Page 6 of And Then There Was the One
“That’s notreal journalism,” Arthur balked.
“I don’t know if the man who recently wrote a two-page feature on Ernest the village sheepreallyought to be casting stones about ‘real journalism,’?” Georgie noted, nodding at the ram in question, who was munching contentedly on a patch of grass at the edge of the green.
“The point is,” Lexington continued, “I don’t think they’dtake kindly to any rumors of unsanctioned detective work… so it’s probably for the best that Fitzgibbons himself isn’t coming. It would put Chief Constable Humphreys in a terrible mood, so if you could try to keep this assistant of Fitzgibbons’s from drawing too much attention, it would certainly make my job easier.”
Georgie shook her head. “This is probably going to make us seem like rank amateurs; it will be a miracle if this Fletcher-Ford doesn’t hop on the next train back to London.”
“Please,” Arthur said, waving a dismissive hand. “This is an assistant toDelacey Fitzgibbons—his protégé! He’s not going to turn away from an intriguing case. I bet he’ll have things sorted in a trice.”
“I don’t know,” Georgie said dubiously. “It’s going to be fairly difficult to investigate a crime that may or may not have happened, with a man whom no one is meant to realize is here.”
“You worry too much,” Arthur said. “Trust me, Georgie—this time on Thursday, you’ll be prostrate at my feet with gratitude for my insistence that you send that letter.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” Georgie muttered.
And, as it happened, she was entirely correct.
CHAPTER THREE
Thursday was an exceptionally lovely day, which Georgie found exceptionally irritating.
“Look at it,” she explained to Arthur under her breath as they approached the train station. “The sun shining—the flowers blooming along the lane—theivy.” She gestured at the absurdly picturesque station.
“Er,” said Arthur. “What about the ivy, precisely?”
“It looks verycharming,” Georgie said. “No wonder we have Murder Tourists!”
“An absolute plague of them,” Arthur muttered, eyeing a flock of young men of university age who were murmuring excitedly to each other, several of whom appeared to be clutching—Georgie groaned internally—magnifying glasses.
Georgie had, on numerous occasions over the past few months, been stopped on the street while trying to do something entirely ordinary, like return a library book or pick upan order at the butcher’s for Mrs. Fawcett, and subjected to the breathless inquiries of Murder Tourists who recognized her astheMiss Radcliffe, amateur sleuth. She had gone through a phase in the spring when she’d taken to wearing exceedingly large hats by way of disguise, until Abigail finally pointed out that she might actually be drawingmoreattention to herself that way.
“My point is,” she said, ignoring the Murder Tourists and instead gazing darkly at the quaint, two-platform train station before them, the Woolly River twinkling in the sunlight as it curved behind the station, “this man from London is going to swoop in here and think that Mr. Penbaker dropped dead of natural causes. Who would murder the leader of a village that looks like this?”
Arthur glanced around surreptitiously. “Keep your voice down. We have no idea who’s behindThe Deathly Dispatch—they could have ears everywhere, and I’m not going to let them scoop me, on the off chance there actuallyisa story here.”
Georgie shook her head. “This is becoming a fixation.”
“They’re poaching my readers! All of this hubbub about the murders won’t do me any good if theRegister’s entire readership abandons us for theDispatch.”
“You’re starting to sound a bit hysterical.”
“Rich, coming from the woman who’s convinced that an elderly man who died of a heart attack was actually murdered by some secretive village cabal.” He visibly brightened at this prospect, and Georgie could practically see the wheels of his mind turning as he pondered cabal-related headlines.
“I have never claimed there was a cabal,” Georgie said severely. “And he was only sixty-five—that’s how old my father is!” Papa had been more than a decade older than her mother, as it had evidently taken quite some time for someone interesting enough to come along to catch his eye, given how preoccupied he’d been by the Woolly Hoard, his one and only claim to archaeological glory.
“Hmmm.” Arthur made a skeptical noise, one that Georgie would absolutely have protested further had she not been distracted at that very moment by a train whistle. She and Arthur climbed the steps to the station, crossing to the edge of the platform just as the train crawled to a halt before them.
“Do you think we’ll be able to recognize him?” Georgie asked Arthur a bit uncertainly.
“What, do you think he’ll be wearing a cap and monocle, like Fitzgibbons?” Arthur asked; Georgie noted that he was wearing his favorite blue jumper, and that his unruly curls were a bit more tamed than usual. She, too, had dressed with particular care this morning, donning a green skirt and carefully pressed white blouse that Abigail had once informed her was almost stylish, and she’d even taken the time to wipe a bit of the dust and mud off her brown oxford shoes before hopping on her bicycle to meet Arthur outside his small flat on the high street.
“Perhaps it’s a prerequisite of the job,” she said to Arthur.
She scrutinized the passengers disembarking from the train. There was a harassed-looking mother surrounded by three young children, being greeted by an elderly couple; a pair of middle-aged women dressed in colorful cotton dresses andmatching hats, looking around eagerly (Murder Tourists); and then—
Well, quite simply, the most handsome man Georgie had ever seen descended to the platform.
Given the small size of Buncombe-upon-Woolly, she supposed this wasn’t saying much—how many menhadshe seen, in her entire life, in total? However, she was fairly certain that this man would cause a stir even in London, where beautiful creatures of every gender must surely waltz about the streets. He was tall and lean, with hair of a golden hue akin to perfectly ripened wheat; it was combed back from his face in an impeccable wave, not a single curl daring to break ranks and spoil the impression of well-coiffed perfection. His eyes: the blue of the summer sky. His attire: linen trousers, and the most immaculately fitted forest-green jumper Georgie had ever seen. His luggage: a leather hand-case that likely cost more than the entire contents of Georgie’s wardrobe.
