you saying about Jacques Glace?’
‘I said that I wonder if that’s his real name. I suppose I’ll find that out for definite when “I get married to him”. I still can’t believe he said that. The
cheek of the . . . well, I don’t know what to call him. Man doesn’t seem to be the right word.’
Eve harrumphed with such indignation that her cousin Violet barked with laughter. That caused Eve to give her a withering look.
‘It’s so not funny, Violet.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Violet, trying hard to straighten her face and failing dismally.
‘I thought I’d find some sympathy with you of all people.’ Eve sniffed. ‘If that was his attempt to seduce, I’m quite safe.’
Violet straightened her face. ‘I think it’ll be fun working with him and trying to get to the bottom of who he is. He sounds a tonic, and you need an adventure. Get your Miss Marple
hat on,’ she said. ‘You could put your wedding notice in the
Trumpet
“Steve Berry, aged sixty-five, marries Gus Jackman, aged fifteen”.’
‘Very droll,’ said Eve. ‘And tonic isn’t a word I’d attribute to him. I don’t trust him, Violet. How can anyone trust a man who has managed to wangle half of
my aunt’s inheritance from her after two minutes’ acquaintance? Look at this.’ With a certain amount of smugness, she pulled a photocopy of the article about the Major from her
handbag and handed it over to her cousin, waiting patiently until she had finished reading it.
‘You do know the
Bugle
got closed down for reporting just about every story it reported wrongly. Then it rose like the Phoenix from the ashes with the same editor and a new name:
the
Daily Trumpet,’
was Violet’s only comment.
‘Well, they got this story right because I checked with the police. They never did find Major Glasshoughton. Major
Jack
Glasshoughton.’
‘And is Jacques as tall and dark as this Major?’
‘Very tall. Not dark though, but he could have easily gone grey in eight years. I’m going to ring the police again and report him.’
Violet looked horrified. ‘Eve, you can’t go around accusing people without good reason.’
‘Well, I’m going to tell Mr Mead anyway and see what he has to say about it all. I knew there was something fishy about the man. Do you know, I could quite happily bring Aunt Evelyn
back to life just to kill her,’ said Eve, scratching hard at her stomach. ‘How could she be so careless and then leave me to sort all this out?’
‘Got lice?’ Violet nodded towards her.
‘They’ve obviously been buggering about with the formula for shower gel again,’ Eve answered. ‘I appear to have become allergic to my own knickers.’
‘Don’t tell Jacques Glace that one,’ giggled Violet. ‘He’ll suggest you take them off.’
Eve shuddered. ‘Don’t even joke.’
‘Come on then,’ said Violet, clicking off her seat-belt. ‘Let’s go and check out your inheritance. I’m so excited. My cousin owns a Christmas theme park.’ She
clapped her hands together with delight.
‘Winter theme park, please,’ said Eve, mumbling in a very disgruntled way to herself. She had been non-stop poring over plans for Winterworld and now had a very definite idea of what
it was going to be like: oodles of quality, less kiddy and more adult orientated than the rubbishy ‘Lapland-type’ theme parks which had garnered so much bad press for being gawdy and,
well, crap. Winterworld was going to be a much classier act. She had dragged Violet along for half an hour to get a sneak peak of the plot before tomorrow’s big day: her first day at work
there. Violet was always so full of puppyish joie de vivre that it would be useful to see things through her eyes, Eve thought. Violet was the equivalent of an adult Phoebe May Tinker.
Eve stood peeping through a slit in the high builder’s barricades, trying to imagine the park open and running before December if she had her way. She might have had more success imagining
‘I said that I wonder if that’s his real name. I suppose I’ll find that out for definite when “I get married to him”. I still can’t believe he said that. The
cheek of the . . . well, I don’t know what to call him. Man doesn’t seem to be the right word.’
Eve harrumphed with such indignation that her cousin Violet barked with laughter. That caused Eve to give her a withering look.
‘It’s so not funny, Violet.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Violet, trying hard to straighten her face and failing dismally.
‘I thought I’d find some sympathy with you of all people.’ Eve sniffed. ‘If that was his attempt to seduce, I’m quite safe.’
Violet straightened her face. ‘I think it’ll be fun working with him and trying to get to the bottom of who he is. He sounds a tonic, and you need an adventure. Get your Miss Marple
hat on,’ she said. ‘You could put your wedding notice in the
Trumpet
“Steve Berry, aged sixty-five, marries Gus Jackman, aged fifteen”.’
‘Very droll,’ said Eve. ‘And tonic isn’t a word I’d attribute to him. I don’t trust him, Violet. How can anyone trust a man who has managed to wangle half of
my aunt’s inheritance from her after two minutes’ acquaintance? Look at this.’ With a certain amount of smugness, she pulled a photocopy of the article about the Major from her
handbag and handed it over to her cousin, waiting patiently until she had finished reading it.
‘You do know the
Bugle
got closed down for reporting just about every story it reported wrongly. Then it rose like the Phoenix from the ashes with the same editor and a new name:
the
Daily Trumpet,’
was Violet’s only comment.
‘Well, they got this story right because I checked with the police. They never did find Major Glasshoughton. Major
Jack
Glasshoughton.’
‘And is Jacques as tall and dark as this Major?’
‘Very tall. Not dark though, but he could have easily gone grey in eight years. I’m going to ring the police again and report him.’
Violet looked horrified. ‘Eve, you can’t go around accusing people without good reason.’
‘Well, I’m going to tell Mr Mead anyway and see what he has to say about it all. I knew there was something fishy about the man. Do you know, I could quite happily bring Aunt Evelyn
back to life just to kill her,’ said Eve, scratching hard at her stomach. ‘How could she be so careless and then leave me to sort all this out?’
‘Got lice?’ Violet nodded towards her.
‘They’ve obviously been buggering about with the formula for shower gel again,’ Eve answered. ‘I appear to have become allergic to my own knickers.’
‘Don’t tell Jacques Glace that one,’ giggled Violet. ‘He’ll suggest you take them off.’
Eve shuddered. ‘Don’t even joke.’
‘Come on then,’ said Violet, clicking off her seat-belt. ‘Let’s go and check out your inheritance. I’m so excited. My cousin owns a Christmas theme park.’ She
clapped her hands together with delight.
‘Winter theme park, please,’ said Eve, mumbling in a very disgruntled way to herself. She had been non-stop poring over plans for Winterworld and now had a very definite idea of what
it was going to be like: oodles of quality, less kiddy and more adult orientated than the rubbishy ‘Lapland-type’ theme parks which had garnered so much bad press for being gawdy and,
well, crap. Winterworld was going to be a much classier act. She had dragged Violet along for half an hour to get a sneak peak of the plot before tomorrow’s big day: her first day at work
there. Violet was always so full of puppyish joie de vivre that it would be useful to see things through her eyes, Eve thought. Violet was the equivalent of an adult Phoebe May Tinker.
Eve stood peeping through a slit in the high builder’s barricades, trying to imagine the park open and running before December if she had her way. She might have had more success imagining
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