Page 29 of And Then There Was the One
“And Dr. Severin found nothing unusual about your husband’s symptoms?”
“If he did, he told me nothing of it,” Mrs. Penbaker said, still very cool.
Georgie glanced at Sebastian; this was going, truthfully, about as well as she had expected it might, but if he thought that his dubious charms could aid the progress of this conversation, now would be a rather helpful time for him to employ them.
Mercifully, he took the hint and leaned forward. “We are so sorry to bother you with what must seem like very odd questions, at such a difficult time for you,” he said, his voice warmand soothing, and Georgie could practically see Mrs. Penbaker melting slightly before him.
“But,” he continued, “we know how much your husband loved this village—Georgie here has spoken of him so highly, and in such glowing terms,” he added, with a fond glance at Georgie, “that I can only mourn the fact that I did not get to make his acquaintance myself. And I cannot help but wonder if your husband had any known enemies who might have had cause to do him harm.” He finished this pretty little speech, then leaned back against the display case, looking entirely at ease.
Mrs. Penbaker hesitated for a long moment; Georgie had the impression that she was thinking quite hard, considering her next words. At last, she looked directly at Sebastian and said, “My husband was quite obsessed with increasing tourism to Buncombe-upon-Woolly, you know.”
Georgie snorted; everyone in the village knew this—it would have been rather impossible to miss. Sebastian split a curious glance between her and Mrs. Penbaker before asking politely, “Is there something I’m missing?”
“Mr. Penbaker was very… imaginative,” Georgie said, with considerable diplomacy, “in his schemes for attracting new visitors.”
A small smile played at the corners of Mrs. Penbaker’s mouth. “What Miss Radcliffe is too polite to say in front of me is that my husband had ideas that bordered on lunacy—he tried, at one point, to introduce a flock of sheep to the village green, on a permanent basis.”
Sebastian blinked. “For what purpose?”
“Our name,” Georgie explained. “Buncombe-upon-Woolly. He thought we ought to really lean into the character of the name and become known for our friendly flock of village sheep.”
“I take it this didn’t work?” Sebastian asked.
Mrs. Penbaker shook her head. “It was absolute chaos—sheep everywhere. You couldn’t drive a motorcar through the village for weeks. Eventually, he saw that it was folly, and the sheep were returned to their usual fields.”
“Except for one,” Georgie added.
“Poor Ernest,” Mrs. Penbaker agreed.
“Our permanent village sheep,” Georgie explained, seeing that Sebastian looked mystified. “He loved the village green so much that he could not be persuaded to return home. I’ll introduce you to him, next time we walk past.”
“I look forward to the honor,” he said gravely.
“There was also the year he attempted to create a festival at harvesttime centered around racing pumpkins down the river,” Mrs. Penbaker continued.
“And the year he tried to draw tourists for Bonfire Night by advertising the largest bonfire in the Cotswolds, and he ended up setting the roof of the school on fire,” Georgie added.
“And when he thought we should have an annual weekend celebrating particularly large wheels of cheese, and he ended up dropping one and breaking a tourist’s foot.”
“If the tourist were allowed to eat the cheese afterward, I expect they might not have minded,” Sebastian said thoughtfully. “What’s a broken bone when compared with the joys of cheese?”
“And,” Mrs. Penbaker added, after a brief, eloquent silence, “he was absolutely obsessed with the notion of besting Bramble-in-the-Vale. The council chairman there—Mr. Lettercross—was an old friend of his, but they hadn’t spoken in fifteen years after a falling-out over the last bit of Bath Blue at a Christmas market—”
“I did not realize cheese could cause such lasting enmity,” Sebastian said, looking duly impressed.
“Welcome to the Cotswolds,” Georgie said.
“—and once Lettercross became the chairman of Bramble-in-the-Vale’s village council, just the year after Bertie was elected here, it grew even worse.”
“Bramble-in-the-Vale has always been a bit flashier than us,” Georgie explained. “Their cheese is more famous, and their sheep have thicker fleece.”
“It seemed as though no matter what Bertie did, Lettercross was always a step ahead,” Mrs. Penbaker said, shaking her head. “Until the murders, of course. There haven’t been any murders at all in Bramble-in-the-Vale.”
“No Murder Tourists either, I expect,” Sebastian said cheerfully.
Mrs. Penbaker frowned thoughtfully. “That’s where you’re wrong, actually. A friend of mine runs an inn in Bramble-in-the-Vale, and apparently they’re positively overrun—loads of tourists who want a glimpse of the scenes of the crimes, but who are a bit nervous about staying in Buncombe-upon-Woolly itself, lest they become the next victim. So, even when Buncombe-upon-Woolly managed to at last accomplish something noteworthy, Bramble-in-the-Vale still benefited.”
Georgie exchanged a glance with Sebastian, her mind racing.
