continued to muse along these lines when the door closed behind him and for several moments after his footsteps faded into silence. Of course I knew what Mrs. Malloy was about to say before she opened her mouth.
âThat puts the case in a different light. Someone who isnât Flossie Jones seems to be up to tricks. And somethingâs got to be done about it. You canât get away from that now, Mrs. H.â
Six
The moon huddled behind a threadbare blanket of cloud. It was no longer raining, but the wind shook the trees as if intent on rattling some sense into their leafless heads. It was well after midnight when I dropped Mrs. Malloy off at her house in Herring Street close to the center of Chitterton Fells. And I did so without making any promises. Wasnât it enough that I had allowed her to talk me out of contacting the police in regard to the man we called Have Gun Will Travel, on the grounds that Mr. Jugg would not appreciate official interference? Her posture as she went up the path to her front door let me know in no uncertain terms what she thought of my saying I would sleep on the Lady Krumley situation. The wind slammed the front door behind her causing the forsythia bush to cower against the wall.
Feeling exhausted but strung up, I drove on home through the square with its tower clock and jostle of Tudor-style buildings. At the corner of Market Street and Spittle Lane I passed Abigailâs. Shortly after Ben and I were married he had opened it as a restaurant serving fabulous French food. A year or so ago, when he decided he wanted to spend more time writing his cookery books, he had turned the ground floor into a coffee shop and let the upstairs to an elderly man in Edwardian dress with a dusty moustache who specialized in the sale of botanical and ornithological prints. The two businesses complemented each other nicely.
Driving up the Cliff Road I thought about Lady Krumleyâs obsession with Flossie Jonesâs deathbed curse. Was there some connecting piece of information her ladyship had withheld from Mrs. Malloy and me? Something that would explain the arrival of Have Gun Will Travel? Nudging around a bend in the road I thought about the flower pots thrown at her ladyshipâs car. In the new light of things it would seem someone had tried to prevent her from keeping her appointment with Milk Jugg. But Lady Krumley had not turned around and gone home as might have been hoped. Presumably, she had found a place to temporarily deal with her shattered window, making her several hours late in reaching Mucklesby. Was Have Gun responsible for that act of vandalism? Or had someone contacted him afterward to say that Plan A had failed and he was to proceed with Plan B?
The road grew darker as it climbed the cliffs. A spatter of rain hit the car windows and with the sound of the windscreen wipers going irritably into action I became suddenly aware that every bone and muscle in my body ached from the work I had done shifting furniture and lifting boxes in Benâs study.
Fortunately I was now almost home. St. Anselmâs Church came into sight on my left. The vicarage looked cold and pinched-face in the drizzle. The veiled moon cast an eerie light on the graveyard. Its tombstones had life and movement to them as if they were staggering with excruciating slowness toward me through the tufted grass, which also moved in waves as if to suggest that beneath the ground old bones stirred and stretched and skeletal hands reached upward to claw their way to the surface. Where, I wondered, was Flossie Jones buried.
A moment later I was driving through the gates of Merlinâs Court and parking the car in the old stables. I let myself in through the garden door. In the hall I took off my raincoat and tossed it onto the trestle table. There was, I thought, setting down my handbag, the distinct possibility that Ben would already be in bed and asleep, giving me the whole night to lie awake and worry
âThat puts the case in a different light. Someone who isnât Flossie Jones seems to be up to tricks. And somethingâs got to be done about it. You canât get away from that now, Mrs. H.â
Six
The moon huddled behind a threadbare blanket of cloud. It was no longer raining, but the wind shook the trees as if intent on rattling some sense into their leafless heads. It was well after midnight when I dropped Mrs. Malloy off at her house in Herring Street close to the center of Chitterton Fells. And I did so without making any promises. Wasnât it enough that I had allowed her to talk me out of contacting the police in regard to the man we called Have Gun Will Travel, on the grounds that Mr. Jugg would not appreciate official interference? Her posture as she went up the path to her front door let me know in no uncertain terms what she thought of my saying I would sleep on the Lady Krumley situation. The wind slammed the front door behind her causing the forsythia bush to cower against the wall.
Feeling exhausted but strung up, I drove on home through the square with its tower clock and jostle of Tudor-style buildings. At the corner of Market Street and Spittle Lane I passed Abigailâs. Shortly after Ben and I were married he had opened it as a restaurant serving fabulous French food. A year or so ago, when he decided he wanted to spend more time writing his cookery books, he had turned the ground floor into a coffee shop and let the upstairs to an elderly man in Edwardian dress with a dusty moustache who specialized in the sale of botanical and ornithological prints. The two businesses complemented each other nicely.
Driving up the Cliff Road I thought about Lady Krumleyâs obsession with Flossie Jonesâs deathbed curse. Was there some connecting piece of information her ladyship had withheld from Mrs. Malloy and me? Something that would explain the arrival of Have Gun Will Travel? Nudging around a bend in the road I thought about the flower pots thrown at her ladyshipâs car. In the new light of things it would seem someone had tried to prevent her from keeping her appointment with Milk Jugg. But Lady Krumley had not turned around and gone home as might have been hoped. Presumably, she had found a place to temporarily deal with her shattered window, making her several hours late in reaching Mucklesby. Was Have Gun responsible for that act of vandalism? Or had someone contacted him afterward to say that Plan A had failed and he was to proceed with Plan B?
The road grew darker as it climbed the cliffs. A spatter of rain hit the car windows and with the sound of the windscreen wipers going irritably into action I became suddenly aware that every bone and muscle in my body ached from the work I had done shifting furniture and lifting boxes in Benâs study.
Fortunately I was now almost home. St. Anselmâs Church came into sight on my left. The vicarage looked cold and pinched-face in the drizzle. The veiled moon cast an eerie light on the graveyard. Its tombstones had life and movement to them as if they were staggering with excruciating slowness toward me through the tufted grass, which also moved in waves as if to suggest that beneath the ground old bones stirred and stretched and skeletal hands reached upward to claw their way to the surface. Where, I wondered, was Flossie Jones buried.
A moment later I was driving through the gates of Merlinâs Court and parking the car in the old stables. I let myself in through the garden door. In the hall I took off my raincoat and tossed it onto the trestle table. There was, I thought, setting down my handbag, the distinct possibility that Ben would already be in bed and asleep, giving me the whole night to lie awake and worry
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