Page 31 of And Then There Was the One
“Why wouldThe Woolly Registerbe writing an article about Bramble-in-the-Vale?” Georgie asked, distaste practically dripping from her voice.
“We could bring the Murder Tourists,” Sebastian said, straightening in his seat.
“Excuse me?”
“The Murder Tourists,” Sebastian repeated. “Miss de Vere and Miss Singh—we met them in the tearoom today, don’t you recall?”
“I do,” Georgie said. “Why would we bring them with us, though?”
“Well,” Sebastian said reasonably, “iftheyappeared to betouring the village, and Crawley here was reporting on—I don’t know—the phenomenon of all the Murder Tourists visiting, you’d just need to make sure this council chairman became aware of it, and he’d practically be running toward us.”
“Hmm,” Georgie said.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Arthur said thoughtfully.
Lexington shook his head. “If this somehow ends in all of you getting arrested,” he said darkly, “just know that I will not be getting you out of prison.”
“That’s the spirit!” Arthur said, clapping him on the back.
And Georgie did not think that she imagined his hand lingering slightly longer than necessary.
“This,” said Miss Singh, for at least the third time since alighting from the train, “issocharming!” She looked around, wide-eyed, seemingly captivated by the sight of the improbably adorable high street, strung with colorful bunting and populated by a gaggle of giggling children, several attractive villagers clutching baked goods, and some sort of pop-up string quartet that appeared to be serenading the passersby, for God knew what reason.
“Ridiculous,” Georgie muttered, staring around her with a jaded, suspicious eye. The weather was vastly nicer than it had been yesterday; she had awoken early to the sight of sunlight streaming through her turret window, and had taken Egg on a morning walk that the beagle had enjoyed with a veritable spring in her step. The sky was clear—virtually cloudless, and with that particular shade of blue that signaled dry air, no hintof rain or even humidity that could ruin a perfectly good hair day. Georgie had spent more than her usual amount of time dressing that morning, at last selecting a green sailor dress that had caused Sebastian, when he first spotted her at breakfast, to proclaim, “Why, Georgie, you look entirely ravishing,” which had made her scowl by way of reply.
They had collected Miss de Vere and Miss Singh from the Sleepy Hedgehog, where they were staying, and then met Arthur at the tiny village station and boarded the ten o’clock train; Bramble-in-the-Vale was only one stop down the line, and they’d disembarked ten minutes later, blinking in the morning sunshine and soaking in the sight of a village that lookedpreciselylike Buncombe-upon-Woolly, if Buncombe-upon-Woolly had been an illustration in a children’s picture book, rather than a real place.
“I say, are thoserivalcheese shops next door to each another?” Sebastian asked, looking delightedly at the Great Stilton and the Grand Gloucester.
“Yes,” Georgie said, sighing. “They’re owned by an elderly pair of twin brothers.”
“Howcharming,” Miss Singh said, clapping her hands delightedly.
“I know,” Georgie said darkly. “It’s unnatural.”
Beyond the competing cheese shops, there was also a soap shop (featuring a wide selection made with Cotswold-grown lavender), a bookshop, an art gallery, and an ice cream shop, as well as the usual array of butcher–baker–grocer–et cetera that characterized any village high street.
“You’re frowning,” Sebastian said, glancing down at her.“I don’t mind—it is my favorite of all your expressions—but I don’t know if you’re precisely giving off genial goodwill in a way that will encourage confidences from the locals.”
Georgie, who had immediately begun to smooth her expression the second Sebastian had proclaimed her frowns to be his favorite, attempted a cheerful smile.
“A bit grimace-adjacent,” he advised, and she tried again. “Better.”
Thus armored, they struck off down the high street toward the center of the village. It was a Saturday and the entire village buzzed with cheerful energy. Miss Singh and Miss de Vere stood out in their London finery—Miss Singh was wearing a polka-dot skirt suit, and Miss de Vere a pink silk dress with a decorative lace collar and diamante buttons—and Sebastian looked to be some sort of annoyingly handsome storybook prince come to life, in his white linen suit, but they did not stand out quite as much as they did in Buncombe-upon-Woolly, because Georgie quickly realized that Bramble-in-the-Vale was absolutelyoverrunwith tourists. She was impressed in spite of herself; this undoubtedly was what Mr. Penbaker had been aiming for with his various schemes, but never quite managed to accomplish. And, begrudgingly, she acknowledged that Bramble-in-the-Vale radiated a similar quaint village appeal, just in a slightly more attractive way. It was as though Buncombe-upon-Woolly were a rough sketch, and Bramble-in-the-Vale the finished painting.
Arthur, who was viewing all of this with the mistrust that came naturally to all Buncombe-upon-Woolly natives when visiting their more fetching rival, cleared his throat. “Do wehave any notion of where Councillor Lettercross might be on a Saturday morning?”
“Yes,” Georgie said with a grimace. “Mrs. Penbaker told us that he hosts a sort of open house at the council office, so that villagers might stop by and say hello, share any of their problems—that sort of thing.”
“How—” Miss Singh began.
“Charming,” said Georgie, Arthur, and Miss de Vere.
“Well,” Miss Singh said, looking a bit sheepish. “Rather.”
The council office was a pretty stone building covered in ivy, with cheerful bunting strung over its door, which was flung open to let in the fresh air. Georgie’s footsteps slowed as she approached, and she glanced at Miss de Vere and Miss Singh. “Are you certain you understand what you’re doing?” she asked in an undertone. Sebastian had been the one to approach the ladies the evening before, loitering at the Shorn Sheep until they had once again put in an appearance, and Georgie was feeling rather nervous about commencing a plan that she had not been entirely in control of from inception to conclusion.
“Miss Radcliffe,” said Miss de Vere, a steely note creeping into her voice, “you need not worry in the slightest. We are Detective Devotees, and we are going to help you solve this case.”
