Read Online The Cherry Blossom Corpse by Robert Barnard - Free Book Online

towards the grounds, then the rest of us began scraping our chairs backwards, and making general getting-up motions.
    Amanda, of course, could not simply evaporate. Shehad not asked her Australian editor back to dinner, and had been sitting quite thoughtful throughout the meal. Now she made motioning signs to the boy-of-all-work, who had been bringing wine to the few who could afford to drink it.
    â€œI’m sorry to trouble you, but you were so helpful this morning, and I wondered if you could be an angel and translate for me a tiny letter I’ve written to your local paper. One sentence, literally one, I promise you.”
    â€œIt is not necessary. They print in English,” said the boy.
    â€œBut I want to reach the widest possible audience,” said Amanda. “After all, her piece did, it will take three minutes—two!—no more.”
    The boy looked round at the proprietress, and with pursed lips she nodded acquiescence.
    â€œCome to my room!” cooed Amanda, and sailed ahead so that she did not see the look of sheer horror that came over his face. Clearly he was convinced that he was going to be raped by this pink predator, and I must say the rest of us rather wondered too. Bravely he squared his shoulders and followed her.
    So we all went our various ways. I wandered out into the grounds with Cristobel and Bernard. After we had strolled in the brilliant evening sun-and-shadow for ten minutes or so, I realized they would much prefer to be alone. Perceptive of you, Perry! Bernard was to take the last bus back to Bergen, but there was an hour or so for them to make good use of before then. I walked back towards the house, irresolute. Prudence suggested that I should shut myself in my room with a good book. I had brought with me the memoirs of a former head of Metropolitan Police, to see how many direct lies I could catch him out in. Still, it was not riveting stuff.
    Im prudence and inclination suggested the bar. Andin the bar, doubtless was Maryloo Parker . . . While I was still dithering, down the stairs came Amanda, with the waiting boy following behind with a relieved expression on his face.
    â€œThank you so much,” fluted Amanda. “I think that puts her in her place, don’t you? And you’ll put it in the post-box for me? Wait . . .”
    She fumbled in her bag, and I expected her to produce a fifty-kroner note, or even a hundred, to tip him. In the event it was ten. His manner of acceptance was no worse than graceless, which it probably would have been whatever the denomination of note. I had the impression that most Norwegians wouldn’t recognize a Grace if it came down and landed on their head. The boy tootled downstairs towards the bar, and—quite without thinking on my part—Amanda and I slowly drifted in the same direction.
    â€œI think just a tiny gin and tonic to take up to my room,” announced Amanda. “I have an immense amount to do.”
    â€œAre you writing?” I asked.
    â€œBut of course, darling! I don’t regard this as a holiday. I have to do ten pages of The Pretender’s Sweetheart.”
    â€œAh—a historical,” I said wisely. “Do you have to do an immense amount of research for them?”
    She shot me a sharp, intelligent glance.
    â€œSomeone has been talking,” she said.
    â€œOh, you know what people are. Someone said you’d sent your heroine down to Regency Brighton on a train.”
    â€œDarling, I never discuss my books! What is written is written! . . . Could I have one of your lovely gin and tonics, do you think?”
    We were at the bar, where the proprietress presided. Amanda turned from that lady’s slightly grim demeanour back to me, and fixed me with her most dazzling smile. “Or should that be gins and tonic? Grammar was never my strongest point either.”
    But I was busy scanning the assembly. This evening there was no sprinkling of