Page 17 of And Then There Was the One
“I don’t doubt the severity of your injury,” he hastened to reassure her in a soothing tone that made her want to collectsaid roof tile and bashhimover the head with it. “But unfortunately, I don’t think there’s someone in your fair village trying to do you in.”
This was irritating. It was not that Georgie wanted a would-be assassin to be lying in wait for her, but itwouldhave been gratifying.
She huffed out a frustrated breath. “Fine. In that case, I’m grateful for your help—though it really wasn’t necessary—but—”
“I was hoping I might change your mind,” he said, cutting her off so smoothly that he somehow managed to make it seem as though he were doing her a favor—preventing her from saying something foolish or unreasonable—by doing so. “I know you’re not convinced I can assist you, but I believe that I can.” He was looking directly at her now, his expression considerably more focused and less affably vacant than Georgie had seen it at any point in the few hours of their acquaintance thus far.
“Mr. Fletcher-Ford,” she said, trying to keep her tone pleasant; the past year’s worth of dealings with the local police force had taught her the importance of remaining patient whenever a man tried to explain something to her, but she was extremely resentful of the fact that she’d had to develop this skill at all. “I’m certain that your work with Mr. Fitzgibbons has been most, um, enthusiastic—”
“You think I’m a mindless idiot who will get distracted by the next skirt that passes,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t think I would have phrased it like that.”
“I believe you did, not five minutes ago,” he said, with a smile so appealing it should possibly have been illegal. “I’ll offer you this: Give me a week to help you solve this mystery,and at the end of that time, if we haven’t sorted things, I’ll pop back to London and sell Fitzgibbons a real song and dance about the dastardly crimes gripping a cheese-filled village, and how fame and fortune will undoubtedly follow whoever gets to the bottom of it. I can be quite convincing when I want to—I could have him on the next train, I’d wager.”
“I don’t think—”
“One week,” he said. He was once again looking at her very intently as he spoke, despite the fact that they were standing on a public street with a curious beagle sitting at their feet. “I know you don’t think much of me, but I’ve been employed by Fitzgibbons for nearly five years now, and I practically—well—” He broke off, shaking his head and looking frustrated, for reasons Georgie didn’t understand. “I’ve more experience than you might expect,” he finished after a moment.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked; if there was one thing she’d learned of late, it was how to tell when someone was trying to keep a secret from her.
He extended his hand. “Give me a week, and see if you can work it out—you’re the detective, aren’t you?”
And Georgie—unable, and a bit unwilling, to argue with that—reached out, took his hand, and shook it.
Unfortunately, Georgie’s accident meant that their tour of the village was clearly at a close, and the event she had been dreading could be delayed no longer:
It was time to introduce Sebastian Fletcher-Ford to her family.
This would be happening even sooner than she’d planned, because while Dr. Severin—who had been hastily summoned by a telephone call from Harry the barman—examined Georgie’s head and then cleaned and bandaged her scraped knee, Fletcher-Ford had taken the liberty of phoning Papa, who was now on his way to collect them in the Radcliffe family motorcar.
“I’m perfectly capable of walking,” she said for at least the third time.
“Of course you are,” Fletcher-Ford agreed, hands in his pockets as he leaned against the wall outside the Shorn Sheep, looking around. At least the Murder Tourists had vanished while Georgie and Fletcher-Ford were inside the pub.
“It was just a knock on the head and a fall,” she continued.
“Of course,” he said again, nodding amiably. This was extremely vexing, because Georgie wanted desperately to quarrel with him, and he was making it impossible to do so when he insisted on agreeing with everything she said. If there was one thing she hated more than men disagreeing with her, it was men agreeing with her when she was trying to pick a fight. “But, my dear Georgie, better safe than sorry! That’s what I always say.” He paused, considering, his handsome face looking a bit troubled. “Well, that’s what my nanny always used to say, actually, and I usually ignored her, but I like to think I’ve gained some wisdom with age, eh?”
“If this is you with wisdom, then the thought of what you were like when you were younger is absolutely chilling,” Georgie retorted, crossing her arms.
“Do you like Gothic novels, Georgie?”
“Do I—what?” she asked, so puzzled by this non sequitur that she could barely formulate a full sentence.
“Just trying to work out whether I should take ‘chilling’ as a compliment, coming from you,” he explained with wide-eyed earnestness. “In any case, since your father appears to have his own motorcar, and sounded positively delighted when I phoned him to come collect us—ah, that must be him!”
It was, of course; the sound of the Radcliffes’ aging Morris Minor could generally be heard well in advance of its appearance, and it rounded a curve in the lane a moment later, coming to a halt before the Shorn Sheep. The driver’s-side door opened, and Papa emerged, looking somewhat frazzled.
Fletcher-Ford’s face brightened. “You must be Radcliffe! I’m Fletcher-Ford, we spoke on the telephone.”
“If you would please try not to shout an introduction on the street to a man you’re allegedly already acquainted with, that would be brilliant,” Georgie hissed, then turned to face her concerned-looking father.
“Georgie, love, are you all right?” Papa asked, his brow creasing. He must have left the house in a hurry, she thought, since he appeared to be wearing one loafer and one house slipper. “What’s this about a head injury?”
“I’m fine, Papa, please don’t worry,” she said, smiling at her father as she approached the motorcar and opened the door for Egg, who—sensing the opportunity to be spared the long(ish) walk home—sprang into the vehicle with a degree of spryness that was astonishing for a dog her age.
Papa, however, was not listening, as he was now wringing Fletcher-Ford’s hand and offering him his profuse thanks.
