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“I’ve received a summons.” My husband of two months waved the letter in his hand.
Surprised, I thumped down in my seat opposite him at the breakfast table.
“Good lord, Jerry! What on earth have you done? You’re a Detective Chief Inspector, for heaven’s sake.”
“Not that sort of summons, my love.” He grimaced. “It’s worse. This is from Sir Tom Tremayne.”
“Oh? Who’s he when he’s at home?” I reached for a slice of toast and began to butter it.
“A highly successful business man, big in electronics. He’s a pompous twerp who loves the sound of his own voice and likes to speak out on subjects he knows nothing about. Unfortunately, he’s also my brother-in-law, married to my eldest sister, Martha.”
“Golly! He sounds dreadful. What does he want with you?”
“With us. This is an invitation to spend Christmas with them and the rest of the Farish clan.”
I put down my toast and stared at his face, the strong jaw jutting forward, a sure sign of his annoyance. Well, he wasn’t the only one not best pleased.
“But, Jerry, this is our first Christmas together. You’ll refuse of course.”
He lifted his coffee, staring at me over the rim of the mug. “Actually, I’m not sure that I will. Not unless you absolutely hate the idea. I’d rather like to show you off.”
“You make me sound like a prize heifer,” I said. “I’m not sure I want to be shown off.”
I had a vague recollection of him telling me he came from a large family, though I don’t think he’d said how many Farishes there were. We’d kept our wedding and the reception to a small, quiet affair with no family and only a few friends.
“It could be quite a jolly country house party.”
“Uh huh.” I tried to sound non-committal at the appalling thought, and munched my toast.
“You’ll probably have to meet them some day, Verity. Why not get it over and done with?”
Much to my disgust he appeared to be warming to the idea. It was time to mount a rearguard action.
“Because this is our first Christmas as man and wife and the first in our new home. I wanted to spend it here with you.”
Jerry drank his coffee and got up to pour more from the jug on the hotplate before he replied.
“Well, the first part will still hold wherever we spend the holiday, and I’ll admit that Fernbank is a lot warmer and more cosy since the central heating was installed, but do you really want to cook Christmas lunch on that?”
He waved a hand at the ageing gas cooker behind me. He had a point. The kitchen was only one of many rooms needing renovation in the large Victorian vicarage Jerry had inherited from his aunt and cooking anything in here always presented a challenge. I’d still rather face that than a house full of strangers.
“We could always go out somewhere,” I said. “Lots of pubs offer Christmas lunch. The Fox at Sutton Harcourt for instance.”
“Well, if we go to Thornley Park, we will be going somewhere.” He stood up and moved his plate to the draining board.
“Thornley Park?”
“Yes, it’s Tremayne’s country house. Not quite a mansion or a stately home, but a sizeable pad nonetheless. It would have to be to take the Farish clan.”
My appetite suddenly gone, I pushed my plate away.
“How many of you are there?”
“Six. So, assuming they’ve all got partners, that will be ten others besides ourselves. Oh! Plus the dowager Lady Tremayne, if she’s still alive, and assorted offspring, of course.”
“Of course,” I muttered. My heart sank. Would we have to buy presents for them all? Cheaper by far to go to a hotel.
“Don’t say it like that. My family aren’t so bad.” His mouth curved in a lopsided grin.
“You aren’t close, though, are you?”
“No, not particularly. I suppose I’m closest to Sonia, who’s two years older and Liz who’s three years younger, but I have little to do with any of them.”
John and Mary Farish had been blessed with three boys and three girls—Peter, Martha, Sonia, Jeremy, Liz and Michael. All had been born within two or three years of each other which might, in other families, have made them a tight knit group. The Farishes, however, had all been fiercely independent, making their own way in life with scant regard, or time for, their fellow siblings. Jerry blamed the relatively early demise of his parents for this state of affairs and without a head of the family it was easy to see how they could have drifted apart.
“If we meet at all, it’s for marriages, baptisms, and funerals,” he said.
Or Christmas.
The Longs, on the other hand, had no tradition of spending the festive season together. My father had died far too young and was now a faint but much cherished memory. My mother, having borne him two children, carried on with her own life and largely forgot about him and them. My brother, whom I liked, and his wife and two spoilt kids, whom I didn’t, lived in a posh house somewhere on the banks of the Thames. Buckinghamshire, possibly. I had never been.
Recently, I had spent Christmas with my friends the D’Aumbray brothers in the flat above their wine bar and restaurant in the centre of Crofterton. While Jacques and I cooked up a storm in the kitchen, Valentino would set the table for the Nöel Réveillon, decant a couple of bottles of wine, and keep us supplied with nibbles and champagne.
Unlike the French custom of having the main meal late on Christmas Eve, the three of us would eat around midday, sitting down to smoked salmon, roast haunch of venison, and Jacques’ wonderful Bûche de Noël—a sponge cake log smothered in delicious chocolate buttercream. I groaned in pleasure at the memory.
“Are you all right?” Jerry put an arm around me.
“Yes, thanks.” I stood up and cleared the rest of the breakfast things, apart from our two mugs, off the table.
“Actually, if we do accept Tom and Martha’s invitation then you won’t have to worry about cooking or washing up. They have servants to do that.”
“Do people still have servants these days?”
“You do if you live at Thornley, though I think they only employ a cook and a gardener full time.”
“How often have you been?” I turned back to face him.
“Only a handful of times—when the children were baptised. The last time I went was for a birthday party shortly before I met you.”
“Well, I don’t mind helping out if necessary. One cook doesn’t seem much if they are having to cater for twelve-odd Farishes.”
“I take it you’re not keen on meeting the family?”
I ran hot water into the washing-up bowl while I considered my answer. I didn’t want to hurt or offend him, but I didn’t relish the prospect of meeting ten relatives who all knew each other and talked about events and people unknown to me. Plus their children.
“Is the invitation just for Christmas lunch?”
“Oh, no, not at all.” He picked up a tea towel. “The invitation says from the 23rd to the 27th of December.”
What? Five days and four nights of feeling completely out of things, being made to take part in silly parlour games, and having my ancestry probed? Not likely! Besides, I might not have the right sort of clothes, or enough of them to last that long.
I had to get out of it, tell him I didn’t want to go, but how?
“I may have to go in to work, and so might you.” I thought this a reasonable supposition, but Jerry was having none of it.
“Nonsense! I’ve covered Christmas for a long time, allowing those with families to have the time off. Now it’s my turn. I’m sure KD will give you a few days at least. You’ve had precious little time off this year.”
I loved my job, working as personal assistant and researcher for the famous crime novelist Kathleen Davenport. Always interesting, always varied, and very well paid, it was a dream way of earning a living and I certainly wasn’t going to jeopardise my job by going away for nearly a week if my boss needed me. The chances of Mrs Davenport, KD as she prefers to be called, actually being so busy that she would require me over Christmas were, frankly, non-existent. That wouldn’t stop me using it as an excuse, though. Hell’s teeth, but I’d sooner spend Christmas with her than at a country house party with a load of strangers.
Knowing that I was being selfish I scrubbed so hard at the plates it’s a wonder the pattern didn’t come off.
“You forget I’ve got two jobs, Jerry.”
“I do no such thing. Besides, I’m the boss of your second job, and I insist you take Christmas off.”
He insisted? Nostrils flared, eyes glaring, I turned to face him—and caught the laughter in his eyes and the smile that twisted his mouth. Damn the man! He could always take the wind out of my sails.
His arms went around my waist and he pulled me towards him. I resisted for just long enough to shake the soap suds off my hands and gleefully placed my wet palms on his back.
“You beast,” he said.
“Beast yourself.”
He kissed me hard until, breathless, I pulled away. Thank goodness it was Saturday, so there was no work for either of us today.
“Seriously, beloved, I would like to accept Tom and Martha’s invitation. Do you really object so much?”
Put on the spot, what could I say but, “No, not really. If it would please you, then of course we must go.”
“I’ll give Martha a call and let them know.”
***
The weeks sped by. I was no longer looking forward to Christmas, but I spent the time in between making sure I was ready for it by doing the thousand and one tasks that fall to a woman at that time of year—shopping for presents, writing cards, making mince pies, wrapping gifts, and packing suitcases. Jerry filled the car with petrol.
We set off on the 23rd—in teeming rain. Jerry drove the silver Audi along motorways and main roads, until turning off onto a minor road through the Dove valley.
“Not far now,” he said.
Away in the distance, behind a line of trees whose winter tracery of branches protected it from prying eyes, Thornley Park looked nothing as I expected. Built of brick in a hodgepodge of styles and eras as though the architect, unable to make up his mind, had added a little of everything just to be on the safe side, it proudly proclaimed that it had arrived without ever being too sure of where it’s destination had been.
At the end of the long sweeping drive running through the parkland surrounding the house, Jerry brought the car to a halt in front of the porticoed doorway next to a new-looking SUV and a large sedan. Unless the rest of the family had come by taxi, not everyone was here yet.
“Here we are.”
“A modest little pad, isn’t it?” I stared at the front of the house, wondering what sort of reception I’d get and ready to turn and run at the slightest opportunity.
“It’s only for a few days,” he said, as if divining my thoughts. “We’ll manage.”
We got out of the car and he took the cases from the boot while I stretched my back and my legs. The journey, in poor weather, had taken nearer to four hours than the three he’d estimated. The shadows were lengthening, soon it would be dark.
“Jeremy!”
The shout came from the open doorway, where a tall dark-haired woman, whose facial resemblance marked her out as one of his sisters, stood waving. She hastened down the stairs and enveloped Jerry in a bear hug.
“Jeremy! It’s lovely to see you.”
“Hello, Martha.” He pecked her on the cheek. “You’re looking well.”
“Thanks, and you.” She released him and turned to me, stepping forward. “And you must be Verity.”
Briefly, her cheek touched mine. She smelled of lavender soap and her smile was welcoming and infectious. I smiled back.
“That’s me. Hello, Martha, pleased to meet you.”
“And I you. Welcome to Thornley Park.” She stood back. “Well, come in, come in. Don’t stand out here freezing to death. The forecasters say it’s going to snow.”
Jerry hefted our two suitcases with ease and we followed her up the steps and into a brightly lit hall, bedecked with paper streamers. Bunches of mistletoe hung from the ceiling and sprigs of holly balanced precariously along the top of a gilt-framed mirror.
“Leave your bags there.” Martha pointed to a small alcove. “I’ll show you up to your room later. I’ve got a pot of fresh tea in the living room and Tom’s lit a fire, so you’ll soon get warm.”
Quite how cold she thought we were after the short walk from the car I couldn’t guess, but the smell of burning pine logs added a delicious fragrance to a room the size of an aircraft hangar. I followed Jerry in, trying to appear poised, self-possessed, and confident when in fact, I felt nothing of the sort. My stomach churned and my knees wobbled as I stood beside him and surveyed the occupants of the room.
Martha walked up to a man leaning against the mantelpiece to one side of the fire and I guessed this must be her husband, Sir Tom Tremayne, self-made electronics billionaire and owner of Thornley Park. His sleek good looks and portly frame showed his fondness for the good life, fine food and fine wine.
On a sofa on the opposite side of the fireplace sat an older version of Jerry and a blonde woman aged about forty—Peter and Candice Farish.
“Hello there, Jerry, old man. Good to see you again.” Sir Tom came forward amidst a hubbub of welcomes.
“Hello everyone. May I present my wife, Verity.” Jerry’s hand touched mine, as if to give me courage.
I smiled and murmured a greeting.
“So, this is her, is it?” Candice demanded. “Well, don’t wait on ceremony. Come in and let’s have a look at you.”
“Leave the girl alone, my dear,” said her husband, earning my undying affection. “She’s only just got here and we Farishes can be an overwhelming bunch.”
The remaining couple introduced themselves as Liz, Jerry’s younger sister, and her husband Daniel Hill. As tall as the rest of the clan, but without any strong facial similarity, Liz bounced out of her armchair and came to give me a hug.
“I’m delighted to meet you at last, Verity. Welcome to the family.”
“Thank you. I hope I remember all your names. There are rather a lot of you.”
“Oh, don’t worry, dear,” said Martha. “You’ll get to know us all in time—and then you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
Laughter rang out at this comment and I leaned in closer to Jerry.
“Take a pew,” she said. “Would you like tea?” She pointed to an urn and a tray of tea things on a long trestle table covered in a white cloth
No, I would have liked a large glass of brandy followed by another large glass of brandy. I settled for tea—there was no point in giving my new in-laws the wrong impression.
As well as the sofa occupied by Peter and his wife, three others and no less than six armchairs dotted the floor. This still left room for a couple of bookcases, a well-stocked drinks cabinet and a vast Christmas tree. Only one of the fires had been lit, but there was another identical to it on the opposite wall, neat piles of logs stacked ready for use in an embrasure at the side.
Jerry and I sat on a sofa, still watched by Candice, who appeared to be inspecting my clothing and, if the sneer on her painted lips was anything to go by, finding it wanting.
“What time is Sonia getting here?” asked Liz. “Did she say?”
“Yes, she called yesterday evening,” said Martha, putting cups and saucers in mine and Jerry’s hands. “They should be here by dinner time, but Michael won’t make it until tomorrow.”
“Oh, why’s that?”
“His girlfriend is at work today and couldn’t get the time off.”
“Is he likely to marry her, do you think?” Candice crossed her silk-clad legs. “And will we be invited to the wedding, this time, if he does?”
It was a pointed dig at us, and to my surprise, it was Jerry who responded.
“If Michael and his bride-to-be want you there, Candice, then I’m sure you’ll be invited. You weren’t wanted at ours.”
“It was all rather quick,” she replied.
My cheeks flamed at the implication and I gritted my teeth.
“It wasn’t actually,” said Jerry. He took hold of my hand, smiling at me. “I’d known Verity for over a year and knew I was going to marry her almost as soon as we met. Once she said ”yes“ I didn’t hang about.”
“Oh, that’s so romantic,” said Martha. “I’m delighted that you’ve settled down at last, and I wish you both every happiness.”
“Hear, hear,” said her husband. On the settee, Candice pouted.
Liz changed the subject, asking Martha how the children were doing, and the conversation drifted, this way and that, as they talked of family and people they all knew.
“Are you all right?” Jerry asked me, quietly.
“I nodded. ”Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry.“
I’d handled worse than the likes of his sister-in-law before, and I had known what to expect. Candice, having heard that he was getting married, had turned up, uninvited, at Jerry’s door about two weeks before the wedding. She’d already booked a table at the best, most expensive, restaurant in town and demanded he take her out to dinner. Over the meal, she had virtually insisted that we invite at least Peter and herself, though preferably the entire Farish family, to our nuptials, offering to take over the whole proceedings at one point. Jerry had thanked her, but told her to mind her own business, we were more than capable of organising things for ourselves.
She got off lightly. I would have told her what to do with her offer far less politely that Jerry had.
“So, what’s the plan for Christmas then, Tom?” Liz asked.
“Eat, drink, and be merry? Isn’t that what people usually do?” Peter suggested. He had a deep voice, unlike Jerry’s more modulated tones, but then he was also nearly ten years older and a lot more than ten pounds heavier.
“Oh, I’ve got a few things up my sleeve. Once we’re all here, tomorrow afternoon I’ll take you on a tour of the house. Then later in the evening there’s a carol concert in the village church which I thought we could go to. Then back here for mulled wine and so on. On Christmas morning, once the unwrapping is out of the way, there’s games and quizzes. After lunch ... well that’s torpor time for most people, but Christmas evening Martha’s planned a treasure hunt, so you had all better have your thinking caps back on again by then.”
Shouts of “what thinking caps” and such like from Peter and Daniel greeted this announcement. Liz and Jerry laughed, but I noticed the moue of distaste on Candice’s face. Perhaps she thought treasure hunts beneath her.
“How old is Thornley Park, Sir Tom?” I asked. It looked such a mishmash from outside it was hard to tell, but a tour of the place would be interesting, I thought.
“Parts of it date back to the early 1500s, though according to family records just about every owner has added to it. It’s actually got a fascinating history, if you’re interested.”
“Now then, Tom, don’t bore the girl rigid going on about priest holes.” Martha’s full lips curved in a wide smile as she gazed at her spouse. “There aren’t any.”
“Are there not?” said Jerry. “That’s surprising, isn’t it?”
“Of course there are priest holes. As you say, they’re bound to be in a house of this age and this area was staunchly Catholic during the reigns of Elizabeth and James the First.”
“He’s spent ages looking for them,” Martha told us. “A complete waste of time, if you ask me.”
“I haven’t found one ... yet.” Tom stressed the last word. “I shall keep on looking.”
“A man’s got to have a hobby, Martha,” said Peter.
“Oh, I know. I don’t really mind. It could be a lot worse.” She grinned. “Anyway, if you’d like to go and freshen-up, I’ll show you all to your rooms. We’ll have pre-dinner drinks in here at seven-thirty.”
***
I found the subject of priest holes fascinating, and had recently researched them for my writer boss, who wanted the information for her next book. However, there was no time to talk about it now, as Martha whisked us upstairs and left us to settle in.
Thornley Park might have been old, but it had all mod-cons including an en-suite bathroom. Jerry and I shared a shower. He said it would save time ... it didn’t. We then dressed quickly and, while he sat on the bed watching me and telling me not to bother because I was beautiful enough, I took some time—and a considerable amount of care—over my appearance.
The rest of the party were already gathered when we entered the living room, including a couple of newcomers who introduced themselves as Sonia and Bill. Christmas lights now twinkled on the tree and Tom made a generous barman. Both gin and vodka cocktails in proper Martini glasses had been already poured and I sipped carefully at the glass Jerry gave me. The night was young and getting plastered on my first evening at Thornley Park was hardly the perfect way to introduce myself to my in-laws.
“Nice to meet you, Verity.” Sonia’s lips curved in a smile. “I’m so pleased that Jeremy has settled down at last. I was beginning to think he was a career bachelor.”
“Oh, no, he’s a career policeman,” I said. “Did you know he’s recently been promoted?”
“No.” She raised her eyebrows. “So, what is he now?”
“Detective Chief Inspector.”
“Excellent news. Well done, Jeremy.”
“Hmm? What for?” Jerry turned from his conversation with Bill, Liz and Daniel.
“On your promotion. Hey ... everybody.” Sonia raised her voice over the hubbub. “Jerry’s been promoted to Chief Inspector.”
“Congratulations, Jeremy.” Peter’s deep voice cut through the family’s chorus of approval and Martha came and kissed him on the cheek.
“You’ve kept that quiet, my dear. Well done.”
“Thank you. It came through at the same time I married Verity and, to me, she was far more important.”
I blushed at his words and lowered my gaze.
“Ah!” said Liz. “That’s a lovely thing to say. I hope you’ll both be very happy.”
“Thank you, I know I certainly am,” said Jerry.
My happiness at his words was short-lived.
“I bet the extra money came in handy.”
Candice’s inference was obvious and I bit back a gasp. Fortunately, Jerry saved me from saying something I’d regret. At the same time, he cleverly deflected attention away from us and his job.
“Oh, Verity is relatively inexpensive to maintain. It’s Fernbank that takes most of my income.”
The house, having belonged to an aunt, was known to most of the Farishes. Less well known was the fact that Jerry now owned it and while he explained the bequest and the work that had to be done in the old Victorian vicarage, I stepped back slightly from the circle and let my gaze wander.
I appeared to be the only woman in the room who was not wearing some variation of the little black dress. Nor had I accessorised my sapphire blue gown with copious quantities of gold as Candice had done. In fact, she was so weighted down at neck, arm and ankle it was a wonder she could walk. She held out a languid hand and Peter took her empty cocktail glass replacing it with a fresh one. Her face screwed up at the first sip, she muttered something about cheap gin and I looked away, turning my attention to the knot of people still gathered around Jerry.
Unlike other members of the Farish family, Sonia was a blue-eyed blonde, a head shorter than her siblings. Her husband, Bill, stood close by, his arm around her trim waist, a whisky glass in his other hand, asking Jerry a question about his job.
“So, which do you prefer?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ll take catching villains over pushing paper around, any day,” said Jerry.
“And what does Verity think to that?” demanded Liz.
“Ha! I’ll have you know she’s caught quite a few villains herself in her time.”
“And now she’s caught you, eh?”
He glanced over at me with a fond smile. “Hook, line, and sinker.”
“Wrong metaphor, Jerry, old chap,” said Tom. “Shouldn’t it be, she’s got you bang to rights?”
He laughed uproariously at the feeble joke, while Martha looked scandalized and said, “Tom!” and I reddened at the memory of what had taken place in the shower earlier that evening and went to the bar for a refill.
Turning back to face the room, a sudden movement to my right alerted me to a family member I hadn’t yet been introduced to you. Sitting on a foot stool in front of the fire, and half hidden behind an armchair, was a young boy. He looked bored and miserable and I carried my drink over and sat in the chair beside him.
“Hello.”
He turned his sad grey eyes upon me. “I haven’t seen you here before.” he observed. “Are you someone else I’ve got to be nice to?”
“Only if you want to be. What’s your name?”
He shook his head. “You’ll only laugh. Everybody does.”
“Try me,” I said, wondering what abomination of a name the lad had been saddled with.
“You first.”
“All right. My name is Verity, Verity Farish.”
“That’s a pretty name.” He took a deep breath. “Mine is Thornley Adam Peregrine Farish Tremayne.”
He gazed at me sternly, no doubt expecting to me to laugh, but I didn’t.
“Well, now. That’s a fine name you’ve got there.” It was also a remarkably pretentious and cumbersome name for a young boy to carry. No wonder he looked so glum. “It’s a bit long, though, isn’t it, so will it be all right if I call you Thor?”
Giving a start of surprise, he considered this, his lips moving soundlessly as he tried it out.
“What does it mean?”
“It’s the name of a Viking god. Thor was the god of strength, thunder, lightning, and storms, and his weapon was a hammer.”
“Hmm. I like that, it’s much shorter. Thank you, Verity. Henceforth I shall be known as Thor.”
Henceforth? Dear me!
“You’re welcome. Where do you go to school?”
“Here.” He looked disgusted. “I have a private tutor. I keep asking Daddy if I can go to school in the village. That’s where my friends Jake and Sam go, but he’s says I get a better standard of schooling from Mr Cavendish.”
“Don’t you like him?”
“He’s all right, I suppose,” Thor grudgingly conceded. “Are your children at school?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Mother says that some people don’t and that is perfectly all right. Don’t you want any?”
I looked at the bright, inquisitive face under the mop of light brown hair, thinking what an odd mix of old and painfully young the child was. Perhaps it was hardly to be wondered at if he spent all day with adults.
“I don’t know that I do,” I replied. “Besides, I’ve only recently got married.”
“Really? Who to?”
“Your Uncle Jeremy.”
For the first time, he smiled. “Oh, I like him. He’s the favourite of all my uncles. He came for my birthday in the summer and brought me a detective set.”
“That was nice of him. Do you want to be a detective, too?”
“Perhaps.” He wrinkled his nose. “I’ve not made up my mind. Daddy says I should go into business, but Mother says it’s far too early to make any decisions.”
“So, what was in the detective kit, then?”
His eyes lit up. “A magnifying glass, a notebook and pen, stuff for taking fingerprints—you know, powder and a brush, and an ink pad. I took Cissy’s fingerprints and Mother told me off ‘cause Cissy wiped her fingers on her dress.”
“Oh, dear.” I laughed. “How old is your sister.”
Jerry had merely said that Martha and Tom had two young children though he had told me neither their names nor their ages. We had bought a dressing-up set as a Christmas present for the little girl and a radio-controlled car for Thornley. Both had been expensive, but as they were the only presents he had insisted on getting—we bought nothing for the rest of the family—he didn’t mind paying for them.
“Cissy is five,” said Thor, letting out a long sigh.
I’d heard the same sigh, long ago, from my own brother and put my face down to hide a smile at the thought of the pain that younger sisters can be. If they try hard! And, if Thor’s outpouring of breath was anything to go by, young Cissy had raised the ability to irritate to a fine art. Clearly a young lady after my own heart.
“I suppose she’s in bed, is she?”
“Yes. I’ve been allowed to stay up as a special treat.” His tone gave away what he thought of this treat.
“It’s boring listening to adults talk, though. Especially when you don’t know them.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “You’re all right, though. You don’t say stupid things.”
Oh, I dunno, I thought, remembering some of the foolish things that had slipped from my tongue in the past, and my lack of tact was legendary—at least to me.
“Now then, Thornley. I hope you’re not bothering Aunt Verity.”
Martha’s tall figure loomed over us and I hastened to my new friend’s defence.
“He’s not bothering me at all. I was enjoying our talk.” I winked at him and he grinned.
“Nevertheless, it’s way past his bedtime. Come on, young man, upstairs.”
“Aw, Mother.” Thor let out the cry of all children throughout history. “Please can’t I stay up a little bit longer? Aunt Verity and I were talking about detectives.”
“There’s plenty of time for that over the holidays. Now, come along. Say goodnight and go up to bed. Miss Tillett will be waiting for you.”
With an obvious sigh, Thor got to his feet. “Goodnight, Aunt Verity.”
I wished him goodnight and his mother led him off to say his farewells to the rest of the guests. A shame. He was quite the most interesting character I’d met at Thornley Park. I watched him go and turned back to join Jerry.
Dinner had better be served soon.