Page 69 of And Then There Was the One
“All right,” he said, after a long moment, and then he added, “But only because I want a scone.”
And Georgie, rather startled, realized that that had been ajoke.
Half an hour later, Arthur and Lexington had their marchingorders. “I think all the files from resolved cases are in the back of some closet or other,” Lexington said, draining the dregs of the cup of coffee Arthur had given him. “No one will likely even notice me digging around.”
“But you can be back here by one?” Georgie pressed, a bit anxious. There were an awful lot of moving pieces to this plan.
“I don’t see why not, barring some sudden murder investigation that requires my attention—and given what you’ve worked out, that seems unlikely.”
“Has anyone at the constabulary noticed that you’ve been preoccupied this past week?” she asked curiously.
Lexington’s mouth tightened and then eased. “I’ve learned, over the past few years,” he said, his voice even, “that no one at the Gloucestershire constabulary cares overmuch what you get up to, so long as you don’t make anyone else’s job too difficult, and don’t rock the boat in any way.”
“How noble,” Arthur muttered, his eyes on his own coffee cup, and Lexington shot a sharp look at him.
“Itoldyou—”
“Not now,” Arthur interrupted, his tone a bit curt. The two men looked at each other for a long moment, some sort of silent conversation taking place that made Georgie feel like a bit of a third wheel.
“Right,” she said brightly, standing to take her own teacup back into Arthur’s tiny, cramped kitchen. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, I suppose—and we’ll meet at the Shorn Sheep at one?”
“Where are you off to, then?” Arthur asked with a wary glance at her.
“To see Dr. Severin,” she said.
“Why?” Arthur asked suspiciously. “If you’re going to try to warn him off Abigail, then Georgie, I really think you ought to reconsider—”
“I’m not,” Georgie said simply. “But Idohave a hunch that I’d like him to confirm.”
She might not have intended to warn Severin away from her sister, but she still was somewhat surprised—and not entirely pleased—to arrive at his cottage to find Abigail, of all people, standing on the front steps.
“Georgie!” Abigail at least had the decency to look a bit guilty. “What—er—”
“What am I doing here?” Georgie finished. “I might ask you the same.”
“Well,” Abigail said, creating more syllables than naturally existed in that word, “if youmustknow, I’m here to collect a packet of herbs Tom”—Georgie blinked at her sister’s use of Severin’s given name—“wants me to give to Mrs. Chester when I’m at the Scrumptious Scone later.”
“Herbs for what?” Georgie asked.
Abigail shrugged. “Some sort of joint trouble. He has a tea he claims will help. He’s quite knowledgeable about these sorts of things, you know,” she added, a note of defensive pride in her voice. “He says lots of doctors think that medicinal herbs are simply something that ignorant country wives fret over, but that many of them actually work quite well.”
“Does he,” Georgie said. Her mind landed on that letter from Severin to Penbaker, on whose reverse side Sebastian hadtyped his test sentence on the typewriter. Severin had advised Penbaker to brew some sort of medicinal tea for joint pain, if she recalled correctly.
“Abigail, did you—oh!” Severin appeared at the door, a paper packet in one hand, and he looked surprised to see Georgie. “Miss Radcliffe. Hello.” His voice—warm with affection when he’d uttered her sister’s name—went considerably more guarded upon spotting Georgie, and she realized in a flash that she was being rather horrible about this entire thing.
“Hello,” Georgie said, then paused for a moment before adding, “You might call me Georgie, if you want.” She glanced at Abigail and saw her sister’s face brighten. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about the day Mr. Penbaker died, if you don’t mind?”
“Not at all,” Dr. Severin said, handing the paper packet to Abigail. “Did you want to come in?”
“No.” Georgie shook her head. “Or, rather—this won’t take long. It’s just a couple of questions, really. Were you still prescribing Mr. Penbaker some sort of medicinal tea for joint pain at the time of his death?”
Severin nodded. “Nettle and willow bark. It’s an old remedy, but it works well. His wife had just come to pick up a new packet of herbs from me that morning.”
“Had she,” Georgie repeated, growing more certain by the second that her hunch was correct. “And do you recall the time you called on Mrs. Penbaker and her husband? She said it would have been just after two that she would have arrived home—does that sound correct?”
“No,” Severin said slowly, his dark brows pinched in thought. “It’s funny you should ask—I always keep a record in my notes of the times I attend patients, and I was just looking through them again this morning, searching for something else. It was around four that Mrs. Penbaker phoned me.”
“And Abigail, you’re certain that the fete planning committee meeting did not run long that day?” Georgie asked her sister.
