Page 7 of And Then There Was the One
She frowned. Surely a man such as this hadn’t arrived for a visit with a single hand-case?
“Ah!” the man said brightly, watching the porter struggle down the train step behind him with two enormous suitcases. “Just there,” he added, nodding to a spot about ten feet away. “No doubt I can summon a cab to take me the rest of the way.”
Georgie wondered—even as she, to her great disgust, realized that she was still staring, as though hypnotized, at the wave of his hair—what business such a man had in Buncombe-upon-Woolly. He didn’t strike her as a Murder Tourist, but perhaps he, too, wanted to be part of the excitement of a quaint place in the grip of a grisly crime spree. He could tell his sophisticatedfriends in London about it—for, not for a single second, did she doubt that this man was from the capital. The shine of his shoes alone was enough to inform her of this fact—no one who resided in the country had shoes that clean. It was physically impossible.
“Although.” Here, the man frowned, a wrinkle appearing in his brow. The expression looked odd on him, as though he’d had precious little cause to make it in his life.
“I would have thought,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to the porter’s struggles behind him, “that someone would have come to meet me? I’m here at their invitation, after all—what was the name of the lady who wrote?” He patted futilely at his pockets, as though expecting a letter to suddenly materialize from one of them.
“I couldn’t say, sir,” the porter said, panting a bit after depositing the evidently heavy suitcases on the platform. “Have a good afternoon,” he added with clear relief, springing back onto the train as the final “all aboard!” was called. The handsome man, meanwhile, glanced about the platform, his gaze landing on Georgie, who made no attempt to disguise her stare. He brightened at the sight of her.
“I say!” he called with a jaunty little wave of his hand. “You wouldn’t be here from—er—” Once again, he patted at his pockets.
“Radcliffe Hall?” Georgie managed, finding her voice at last.
“Just so!” he said cheerfully. “I expect you’re a housemaid? I hope you’re stronger than you look,” he added, sizing her up with an experienced eye. “These trunks are quite heavy—though I’d be happy to give you a hand.” He beamed at her. “Ladies do enjoy my occasional displays of physical strength.”
Georgie only narrowly avoided gaping at him, so gripped was she by incredulous horror.Thiswas the man Delacey Fitzgibbons had sent to investigate the murders in Buncombe-upon-Woolly?Him?
Thehimin question had thrust one hand into his pocket and was continuing to beam at her in an expectant sort of way. Arthur—who, Georgie noticed, had visibly brightened at the prospect of a display of manly strength—stepped forward and extended his hand.
“You must be Mr. Fletcher-Ford.”
The gentleman in question reached out to shake Arthur’s hand enthusiastically. “Sebastian Fletcher-Ford—were you sent by Miss… er. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten her name, the one who wrote.” He smiled sheepishly; Arthur appeared momentarily blinded.
“That would be Miss Radcliffe,” Arthur said, recovering after a moment, nodding over his shoulder at Georgie.
“Ah.” Fletcher-Ford had the grace to look a bit sheepish. “Not a housemaid, then?”
“Not the last time I checked.” Georgie’s tone was cold enough to freeze a puddle, but Fletcher-Ford’s smile didn’t waver at the sound. She took several cautious steps toward him, and he reached for her hand, which he kissed before she could stop him, as if it were 1834, rather than 1934. She wrenched her hand back.
“And I’m Arthur Crawley,” Arthur said, apparently sensing—correctly—that Georgie was too discombobulated by this interactionto perform any introductions herself. “And there’s Constable Lexington, of course.” Georgie, startled, glanced over her shoulder to find that Lexington had indeed materialized behind her and was observing this interaction with a faintly puzzled expression.
“Delighted,” Fletcher-Ford said, his tone entirely amiable. He tilted his head, surveying his surroundings. “What a charming part of the country. Do you know, I saw a positively adorable herd of veal wobbling around a meadow on the train ride here?”
“A herd of—do you meancalves?” Georgie asked, blinking.
Fletcher-Ford snapped his fingers. “That’s the one! Can never keep the two words straight—don’t you think it’s odd that a lamb is a lamb, no matter whether we’re about to eat it or not, but a cow isn’t?”
Georgie, Arthur, and Lexington stared at him for a long moment.
“I can’t say it had ever occurred to me,” Lexington said at last.
Fletcher-Ford winked at him. “That’s why I’m here, old sport. Someone’s got to think about these things!”
They continued to stare at him, veering precariously close to gaping, before Georgie decided that a bit of diplomacy was called for.
“We are intrigued to make your acquaintance,” she said, which she supposed wasn’t an inaccurate assessment of the situation. “And though the letter came from me, it was really a collective effort, from Mr. Crawley and Constable Lexington and myself.”
Fletcher-Ford gave Georgie a winning smile. “I can’t tell you how disappointed I am to hear it, Miss Radcliffe. I do soloveto receive letters from enchanting young ladies.”
Georgie frowned; Arthur coughed.
“So,” Fletcher-Ford said, rubbing his hands together eagerly. “I hear you’ve a spot of murder?”
“Rather,” Georgie said. “Four in the past year—but I suspect it might be five.”
“Well, I suppose that’s what I’m here to investigate, isn’t it?” Fletcher-Ford said brightly. “Not, of course,” he amended, “that I would presume to fault your work, Constable.”
