Read Online Murder Goes Mumming by Charlotte MacLeod - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
Ads: Link
Squire will be down to breakfast any minute now.”
“Then I mustn’t keep you. I’ll be down myself as soon as I get dressed.”
“Squire will be glad of your company.”
“Ludovic, does he know who I am?”
“He knows you are Sir Emlyn’s son and Sir Caradoc’s nephew, sir.”
“Great-nephew, actually. Thank you, Ludovic. I’ll do as much for you sometime.”
“I trust I shall not require to avail myself of your services, sir.”
They parted on the most amicable of terms and Madoc went to get shaved. So Ludovic knew the Mounties had arrived and Ludovic, unless he was a liar as well as a sometime knave, had not seen fit to apprise his employer of that fact. Rather had not informed his non-employer. It was hard to think of Squire as not being head of Graylings in fact as well as in demeanor and appearance. Rhys wished very much indeed that he knew exactly how the financial arrangements worked at Graylings and what effect Granny’s death was going to have on them.
So Cyril was the actual lord of the manor? But did Cyril have any control over the purse strings? And where did Donald, May, and Clara come in? Not to mention Herbert the faithful steward, Lawrence the faithful family lawyer, Ludovic the allegedly faithful old retainer, Valerie the no doubt frequently unfaithful granddaughter, whatever offspring Lawrence and Clara might have, and that pair of May and Herbert’s who, from the look of their eyeballs by the end of last evening, had been playing at something other than billiards. With a silent cheer for the marvels of modern electronics, Rhys turned on the shower, reached under the things in his shaving kit, and pulled out a small black box.
“Dick Tracy here,” he murmured into the microphone end. A tinny cackle from the receiver assured him he was on. “Listen, Hercule, I think I’ve got into something. No, murder for gain, most likely. Looks to me like an old woman done with a pillow, but I’ve nothing but hunches so far. Everyone’s being very polite about it. I’m not asking for help. You’d have a job flying anybody in under these conditions, and at this stage there’s not even a case to warrant the effort. I just wanted you to know what’s up, and be ready to fly my girl out if things turn sticky. When’s the storm supposed to … oh, not good, eh? Well, Joyeux Noël. ”
Down in the States, radio disc jockeys must be dreaming of a white Christmas. Over in Britain, some sweet middle-aged lady with a penchant for gore and a driving lust for an advance royalty check would be pounding out a mystery novel about a house party trapped in a blizzard. This wasn’t any real blizzard, not by Canadian standards, but it was pretty thick out there and likely to remain so for a day or two, according to his informant. Fa la la. Rhys buried the midget transistorized two-way radio under his shaving tackle again and went to put some clothes on.
As he was leaving his room, looking especially poetic in the rust-colored heather mixture pullover Janet had so lovingly and laboriously knit for him, the knitter herself came stumbling out into the hall, still wearing her bundle of blue fleece and, no doubt, her pearls and thermal underwear.
“Oh, Madoc, am I late for breakfast?”
“You’ve missed your morning cuppa, that’s all. Ludovic was around with tea a while back. He begged leave to congratulate me on my taste in brides, which I graciously granted. Don’t get up yet unless you feel like it. Breakfast will be laid on for at least another hour, I’m sure. And don’t prim that stiff upper lip at me or I’ll kiss it.”
He did anyway. “I’m going down and break a bun with Squire. As to Granny, Ludovic says the drill is that we behave as though nothing has happened.”
“Madoc, has something?”
“Not now, darling. I’ll see you downstairs. One doesn’t make one’s own bed, by the way.”
Janet looked horrified. “All right if you say so, but I’ll never be able to explain to
“Then I mustn’t keep you. I’ll be down myself as soon as I get dressed.”
“Squire will be glad of your company.”
“Ludovic, does he know who I am?”
“He knows you are Sir Emlyn’s son and Sir Caradoc’s nephew, sir.”
“Great-nephew, actually. Thank you, Ludovic. I’ll do as much for you sometime.”
“I trust I shall not require to avail myself of your services, sir.”
They parted on the most amicable of terms and Madoc went to get shaved. So Ludovic knew the Mounties had arrived and Ludovic, unless he was a liar as well as a sometime knave, had not seen fit to apprise his employer of that fact. Rather had not informed his non-employer. It was hard to think of Squire as not being head of Graylings in fact as well as in demeanor and appearance. Rhys wished very much indeed that he knew exactly how the financial arrangements worked at Graylings and what effect Granny’s death was going to have on them.
So Cyril was the actual lord of the manor? But did Cyril have any control over the purse strings? And where did Donald, May, and Clara come in? Not to mention Herbert the faithful steward, Lawrence the faithful family lawyer, Ludovic the allegedly faithful old retainer, Valerie the no doubt frequently unfaithful granddaughter, whatever offspring Lawrence and Clara might have, and that pair of May and Herbert’s who, from the look of their eyeballs by the end of last evening, had been playing at something other than billiards. With a silent cheer for the marvels of modern electronics, Rhys turned on the shower, reached under the things in his shaving kit, and pulled out a small black box.
“Dick Tracy here,” he murmured into the microphone end. A tinny cackle from the receiver assured him he was on. “Listen, Hercule, I think I’ve got into something. No, murder for gain, most likely. Looks to me like an old woman done with a pillow, but I’ve nothing but hunches so far. Everyone’s being very polite about it. I’m not asking for help. You’d have a job flying anybody in under these conditions, and at this stage there’s not even a case to warrant the effort. I just wanted you to know what’s up, and be ready to fly my girl out if things turn sticky. When’s the storm supposed to … oh, not good, eh? Well, Joyeux Noël. ”
Down in the States, radio disc jockeys must be dreaming of a white Christmas. Over in Britain, some sweet middle-aged lady with a penchant for gore and a driving lust for an advance royalty check would be pounding out a mystery novel about a house party trapped in a blizzard. This wasn’t any real blizzard, not by Canadian standards, but it was pretty thick out there and likely to remain so for a day or two, according to his informant. Fa la la. Rhys buried the midget transistorized two-way radio under his shaving tackle again and went to put some clothes on.
As he was leaving his room, looking especially poetic in the rust-colored heather mixture pullover Janet had so lovingly and laboriously knit for him, the knitter herself came stumbling out into the hall, still wearing her bundle of blue fleece and, no doubt, her pearls and thermal underwear.
“Oh, Madoc, am I late for breakfast?”
“You’ve missed your morning cuppa, that’s all. Ludovic was around with tea a while back. He begged leave to congratulate me on my taste in brides, which I graciously granted. Don’t get up yet unless you feel like it. Breakfast will be laid on for at least another hour, I’m sure. And don’t prim that stiff upper lip at me or I’ll kiss it.”
He did anyway. “I’m going down and break a bun with Squire. As to Granny, Ludovic says the drill is that we behave as though nothing has happened.”
“Madoc, has something?”
“Not now, darling. I’ll see you downstairs. One doesn’t make one’s own bed, by the way.”
Janet looked horrified. “All right if you say so, but I’ll never be able to explain to
Similar Books
