Page 10 of And Then There Was the One
Georgie stared at him, incredulous. “You want to go out tolunchto conduct a murder investigation?” Surely,surelythis was not all that a trusted associate of the much-lauded Delacey Fitzgibbons could contribute to their investigation.
“Well,” Fletcher-Ford said, taking a sip of tea, “we did pass another tearoom on the walk here, and it might be nice to taste their biscuits, to compare them to Mrs. Chester’s.”
A brief, stunned silence fell at this; seeing that Georgie wastemporarily at a loss for words, Arthur attempted to come to her aid.
“I was thinking,” he said, “that I might write about your investigation, Fletcher-Ford. Offer an inside look at how a famous detective—or, rather, his assistant—does his work.”
“You’re a reporter?” Fletcher-Ford asked, appearing intrigued.
“ForThe Woolly Register,” Arthur confirmed. “It’s a, er, local outlet, but with a growing readership.” He paused expectantly, as if the young detective would immediately spring forward with more sensible suggestions for what to investigate first, but instead, Fletcher-Ford merely smiled.
“I don’t think you’ll want to be too obvious, Crawley. If we’re meant to be keeping our heads down, it might seem a bit strange to have a reporter dogging our heels.”
Arthur cleared his throat. “Naturally, I plan to be discreet. Nothing will be revealed until I publish my article.”
“Capital.” Fletcher-Ford’s smile widened. “Then perhaps in the meantime we might make it seem as though Miss Radcliffe invited me personally to visit, rather than writing to old Fitzy? And now I’m here, it simply transpires that I happen to have a certain expertise—”
Georgie snorted.
“—and am willing to assist an old family friend?”
“Wearen’tfriends,” Georgie said, nettled.
“But you’re a Radcliffe of Radcliffe Hall,” Lexington pointed out; Arthur grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Your father went toCambridge. Surely Mr. Fletcher-Ford is the sort of person your family would rub elbows with.”
This tended to be how Georgie’s family was spoken of among the villagers. It was the reason she had found herself involved in the first murder to begin with—people trusted the Radcliffes with their problems, as they’d been the local landed gentry for as long as anyone could remember, even though none of the villagers were their tenants any longer. And Georgie was undoubtedly the most useful of the current crop of Radcliffes to consult in a crisis. (There were, admittedly, only three of them, so it wasn’t saying much.)
“I’m a Cambridge man myself,” Fletcher-Ford said cheerfully. Of course he was. She could just picture him rowing in the Oxford-Cambridge race, or cycling across an ancient college lawn, or doing something else similarly athletic and English. “As are all the men of my family. It’s the perfect solution.”
“I don’t think…” Georgie began, but Arthur tapped his chin thoughtfully.
“It does make a certain amount of sense, Georgie,” he said. “If we put it about that you and Fletcher-Ford have some sort of personal connection, no one will find it odd to see you together, or think that you’re up to anything beyond poking around the village.”
“But as soon as we start asking questions, surely they’ll realize?” Georgie pointed out.
“Well, since Mr. Fletcher-Ford isn’t himself a famous detective”—here, Arthur offered Fletcher-Ford a vaguely apologetic look, as though worried this would cause offense, but the man in question was too busy consuming an enormous piece of shortbread in methodical fashion to take any notice—“thenI hardly think the police are likely to pay much attention to what you get up to. It’s not as though they’ve taken you very seriously in the past, after all.”
This, annoyingly, was true—it was only Lexington who had listened to Georgie’s concerns about the plant in the bakers’ garden, and had insisted that it be dug up. They might not have solved that case, had it not been for him—Detective Inspector Harriday had certainly not been very good-humored about the matter. It had been incredibly irritating at the time, but why not take advantage of this now, to conduct an investigation without ruffling any feathers?
Though Mr. Fletcher-Ford was hardly the sort of ally she’d had in mind.
Fletcher-Ford, for his part, had polished off the shortbread and was surveying the plate before him, debating his next selection. “And if I’m to take you up on your invitation to stay at—Radcliffe Hall, was it?—then it will seem all the cozier.” He flashed a smile at her.
Georgie scowled. “The invitation was forFitzgibbons,” she said.
“But,” Fletcher-Ford said sunnily, “I’m afraid I’m all you have, old bean.”
Georgie rolled her eyes heavenward, but unfortunately, he was correct. However, while Papa and Abigail had seemed intrigued by the notion of a celebrity detective coming to visit, she wasn’t at all certain how they’d react to the stylish, almost impossibly handsome specimen that she’d be presenting to them instead.
“All right,” she said, her mind racing. “Er, I’ll need to headhome this afternoon, to, um, prepare my father and sister. I don’t think you are… quite what they were expecting.”
“Just so,” Fletcher-Ford agreed cheerfully. “A sister, is it?” he added, looking intrigued. “Is she anything like you?”
Georgie glanced down at her serviceable clothing, worn shoes, and the barely controlled frizz of her dark hair, then thought of lovely, golden Abigail, with her pretty dresses, wide eyes, and romantic tendencies.
“Yes, she’s exactly like me,” she said definitively, despite knowing that this ruse would crumble the moment he actually met Abigail. Next to her, Arthur buried a smile in his teacup.
Instead of looking disinterested, however, Fletcher-Ford gave her a slow, lethal smile. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to hear it,” he said, and then leaned forward to pluck a ham sandwich off the platter before him, leaving Georgie so flustered that she attempted to add another lump of sugar to her already too-sweet tea.
