Page 63 of And Then There Was the One
“Romantic subplot,” Miss de Vere said. “All the best detective novels have them, you know.”
“Miss Radcliffe must have missed that memo,” Sebastian said. “But I hardly need Miss Radcliffe, when I have two such beautiful specimens of womanhood before me.”
Georgie pressed her lips together, tempted to laugh, despite worrying that this was not going precisely according to plan. When plotting this conversation, they had failed to account for the extent to which the Detective Devotees were wedded to the traditional beats of the genre.
“Mr. Fletcher-Ford,” Miss de Vere said, her voice growing steely, “I really think we should focus on the case at hand. You said you and Miss Radcliffe found some paperwork?”
“There’s an awful lot of paperwork in these mysteries,” Miss Singh said, thoughtful now. Georgie exchanged a glance with Arthur, whose brow was furrowed in thought.
“Letters, I mean,” Miss Singh clarified a moment later. Georgie frowned, a half-formed idea taking shape at the back of her mind. She considered the facts of the murder cases in Buncombe-upon-Woolly, and realized Miss Singh was right—letters did seem to connect them all. There were the blackmail letters that Mrs. Hoxton—a local housewife who’d been having an affair with a farmer—had received from the vicar, prompting her murder of him. And the anonymous letter that the bakers’ son had received, informing him of his parents having changed their will to exclude him. And the letter—allegedly from an orphanage employee—alerting Lady Tunbridge’s eventual murderer to her ladyship’s identity as her birth mother. And the Marbles…
She wracked her brain.
There had been a draft letter uncovered by the police in Mrs. Marble’s desk, supposedly to a friend, discussing her dissatisfaction with her marriage.
Georgie bit her lip, turning over these facts—and at the back of her mind a small voice reminded her of Sebastian’s theory, which she had so quickly brushed aside, that the murders in the village might somehow be connected.
Sebastian, meanwhile, was silent, as Miss Singh and Miss de Vere matter-of-factly made a list of the cases, making note of the role the letter had played in each mystery. Georgie expected him, once they’d concluded, to attempt to steer the conversation back on track, toward more flirtatious territory, but therewas a lengthy silence once the women had ceased speaking, and Georgie chanced another glance at Sebastian. He was staring down into his drink, deep in thought. Whatever was wrong with him?
He glanced up, and unerringly caught her eye. Georgie prepared to duck back into her hiding spot, but before she could do so, he mystifyingly raised a hand at her. “Miss Radcliffe!” he called. “Georgie!” Both Murder Tourists’ heads whipped round, and their brows furrowed at the sight of Georgie, who waved weakly back by way of greeting.
“Georgie,” Sebastian said, more firmly now. “Come join us. Because I’ve just had a thought and—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Well, old bean, I thinkyoumay be in possession of an absolutely corking piece of evidence.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
With such a response, there was nothing for it but to join the group at the next table.
“Hello,” Georgie said, a trifle sheepishly, hovering awkwardly behind Miss de Vere’s chair.
“Miss Radcliffe,” Miss Singh said, her smooth brow puckering. “Mr. Fletcher-Ford said that you were at home this evening? Doing—” She glanced around, then said in a stage whisper, “—important detective work.”
“Er,” Georgie said. “I was.”
“She wasn’t,” Sebastian said, at exactly the same time, and Georgie gave him a scathing look, which naturally he ignored. “The fact is, ladies,” he said, spreading his hands wide in a mea culpa sort of gesture, “you’ve been brought here under false pretenses.”
“We… have?” Miss de Vere looked perplexed, and Georgie honestly couldn’t blame her.
“I did not stumble across you by accident, as it seemed, but it was all part of a deliberate, forearm-forward attack.”
Miss Singh blushed. “I did think that was anawfullot of forearm to be showing on a Monday night.”
Miss de Vere looked at her inquiringly. “I’m sorry, when would be a more appropriate evening for Fletcher-Ford to be showcasing his forearms?”
“Thursday,” Miss Singh said promptly. “It’s the most licentious of the weekdays.”
“Fair enough,” Miss de Vere agreed.
“My forearms were to entice you!” Sebastian said, looking offended. “No woman can resist the sight of a man glistening appealingly with bared forearms!”
Miss de Vere and Miss Singh looked at him skeptically.
“Sebastian,” Georgie said, with what she personally thought was admirable patience, “could youpleaseexplain why you have undone a carefully laid plan for the sake of some alleged evidence that you believe I possess?”
Sebastian, with one last disapproving shake of his head at the Murder Tourists, turned to Georgie. “Georgie, do you recall anything about the letters we saw today, at Mrs. Penbaker’s?”
“Um.” Georgie considered. “There were an awful lot of them?”
“No.” Sebastian shook his head, frustrated. “The letters themselves. Did you notice anything about the type?”
