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Authors: Rhys Bowen
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the ladder while Bunty clung to it precariously. “I volunteered to go up for the young lady,” he said, “but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“Quite right. No ladders at your age,” I said.
“I’m not over the hill yet,” he said. “By the way, what was all that fuss about in there? I heard weeping and wailing.”
“Rosie’s uncle was found drowned in a brook this morning. Rosie’s saying it’s the Lovey Curse striking again. Two deaths in two days in the village.”
“Hmm,” Granddad said. “You know what my old inspector would say about that, don’t you?”
“Well, in this case your inspector would be wrong, I suspect,” I said. “One man shot himself by accident and the other fell off one of those little stone bridges in the middle of the night after he’d drunk too much. I don’t think you can read a curse or anything else into that, can you?”
“Let’s hope not,” Granddad said. “I’d like a nice quiet Christmas, personally, with no complications.”
* * *
B UNTY HAD JUST climbed down, waving a sprig of mistletoe triumphantly, when a motorcar drew up.
“Oh, Lord,” Bunty said as several policemen got out. “I thought we’d seen the last of them.”
Chapter 8
One of the policemen headed straight for us. He was wearing a fawn raincoat and a matching fawn hat and had a droopy fawn mustache. If he’d had the words “detective inspector” tattooed to his forehead it couldn’t have been more obvious. “Morning, Miss Hawse-Gorzley,” he said, raising his trilby to reveal thinning fawn hair, neatly parted down the middle.
“Good morning, Detective Inspector.”
“I suppose you’ve heard this latest news. Two deaths in two days. And just when I thought I’d be getting time off to do some Christmas shopping with the wife, too.”
“But they were both accidents, surely,” Bunty said.
“Let’s hope so, Miss Hawse-Gorzley, let’s hope so,” he said. “But I have to wonder about Ted Grover. Not usually the type who goes stumbling around drunk, would you say? Holds his liquor pretty well, so I’ve been told. Which makes me ask myself whether one of them convicts might still be hiding out in the neighborhood and encountered Ted last night.”
“If I were those convicts I’d have headed for Plymouth as quickly as possible and boarded a ferry for France,” Bunty said.
“You would, no doubt, Miss Hawse-Gorzley, but then you’re a young woman of the world. Those criminal types would be lost on the Continent, not knowing how to parley-vous and all that. They’d stick out like sore thumbs and be caught instantly. If you want to know what I suspect, I suspect that they haven’t strayed too far. What’s more, I suspect that someone around these parts is hiding them.” He looked at my grandfather. “Now, take the folks who are renting this cottage, for instance. Moved in just around the time of the breakout, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but one of them is Claire Daniels and the other Noel Coward,” I said. “They’re supposed to be in seclusion, writing a new play together, and I’m pretty sure they won’t be harboring escaped convicts.”
“And how about you, sir?” the inspector asked. “Are you one of their servants?”
“I am Claire Daniels’s father, Albert Spinks,” Granddad replied stiffly, “and what’s more I was on the force for thirty years with the Metropolitan Police.”
The inspector took a step back, then stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Inspector Harry Newcombe. What a stroke of luck that you’re here. I’ll be calling upon your expertise, if you don’t object. So you’ve been at the cottage these last few days. And I notice that the cottage garden looks directly onto the orchard where the man shot himself. So did you happen to hear a shot in the early hours of yesterday morning?”
Granddad shook his head. “No, I can’t say I did, but then, I sleep quite soundly. Have they ascertained the time of death?”
“No,
“Quite right. No ladders at your age,” I said.
“I’m not over the hill yet,” he said. “By the way, what was all that fuss about in there? I heard weeping and wailing.”
“Rosie’s uncle was found drowned in a brook this morning. Rosie’s saying it’s the Lovey Curse striking again. Two deaths in two days in the village.”
“Hmm,” Granddad said. “You know what my old inspector would say about that, don’t you?”
“Well, in this case your inspector would be wrong, I suspect,” I said. “One man shot himself by accident and the other fell off one of those little stone bridges in the middle of the night after he’d drunk too much. I don’t think you can read a curse or anything else into that, can you?”
“Let’s hope not,” Granddad said. “I’d like a nice quiet Christmas, personally, with no complications.”
* * *
B UNTY HAD JUST climbed down, waving a sprig of mistletoe triumphantly, when a motorcar drew up.
“Oh, Lord,” Bunty said as several policemen got out. “I thought we’d seen the last of them.”
Chapter 8
One of the policemen headed straight for us. He was wearing a fawn raincoat and a matching fawn hat and had a droopy fawn mustache. If he’d had the words “detective inspector” tattooed to his forehead it couldn’t have been more obvious. “Morning, Miss Hawse-Gorzley,” he said, raising his trilby to reveal thinning fawn hair, neatly parted down the middle.
“Good morning, Detective Inspector.”
“I suppose you’ve heard this latest news. Two deaths in two days. And just when I thought I’d be getting time off to do some Christmas shopping with the wife, too.”
“But they were both accidents, surely,” Bunty said.
“Let’s hope so, Miss Hawse-Gorzley, let’s hope so,” he said. “But I have to wonder about Ted Grover. Not usually the type who goes stumbling around drunk, would you say? Holds his liquor pretty well, so I’ve been told. Which makes me ask myself whether one of them convicts might still be hiding out in the neighborhood and encountered Ted last night.”
“If I were those convicts I’d have headed for Plymouth as quickly as possible and boarded a ferry for France,” Bunty said.
“You would, no doubt, Miss Hawse-Gorzley, but then you’re a young woman of the world. Those criminal types would be lost on the Continent, not knowing how to parley-vous and all that. They’d stick out like sore thumbs and be caught instantly. If you want to know what I suspect, I suspect that they haven’t strayed too far. What’s more, I suspect that someone around these parts is hiding them.” He looked at my grandfather. “Now, take the folks who are renting this cottage, for instance. Moved in just around the time of the breakout, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but one of them is Claire Daniels and the other Noel Coward,” I said. “They’re supposed to be in seclusion, writing a new play together, and I’m pretty sure they won’t be harboring escaped convicts.”
“And how about you, sir?” the inspector asked. “Are you one of their servants?”
“I am Claire Daniels’s father, Albert Spinks,” Granddad replied stiffly, “and what’s more I was on the force for thirty years with the Metropolitan Police.”
The inspector took a step back, then stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir. Inspector Harry Newcombe. What a stroke of luck that you’re here. I’ll be calling upon your expertise, if you don’t object. So you’ve been at the cottage these last few days. And I notice that the cottage garden looks directly onto the orchard where the man shot himself. So did you happen to hear a shot in the early hours of yesterday morning?”
Granddad shook his head. “No, I can’t say I did, but then, I sleep quite soundly. Have they ascertained the time of death?”
“No,
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