Page 11 of And Then There Was the One
“Perhaps, Miss Radcliffe,” Fletcher-Ford said, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich and leaning back in his seat, “you could speak to your family after lunch, and then you might see your way to giving me that tour this afternoon?” The way he said this, Georgie thought irately, made it quite clear that he could not imagine a world in which a woman wouldnotjump at the opportunity to spend time with him. She was sorely tempted to tell him that she could think of few things she’d less like to do, but—
Well, she needed him. So instead, she merely offered him her tightest, most awful smile and said, “Certainly.”
Radcliffe Hall was in a state of excited agitation upon her arrival half an hour later; Dr. Severin had evidently been summoned for Abigail, and he had somehow been induced to stay for lunch, which was just finishing when Georgie walked in, clutching a stack of letters she’d retrieved from the postbox at the end of the long, winding driveway that led to the house.
“Oh,” she said, startled, upon spotting Dr. Severin, who was deep in conversation with Papa as Mrs. Fawcett cleared away the plates. Abigail was reclining elegantly in a chair directly opposite Dr. Severin, wearing the silk dressing gown Papa had bought her for her birthday earlier that spring. (Georgie, naturally, had been the one to select the specific dressing gown from a catalogue and remind her father to make the purchase.) “I didn’t realize we had company.”
“I was just leaving, actually,” Dr. Severin said, rising as she entered the room. “But Mr. Radcliffe, I appreciate the invitation. And Miss Abigail”—here, he glanced across the table at Georgie’s sister, his expression softening in a way that caused warning bells to chime in Georgie’s mind—“don’t hesitate to phone me if you are still feeling unwell tomorrow. Or if you need anything else.” He turned to Georgie and raised both eyebrows at whatever he saw in her face. Georgie hastily schooled her expression into something more neutral—or at least less openly hostile. “Miss Radcliffe.” He gave her an uncertain smile before departing.
No sooner had the front door closed behind him than Abigail rose from her chair, all previous signs of delicate convalescencemysteriously absent. “Georgie, you didn’t have toscowlat him!”
Georgie set the stack of letters down in front of Papa, who was still lingering over a final cup of tea, and crossed her arms as she faced her sister. “Are you feeling better? I can’t help but notice you grow mysteriously healthier as soon as Dr. Severin leaves the room. How astonishing! Some sort of medical miracle, no doubt?”
Papa frowned, glancing up from his teacup. “Georgie, love, that’s not a kind thing to accuse your sister of.”
“Does it count as an accusation if it’strue?” Georgie gestured at her allegedly convalescent sister, who was standing with her hands on her hips, watching Georgie with narrowed eyes.
“I’ll have you know, Georgie, that I ran into Dr. Severin at the post office yesterday and mentioned that my hay fever has been particularly severe this year—” This, at least, was true; every spring, Abigail turned into a sniffling, wheezing mess for weeks on end. “—and he volunteered to pay us a visit. He seemedveryeager.” There was a trace of smugness to Abigail’s voice at this, and Georgie inhaled sharply in an attempt to keep her temper in check.
“Aunt Georgiana phoned the other day,” she said, and both Abigail and Papa blinked at this apparent non sequitur. “She wants to know if you still wish to come stay in July.” Aunt Georgiana was their mother’s younger sister, who lived in an extremely elegant flat in Pimlico. Now that Abigail, at nineteen, was out of school and more or less at loose ends, there had been discussion of sending her to London for an extendedstay with her aunt. Given recent developments with Dr. Severin, Georgie thought that this invitation could not come at a better time.
“I… don’t know,” Abigail said, worrying at the sleeve of her dressing gown. “I’d been speaking to Mrs. Chester about helping at the tearoom, actually.”
Georgie blinked. “Since when?”
Abigail met her gaze. “Since she tasted the treacle tart I brought to the fete last month.”
Abigail undoubtedly had a way with desserts. Her mince pies were popular village-wide at Christmas, and she made a Victoria sponge for Georgie’s birthday each year that Georgie looked forward to for weeks in advance. But still, to consider giving up a summer in London solely to… prepare tea cakes for the villagers, and whatever tourists would descend upon them this year? It was absurd.
“I don’t think the Scrumptious Scone is going anywhere,” Georgie said shortly. “There’s no reason you can’t help Mrs. Chester once you come back.” By which point surely Abigail’s attention would have moved on from Dr. Severin.
“Aunt Georgiana isn’t going anywhere either,” Abigail tossed back, crossing her arms.
“I wouldn’t be so certain,” Georgie said. “What if she gets married again, to an Argentine polo player, and this is your only chance to stay with her before she abandons us for South America?” This was not, given their aunt’s romantic history, as unlikely a scenario as it might have seemed.
“Why don’tyougo, then, Georgie, if it matters so much to you?”
Papa blinked up from his teacup. “Did you wish to go to London, love? If Abigail doesn’t want to go, there’s no reason you shouldn’t.”
“I can’tleave!” Georgie said indignantly. Did no one realize this house—this entire absurd village—would fall apart without her? “I have amurderto solve!”
Abigail gave an exasperated shake of her head. “If this is about that detective you invited to stay—”
“Well,” Georgie said, would-be casual. “It’s interesting you should mention that. Do you recall that I mentioned that Fitzgibbons was sending an associate instead?”
Abigail eyed her watchfully. “Yes.”
“Well.” Georgie cleared her throat. “This associate—his assistant, really—he is… not quite what I expected.”
“How so?” Abigail asked suspiciously.
“Well. He’s from London.”
“Obviously,” Abigail said. “If he works for a detectivein London.”
“And, er,” Georgie hedged, “he’s somewhat… younger than Fitzgibbons.”
“How much younger?” Abigail demanded.
