to gather in a single morning.”
I preened a little until she pierced my satisfaction with her next words. “Of course, I have done a bit of sleuthing myself and have discovered a tasty titbit that has eluded you.”
She paused for dramatic effect, and I resisted the urge to yank her hair.
“Jane and I were discussing the neighbours this morning.”
“Yes, I know,” I said impatiently. “The Reverend Pennyfeather. Miss Cavendish told me of him.”
“Did Miss Cavendish also tell you about the inebriate doctor who suffered a great tragedy when his wife was attacked and killed by a tiger a few months ago?”
I blinked at her. “She mentioned a tiger in the area, but nothing more. How dreadful!”
“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Apparently the poor woman was carried home still alive, but without a face.”
I made a noise of revulsion, but Portia went on. “It took her hours to die, hours. And she was conscious the whole time, screaming.”
“Enough!” I put up a hand. “What a frightful way to die.”
“She is not the only one,” Portia advised me. “A fortnight ago it snatched a child, and apparently everyone is in rather a state because the picking will commence soon and everyone must be out in the fields instead of huddling close to their bungalows. The local folk believe it is some sort of magical tiger on account of the colour of its coat.”
I furrowed my brow. “I thought all tigers were orange with black stripey bits.”
“Not all of them,” Portia said. “This one is black as coal. They say at night, you cannot see anything of it at all save for its eyes which sparkle like jewels in the moonlight.”
If Portia had meant to frighten me out of my wits she could have scarcely made a better job of it, and I prayed fervently thatBrisbane was not engaged in a tiger hunt. The danger quite took my breath away. “I have heard all I care to hear upon the matter of tigers. Another subject please.”
Portia gave me a smile pointed with mischief. “Very well, dearest. Did Miss Cavendish tell you about the kindly pair of English sisters who have taken the lease on Pine Cottage, the pretty house down the lane? Oh, they are delightful girls, Julia, and you will remember them well.”
“Remember them? I cannot think of any of our acquaintance who have gone to India—” I broke off in horror, my mind whipping back to the conclusion of our second investigation, when our cousins had quite literally got away with murder.
Portia gave me a triumphant smile. “Yes, pet. Our near neighbours are none other than Miss Emma Phipps and Lucy, Lady Eastley.”
This news took a bit of digesting. I had never expected to see Emma and Lucy again, and to encounter them in so remote a corner of the world was little less than astounding.
“Are you certain?” I asked Portia, knowing the question to be a stupid one.
“Perfectly. Some time ago, Camellia Cavendish undertook a journey to England to bring the wayward Freddie home to do his duty. On the return journey, she formed an acquaintance—”
“With Emma and Lucy,” I finished. “It must have been Lucy’s wedding trip, just after they left us at Bellmont Abbey.” Emma and Lucy had played significant roles in our second investigation, a case that had shaken the very foundations of our father’s ancestral home. Lucy I believed to be innocent, but I was firmly convinced of Emma’s moral culpability, even if no legal guilt could be attached to her. They had left in the company of Sir Cedric Eastley, Lucy’s fiancé, who had managed to marry and subsequently widow her during the course of their journey to India.
“I have always thought Emma somehow induced his apoplexy,” I confessed to Portia. “They were so desperately poor all their lives, and with all that lovely Eastley money as an inducement, it would have been difficult to resist the temptation. And Sir Cedric himself so upright, so controlling. Emma would never tolerate watching her beloved
I preened a little until she pierced my satisfaction with her next words. “Of course, I have done a bit of sleuthing myself and have discovered a tasty titbit that has eluded you.”
She paused for dramatic effect, and I resisted the urge to yank her hair.
“Jane and I were discussing the neighbours this morning.”
“Yes, I know,” I said impatiently. “The Reverend Pennyfeather. Miss Cavendish told me of him.”
“Did Miss Cavendish also tell you about the inebriate doctor who suffered a great tragedy when his wife was attacked and killed by a tiger a few months ago?”
I blinked at her. “She mentioned a tiger in the area, but nothing more. How dreadful!”
“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Apparently the poor woman was carried home still alive, but without a face.”
I made a noise of revulsion, but Portia went on. “It took her hours to die, hours. And she was conscious the whole time, screaming.”
“Enough!” I put up a hand. “What a frightful way to die.”
“She is not the only one,” Portia advised me. “A fortnight ago it snatched a child, and apparently everyone is in rather a state because the picking will commence soon and everyone must be out in the fields instead of huddling close to their bungalows. The local folk believe it is some sort of magical tiger on account of the colour of its coat.”
I furrowed my brow. “I thought all tigers were orange with black stripey bits.”
“Not all of them,” Portia said. “This one is black as coal. They say at night, you cannot see anything of it at all save for its eyes which sparkle like jewels in the moonlight.”
If Portia had meant to frighten me out of my wits she could have scarcely made a better job of it, and I prayed fervently thatBrisbane was not engaged in a tiger hunt. The danger quite took my breath away. “I have heard all I care to hear upon the matter of tigers. Another subject please.”
Portia gave me a smile pointed with mischief. “Very well, dearest. Did Miss Cavendish tell you about the kindly pair of English sisters who have taken the lease on Pine Cottage, the pretty house down the lane? Oh, they are delightful girls, Julia, and you will remember them well.”
“Remember them? I cannot think of any of our acquaintance who have gone to India—” I broke off in horror, my mind whipping back to the conclusion of our second investigation, when our cousins had quite literally got away with murder.
Portia gave me a triumphant smile. “Yes, pet. Our near neighbours are none other than Miss Emma Phipps and Lucy, Lady Eastley.”
This news took a bit of digesting. I had never expected to see Emma and Lucy again, and to encounter them in so remote a corner of the world was little less than astounding.
“Are you certain?” I asked Portia, knowing the question to be a stupid one.
“Perfectly. Some time ago, Camellia Cavendish undertook a journey to England to bring the wayward Freddie home to do his duty. On the return journey, she formed an acquaintance—”
“With Emma and Lucy,” I finished. “It must have been Lucy’s wedding trip, just after they left us at Bellmont Abbey.” Emma and Lucy had played significant roles in our second investigation, a case that had shaken the very foundations of our father’s ancestral home. Lucy I believed to be innocent, but I was firmly convinced of Emma’s moral culpability, even if no legal guilt could be attached to her. They had left in the company of Sir Cedric Eastley, Lucy’s fiancé, who had managed to marry and subsequently widow her during the course of their journey to India.
“I have always thought Emma somehow induced his apoplexy,” I confessed to Portia. “They were so desperately poor all their lives, and with all that lovely Eastley money as an inducement, it would have been difficult to resist the temptation. And Sir Cedric himself so upright, so controlling. Emma would never tolerate watching her beloved
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