got a chunk of dry bread, a slab of hard cheese, a gold-wrapped packet of butter, with a tomato and maybe a pickled onion by way of garnish. Whereas now the Ploughmen really seemed to have moved up the social scale to become at least Gentlemen Farmers.
    Charles blamed the Common Market. Most totally inexplicable developments in modern Britain had something to do with the Common Agricultural Policy.
    It was while he was indulging these thoughts that he realised he was at that moment uniquely qualified to ring his wife. ‘When you’re sober,’ Frances had said, and not a drop of alcohol had passed his lips for nearly twelve hours.
    He rang her Highgate flat and was gratified to find her in. He felt suddenly very close to her. Yes, he had decided while the phone was ringing, they should meet up the next day for lunch. Sunday lunch, just like the old days. He could take her out somewhere on his W.E.T. loot. Or, better still, she might offer to cook lunch for him. Now that really would be like old times.
    â€˜See, Frances, here I am, ringing you at a reasonable time of day and stone-cold sober. What more could you ask?’
    â€˜A divorce?’ she suggested, but her tone was not as hard as her words.
    â€˜You don’t want one really, Frances. You love being unmarried to me.’
    â€˜Ha. Ha. Anyway, tell me about this job you’ve got.’
    He told her. She was impressed. ‘Three-month contract – running character. You realise you’re in danger of becoming a success, Charles Paris?’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t think that’d ever happen,’ he said in mock self-depreciation.
    â€˜No, nor do I,’ Frances agreed dryly. ‘Still, I’m glad they’re doing W. T. Wintergreen. I used to like her books.’
    â€˜I have to confess I’d never heard of them until the job came up.’
    â€˜They’re good, if you like that sort of thing.’
    â€˜Having read the scripts, I’m not sure that I do. They’re totally unrealistic.’
    â€˜That’s part of their charm. Stanislas Braid is one of those completely unbelievable superman-sleuths who know everything about everything. School of Lord Peter Wimsey. And he has these wonderful and totally unrealistic relationships with everyone around him. Blodd, the chauffeur . . . the delightfully innocent and deeply loved Christina. Yes, totally unbelievable, but comforting.’
    â€˜Hmm. I think I prefer my detective heroes a bit more realistic.’
    â€˜No, no. Couldn’t disagree more. The last thing I want is reality muscling in and spoiling a good detective story. I’m a great believer in the “Warm Bath” school of crime fiction – you know, books that are all snug and soothing and reassuring, books in which the Goodies are Good and the Baddies are Bad and you need never have a moment’s anxiety about the fact that Good Will Triumph.’
    â€˜I find some of them a bit arch and mimsy-pimsy.’
    â€˜Wimsey – mimsy-pimsy?’ asked Frances in mock horror.
    â€˜Oh, shut up. When did W. T. Wintergreen write her books?’
    â€˜I don’t know exactly. Maybe she still
is
writing them?’
    â€˜Surely not still about Stanislas Braid? Not still set back in the thirties? In that old country-house time warp?’
    â€˜No,