Read Online The Twelve Clues of Christmas by Rhys Bowen - Free Book Online
Authors: Rhys Bowen
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She’s the daughter of the house where I’m staying.”
“Pleased to meet you, miss,” Granddad said, holding out a big meaty hand.
Bunty looked surprised, but was too well-bred to comment. “Lovely to meet you too,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind but we’re getting mistletoe from your tree.”
“Not my tree, ducks. Take all you want.”
“I should go inside and say hello to my mother.” I turned to Bunty. “Maybe my grandfather can help you see if there is a ladder in the shed. That will be easier than trying to climb the first bit.”
I knocked lightly and went into the cottage. It was everything a cottage should be and I could tell why Noel had chosen it. Big beams across the ceiling, brass warming pan on the wall, fire crackling merrily in the hearth, copper pots hanging over the kitchen stove. All it needed was a spinning wheel and a white-haired old lady to complete the picture. Instead there was my mother, curled up like a cat in an armchair by the mullioned window, reading
Vanity Fair
. She looked up and those lovely blue eyes opened wide.
“Good God, Georgie, what are you doing here?”
“That’s a nice welcome, I must say.” I went across the room to kiss her cheek. “How about, ‘Hello, darling daughter, what a lovely surprise to see you’?”
“Well, it is, but I mean—what
are
you doing here? I told you Noel and I were going to be working and there’s actually no room and—”
“Relax, Mummy. I’m staying at Gorzley Hall. Pure coincidence that we’re in the same village. I just came down to say hello.”
Relief flooded over her face. “Well, in that case, lovely to see you, darling.” And she kissed my cheek in return.
“Everything all right? All settled in?” I asked her.
“Splendid. Noel’s up in his room, pounding away at his typewriter. Your Mrs. Huggins is doing very well, in spite of Noel’s food fads, and we’ve found a local girl, Rosie, to come and clean for us. At least I hope she’s coming to clean. She should have been here by now.” She glanced at her watch.
I looked out the window and saw a woman break away from one of the tight knots of gossipers and hurry in our direction with a worried expression on her face. It occurred to me that perhaps the gossip was because the villagers had found out about my mother and Noel Coward.
The front door was flung open and the woman came in. “Awful sorry I’m late, ma’am,” she said in a broad Devon accent. “I know I said ten o’clock, but I were that upset—I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, ma’am.”
“About the man who killed himself yesterday? Yes, we were told about that.”
“No, ma’am. Not about him. ’Tis Ted Grover I’m talking about. He were found drowned in Lovey Brook this morning.”
Mummy sat up. “And who is Ted Grover?”
“He were my uncle, ma’am. Owned a big garage just outside Bovey Tracey. Doing awfully well, he were. Owned charabancs and gave tours of the moor. And now he’s gone.” She put her red, work-worn hands up to her face and started to sob noisily. Mummy put a tentative arm around her shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Rosie. I’ll have Mrs. Huggins bring you a cup of tea.”
“What happened to him?” I asked as Mummy headed for the kitchen, calling, “Mrs. Huggins!” in strong theatrical tones.
“Well, he was always popping over for a drink at the Hag and Hounds,” Rosie said. “Leastways everyone knew why he came to this pub and not the Buckfast Arms, which was right next to his garage. And it weren’t the quality of the ale either. He and the publican’s wife were sweet on each other, you see. They’d meet out behind the pub and then he’d cut back across the fields to his place, thinking that nobody saw him. Of course we all knew about it—well, in a village everyone does, don’t they?”
She paused, taking out a big checked handkerchief and blowing her nose. “Well, he had to cross a little stone bridge over Lovey Brook.
“Pleased to meet you, miss,” Granddad said, holding out a big meaty hand.
Bunty looked surprised, but was too well-bred to comment. “Lovely to meet you too,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind but we’re getting mistletoe from your tree.”
“Not my tree, ducks. Take all you want.”
“I should go inside and say hello to my mother.” I turned to Bunty. “Maybe my grandfather can help you see if there is a ladder in the shed. That will be easier than trying to climb the first bit.”
I knocked lightly and went into the cottage. It was everything a cottage should be and I could tell why Noel had chosen it. Big beams across the ceiling, brass warming pan on the wall, fire crackling merrily in the hearth, copper pots hanging over the kitchen stove. All it needed was a spinning wheel and a white-haired old lady to complete the picture. Instead there was my mother, curled up like a cat in an armchair by the mullioned window, reading
Vanity Fair
. She looked up and those lovely blue eyes opened wide.
“Good God, Georgie, what are you doing here?”
“That’s a nice welcome, I must say.” I went across the room to kiss her cheek. “How about, ‘Hello, darling daughter, what a lovely surprise to see you’?”
“Well, it is, but I mean—what
are
you doing here? I told you Noel and I were going to be working and there’s actually no room and—”
“Relax, Mummy. I’m staying at Gorzley Hall. Pure coincidence that we’re in the same village. I just came down to say hello.”
Relief flooded over her face. “Well, in that case, lovely to see you, darling.” And she kissed my cheek in return.
“Everything all right? All settled in?” I asked her.
“Splendid. Noel’s up in his room, pounding away at his typewriter. Your Mrs. Huggins is doing very well, in spite of Noel’s food fads, and we’ve found a local girl, Rosie, to come and clean for us. At least I hope she’s coming to clean. She should have been here by now.” She glanced at her watch.
I looked out the window and saw a woman break away from one of the tight knots of gossipers and hurry in our direction with a worried expression on her face. It occurred to me that perhaps the gossip was because the villagers had found out about my mother and Noel Coward.
The front door was flung open and the woman came in. “Awful sorry I’m late, ma’am,” she said in a broad Devon accent. “I know I said ten o’clock, but I were that upset—I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, ma’am.”
“About the man who killed himself yesterday? Yes, we were told about that.”
“No, ma’am. Not about him. ’Tis Ted Grover I’m talking about. He were found drowned in Lovey Brook this morning.”
Mummy sat up. “And who is Ted Grover?”
“He were my uncle, ma’am. Owned a big garage just outside Bovey Tracey. Doing awfully well, he were. Owned charabancs and gave tours of the moor. And now he’s gone.” She put her red, work-worn hands up to her face and started to sob noisily. Mummy put a tentative arm around her shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Rosie. I’ll have Mrs. Huggins bring you a cup of tea.”
“What happened to him?” I asked as Mummy headed for the kitchen, calling, “Mrs. Huggins!” in strong theatrical tones.
“Well, he was always popping over for a drink at the Hag and Hounds,” Rosie said. “Leastways everyone knew why he came to this pub and not the Buckfast Arms, which was right next to his garage. And it weren’t the quality of the ale either. He and the publican’s wife were sweet on each other, you see. They’d meet out behind the pub and then he’d cut back across the fields to his place, thinking that nobody saw him. Of course we all knew about it—well, in a village everyone does, don’t they?”
She paused, taking out a big checked handkerchief and blowing her nose. “Well, he had to cross a little stone bridge over Lovey Brook.
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