Page 19 of And Then There Was the One
Surely, surely not. She was not at all the sort of woman whom men like this flirted with.
Just to be certain to put a damper on it, however, she said blandly, as she turned to leave, “You might wish to rethink that—the water in the pond is horrendously cold, so I don’t think it would do your naked form any favors.”
His laughter followed her out the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I have to say, Georgie, this is truly the most interesting thing you’ve ever done!” Abigail declared, flinging herself into a chair.
“Not the three separate murders I’ve solved in the past year?” Georgie asked dryly.
Abigail shook her head. “Sleuthing is one thing. But bringing home a posh blond man from London?Thatis fascinating.”
It was just before dinnertime, and Georgie, Abigail, and Papa were in the drawing room, where they gathered each evening for drinks and perhaps to listen to the wireless before heading through for dinner. Very little of the glory days of Radcliffe Hall remained, but Georgie’s mother had continued this tradition upon her marriage, even allowing the children, no matter how small, to join their parents, and Georgie had therefore been determined to continue it as well, after her mother’s death. When Abigail and Georgie were young, this had involved mugsof extremely milky tea for them, while Papa had tea as well (only he’d poured whisky into it). As the girls had grown, however, they’d begun to dabble in a bit of wine or sherry, then champagne, and these days Abigail had become obsessed with cocktails, which she never had the opportunity to acquire anywhere else in Buncombe-upon-Woolly, seeing as the village did not offer much in the way of fashionable entertaining. She had acquired a copy ofThe Savoy Cocktail Bookand was apparently determined to eventually work her way through the seven hundred recipes, although the Radcliffes did not entertain frequently enough for her to make much of a dent in it.
Tonight, the menu was aviations with a garnish of interrogation.
“This is only a professional relationship,” Georgie said, accepting the glass her sister handed her. “We are working on an investigation together. He’ll be back in London by this time next week.”
“That’s how it started with Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane, but I’m not convinced wedding bells aren’t in their future,” Abigail said, sinking down onto the faded velvet love seat opposite Georgie. Almost everything in Radcliffe Hall was somewhat faded, full of relics from the family’s wealthier and more glamorous days, and the drawing room where they currently found themselves ensconced was a perfect example of this, featuring a set of mismatched sofas and chairs, a battered coffee table, a scarred and chipped sideboard that Abigail had turned into a bar, a bookshelf buckling under the weight of two complete (and extremely outdated) encyclopedia sets and decades’ worth of issues ofNational Geographic, and wallpaperin a William Morris print that had likely looked spectacular fifty years earlier when it was hung, but which was showing definite signs of its age.
“Who?” Georgie asked blankly.
“From Dorothy Sayers’s novels,” Abigail said impatiently. “Don’t youread?”
“Strangely, I find theactualmurders in my day-to-day life sufficient and don’t need to seek them out in novels,” Georgie shot back.
“Clearly not sufficient, since you’re determined to see a murder where there wasn’t one, with poor Mr. Penbaker.” Georgie had to swallow back a sharp retort at the “poor Mr. Penbaker,” considering that not a week before his death, Abigail had been complaining vociferously about the fact that he’d refused to allow her to sell cocktails to the Murder Tourists on Murderous Meanders, a series of guided tours he’d arranged along the village’s high street. The Murderous Meanders took place every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, meaning Georgie’s plans to commence a subtle investigation that weekend would be a bit more difficult with would-be amateur detectives popping out from around every corner.
“Besides,” Abigail added, not seeming to notice Georgie’s disgruntlement, “Dr. Severin examined Mr. Penbaker—surely if he’d been stabbed, he’d have noticed.”
“I don’t think he was stabbed,” Georgie said patiently. “If he was murdered, he was poisoned. There are numerous poisons that can induce cardiac arrest.”
“Your fondness for poisons is disturbing,” Abigail said, sniffing and taking a dainty sip of her drink.
“I’m notfondof them,” Georgie said, nettled. “In fact, I’d love it if people in this village could see their way to being poisoned a bit less frequently.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Abigail said, with a trace of smug knowing that Georgie found infuriating coming from her baby sister. “Because then you’d have nothing to do.”
Georgie opened her mouth to protest, but at that precise moment there were footsteps on the stairs, and a few seconds later, Sebastian poked his head into the drawing room.
“Hello,” he said cheerfully, beaming at the assorted Radcliffes.
“Hello!” Abigail said, brightening. “Would you like a cocktail?” She was already making for the bar; it was a great thrill for her whenever they had visitors, as she evidently found Georgie and their father to be somewhat dissatisfactory as far as cocktail hour company went.
Sebastian winked at her; Georgie contemplated homicide. “Strong drink and the company of two fetching maidens—who could resist?”
Abigail dimpled at him. “We’re having aviations, if you’d like one?” She didn’t go so far as to bat her eyelashes, but Georgie was certain she’d considered it, and felt like reminding her sister that earlier that same day, she’d feigned a dire illness to lure a certain village doctor to Radcliffe Hall, and could she perhaps make up her mind as to which inappropriate man to flirt with?
“I’d love one,” Sebastian said, entering the room and taking a seat on the settee next to Georgie. He had changed his clothing, she noticed—he was now wearing a cream-coloredjumper and a pair of gray trousers. Catching her glance, he said, “I didn’t think this seemed like the sort of household to dress formally for dinner—unless I was incorrect?”
Georgie looked down at her outfit—the same one she’d been wearing all day, her blouse a bit limp and wrinkled by this hour.
“Not incorrect, unfortunately,” Abigail said, turning to present him with his drink. “We’re not very formal in Buncombe-upon-Woolly.”
“All part of your charm,” Sebastian said brightly, raising his glass to her. “Cheers.”
“Georgie tells me you’re a fellow Cambridge man,” Papa said now, eyeing Sebastian approvingly. “Which college?”
