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Martha took me upstairs and presented me with three doors. She pointed to the end one as belonging to the tutor.
“Whose are the other rooms?”
“Miss Tillett’s and the cook’s.”
I thanked her, opened the door, and stepped inside.
Cavendish was a man of spartan habits, if his room was anything to go by. Longer than it was wide, the room contained a bed and bedside table beneath the solitary window together with a chest of drawers and a wardrobe holding two dark grey suits. Hidden behind a sliding door lay the most bijou bathroom I’d ever seen and I marvelled at the way shower, toilet and washbasin had been fitted into the small space. A bar of soap lay on the basin while the shelf above held a bottle of hair shampoo, a razor, and a toothbrush and toothpaste. Seeing nothing further, I set about searching the room proper.
With so little to look at it didn’t take long, which was fortunate as I began to feel uncomfortable rifling through the personal effects of a total stranger. The chest contained underwear, shirts, two thin polo-neck sweaters, and a bible. Was the tutor religious, I wondered, and if so, why had the Good Book been hidden under the shirts? I moved on.
The pockets of the suits were empty as was the suitcase that sat on the wardrobe floor and which I heaved out and searched thoroughly. Something glittered as I put the case back and I bent and picked up a silken thread about four inches in length. I ran it between my fingers, wondering what it had come from, for it matched no item of clothing or furnishing. Thor, no doubt, would consider it a clue, and I put it in the pocket of my dress to show him later.
The table beside the bed held nothing more than an alarm clock and a lamp. Its solitary drawer contained an Ordnance Survey map folded to show Thornley Park and the village of Lower Mayfield. If my map reading skills were up to par, then the village was considerably bigger than Fenny Brayfield and on the opposite side of the house. Just in case anything had been marked, I took the map to the window, but even in the better light it didn’t look as if Cavendish had written on it. Not a single black cross that might have led us to him marred the folded sheet. Disgusted, I put it back where I’d found it and slid the drawer closed.
So much for my bright idea that I’d discover something to explain the tutor’s disappearance. All I had was a map that he might have bought when he first arrived and a thread that probably came from a silk scarf. The latter might be a bit posh in this day and age, but Cavendish had struck me as the sort to wear one.
Where was the man? What had happened to him?
My gaze travelled the room once more. Pointless to look under the made-up bed. It was a drawer divan, so unless he’d been in a serious accident with a steamroller, he wasn’t hiding under there.
Back on the landing, I looked about me, orienting myself with the layout of the house. On the floor above lay the Long Gallery at the front of the house, and the schoolroom and nursery in the turret to the rear. So, assuming Thor had really heard voices plotting to steal the treasure, the owners must have been standing close to where I now stood. The tutor and the governess were thus the obvious candidates. The bigger mystery, to me, was why the former had disappeared and the latter remained at her post.
At any other time and in any other place, my course of action would have been clear, but I doubted Martha would react too kindly to me interrogating Miss Tillett right now.
I gave it up and went back to our room, to freshen up before lunch. I needed to get Jerry on his own and talk things over with him, but ensconced in the bosom of his family, there was fat chance of me cutting him out of the herd and having a quiet word with him. Perhaps after lunch, when everyone lay torpid and replete, I could get him to myself by suggesting a postprandial nap and smiled inwardly at the lustful thoughts that followed.
Bah! This would never do. I would not solve the mystery of the twin disappearances of tutor and gem while I stood about on a landing daydreaming of making love with my husband.
The Farish clan was on its combined feet, waiting to go into the dining room when I slipped back into their midst. My arrival brought forth a questioning glance from my spouse, and the offer of a pre-dinner drink from my host. I ignored the first and declined the latter, in the hopes of enjoying more than one glass from Tom’s excellent wine cellar with my meal.
I was about to say something, when Martha, like a well-trained sheepdog, rounded us all up in front of the dining room doors.
“All right, everyone,” she said, stilling the hubbub. “I’d like to thank Sonia and Liz for seeing to the table for Christmas lunch.” She paused for the ripple of applause that followed. “There is a seating plan and I’d be grateful if you all kept to it. It will make serving easier.”
She opened the doors and a hand clutched mine. I felt the slip of paper between our palms.
“Hello, Thor. Are you hungry?”
“Starving,” he replied. “Just as long as I don’t have to eat Brussels. Bleuch.” His face twisted in disgust, and he removed his hand from mine. I slipped the paper into my pocket and followed the family to search for my seat. Unfortunately, this wasn’t next to Jerry, but opposite him, making quiet conversation between us impossible.
The table had been extended to accommodate us all. Tom sat at the top with his mother to his right and an empty space to his left, then came the rest of the Farish family, leaving Cissy and Thor either side of Martha at the bottom end, closest to the kitchen door. I assumed Miss Tillett would eat with the rest of the staff, so my intended cosy tête-à-tête with her would have to wait.
“You did a grand job on the table,” Bill said, to Sonia.
He was right. Upon the snowy white cloth, the silverware gleamed and the cut-glass shone. Each setting had a linen napkin and an expensive looking Christmas cracker, while three floral arrangements in red, green and gold sat in the centre, down the length of the table. There were baskets of soft crisp rolls and wine coolers holding bottles. It all looked very festive and I fingered my new necklace and smiled across the table at my spouse.
Tom tapped his wine glass with a spoon.
“It is a tradition here at Thornley Park that we give thanks for our Christmas lunch and do due honour to the food we are to receive. I hope you all like beef.”
Raising an arm, he signalled to whoever waited in the doorway from the kitchen and two women came in carrying a magnificent rib of beef on a silver salver. They paraded it around the table, stopping briefly by Tom’s chair, to the accompaniment of “oohs” and “ahs” of anticipation, before taking it back out again to be carved.
In the meantime, two other younger women pushing a trolley each, served the first course of smoked salmon, or broccoli and Stilton soup.
“Help yourselves to wine,” said Tom, doing just that. “It’s a good Sancerre.”
It was, too, and went perfectly with the salmon which had a pronounced but tasty cure. Even the Dowager enjoyed the wine, holding up her glass twice to be filled, though she ate only sparingly of the fish. Jerry was equally pleased with his soup, as was Daniel on my right.
Mrs Oadby proved herself a true Master chef when the beef arrived with the usual accompaniments, roast potatoes and parsnips, light-as-air Yorkshire puddings, and crisp green cabbage and sprouts. The meat was delicious, melt-in-the-mouth tender and even the gravy was good and thick, not a thin and wishy-washy jus.
We helped ourselves from the salvers, dishes and bowls, as six bottles of red wine were placed on the table. I stared at the label and let out a quiet gasp; my eyes seemed to stand out on stalks. Astonished, I nearly picked up a bottle to inspect it. Château Petrus.
Jerry beat me to it and poured a little into each of our glasses, before passing it on to Sonia. I watched his face as he took his first sip, saw his eyes widen in surprise, and the smile spread across his face.
“Mmm. Why doesn’t Jacques sell this in his restaurant?” he asked.
“Because its retail price is at least one, possibly two, thousand pounds a bottle.” Beside me, Bill coughed. “There’s not many in Crofterton can afford that. Your brother-in-law is treating us.”
I’d said it quietly, not wishing to appear uncouth by mentioning the price, but, even so, Tom had heard me.
“Do you know a bit about wine, then, Verity?”
“A little.” I said.
“Verity used to work for a French wine exporter,” my spouse informed everyone with that air of pride in me that I find such an endearing trait. “She spent a lot of time over there, learning all about wines and vineyards.”
“Really?” said Tom. “Perhaps you’d like a look in my wine cellar while you’re here, then?”
This was music to the ears of a wine-loving girl like me. I jumped at the chance. “Yes, please, Tom. I would like that very much.” Especially if it held more wonderful surprises like Château Petrus.
“So, you’ve had this before then, have you?” asked Candice.
“Never,” I said, lifting my glass and savouring the bouquet for a long moment before I took a sip.
“Oh, we have it with every meal,” said Jerry, and I nearly spluttered and wasted some. That would have been criminal, for the wine burst with fruit, voluptuous and silky with a chocolatey after-taste. Not, however, in my estimation worth upwards of six hundred pounds a glass. Nothing is. Even if I could afford it, I doubted I would spend an obscene amount of money on a single bottle of wine. Twenty quid perhaps on one of the excellent Californian Merlots, or forty on a decent bottle of Beaune.
Still, I would never get the chance to enjoy a Château Petrus again, so I might as well make the most of it.
When, with an audible sigh of satisfaction, everyone had finished their main course, the ladies helped clear the table and Mrs Oadby returned, carrying a flaming Christmas pudding. She placed it in front of Martha, who waited for the last brandy fuelled flicker to die away before slicing into it.
Only when I lifted my spoon did I remember the Agatha Christie story about a stolen ruby hidden in a Christmas pudding and my gaze swept the table. Which one of us had the Tremayne Treasure in our bowls?
***
None of us, as it turned out. Clearly, Mrs Oadby, a cook of some distinction, would never allow her masterpieces to be contaminated by a Hilliard miniature. I finished my portion with as much pleasure as my bulging waist allowed. Around the table, the sound of spoons scraping china provided ample proof that I wasn’t alone.
“Heavens, that was good,” said Jerry.
“I didn’t even know you liked Christmas pudding.”
“Only at Christmas,” he replied.
Good. I hadn’t made one since I was at school, and given the palaver, and the length of time they needed to be boiled, had no plans to repeat the exercise. If he wanted one next year it would have to come from a shop.
The ladies cleared the table once more and Liz and I offered to wash up, an offer that Martha refused.
“There’s too many people in the kitchen as it is, and they’ll be having their own lunch soon.”
Thus dismissed, I took my coat from the hall stand and went outside in a futile attempt to walk off some calories and have a peek at the paper that Thor had given me. I laid it flat on top of a sundial in the knot garden and studied it carefully. I wasn’t surprised to see that the closest room to the Long Gallery belonged to the Dowager, with Tom and Martha’s in second place. Cavendish came in way down the list, but what did that tell me? I’d instructed Thor to walk at an average pace and time the distance, but what if he had loitered, while his tutor had run?
The results of the boy’s detecting were pretty much meaningless, but at least they’d kept him occupied and given him a sense of worth for his efforts. I made a mental note to thank him when I went back inside.
Jerry had been wrong when he’d told his sister that I wasn’t fond of children. If I could hand them back, I loved them to bits. The problem was that I hadn’t had a great deal to do with them. The most exposure that I’d had to youngsters was helping at a Brownie holiday one weekend and, while it had been curate’s egg-ish and good in parts, it had also involved me catching a murderer and believing Jerry to be dead. I shivered at the horrible memory and turned up my collar..
The question uppermost in both our minds, was whether we wanted children of our own. I had no doubt that Jerry would make a great father, I only had to see him with Martha’s children to know that, but could the same be said for me in the motherhood stakes? I really didn’t know.
I’d been subjected to many urges since I’d first met Jerry, foremost among them that I got him to bed, but the urge to procreate while we were there wasn’t one of them. I could honestly admit that I had never felt the need to carry and bear a child. Maybe I was abnormal. I’ve often thought so.
“Ah! There you are. I thought I’d find you out here.” Jerry came towards me with long, easy strides. “What have you got there?”
I showed him Thor’s piece of paper and gave him a quick report on my visit to the tutor’s room.
“Tom said that the bed hadn’t been slept in,” he said.
“No, it was made, though he might have done that this morning and then left.”
He rubbed a hand around his jaw. “It’s all pretty inconclusive. Any bright ideas?”
“Not so far. I’ll let you know if lightning strikes.”
“Well, we’d better go in. Tom is keen to show off his cellar and it appears that we are the only takers. The rest are lying torpid in the living room.”
I linked my arm through his and we hurried back inside, out of the December chill.
Tom’s cellar was no different to the dozens of others I’d ever been in—cold, slightly dank, and barrel-vaulted. He was at pains to say that throughout its long history, Thornley Park had had a first-rate reputation for the quality of wines in its cellar. While Jerry, who admitted that he was more than happy to leave choosing wine to me, chatted to Tom, I poked around among the racks, nodding at some of the familiar names and vintages, and learning the tastes of its owner and his predecessors.
If I’d expected to find the missing tutor either dead, or dead drunk, within the brick-built confines, then I was to be disappointed. There were bottles of Corton, Corton-Charlemagne, and Clos de Vougeot, but absolutely no sign of Château Cavendish.
I drooled over the Burgundys, smacked my lips at the Riojas, and raised a surprised eyebrow at some up-and-coming South African whites.
“So where did you work, then, Verity?” asked our host.
“In Paris and Burgundy, mostly. Then I moved to London and worked for a wine importer.”
“So, you know a lot about all this.” He waved an expansive arm.
“Enough to say that I’m very impressed. You have excellent taste.”
He laughed. “My wine merchant does, you mean. I’m glad you enjoyed the wine at dinner.”
“Oh, I did. It was wonderful, a real treat. Thank you so much.”
“Not at all, my dear.” He smiled, pleased at my praise, and his eyes twinkled at me. “Now that I know it meets with your approval I shall drink it with added pleasure on birthdays and anniversaries. There’s still half a case lurking over by the far wall somewhere.”
There were also two bottles of a 1947 Mouton Rothschild and a 1924 Château Latour that Tom wanted my opinion on. I racked my memory for what I’d learned all those years past.
“The Mouton Rothschild is a gem and still worth keeping. Save it for another decade or so until Thor or Cecily announce their engagements or get married. As for the Latour, I wouldn’t like to say. It might be nectar—or vinegar—by now.”
“Oh, lor!” Tom said.
“Don’t forget that I’m no expert, Tom—and I’ve never tasted either of them or anything that old. I’m sure you’ll enjoy both when you do open them.”
“Not if they’re vinegar, I shan’t.”
“It should be fun finding out,” said Jerry. “Let us know if you need any help when it comes to it.”
Laughing, we returned up the wide stone steps and out through the door next to the chapel. Our host made no comment about either his missing treasure or his absconding employee, merely remarking that he was going to join the family and he had no idea what Thornley had organised for the afternoon’s entertainment, but that Martha would have all our guts for garters if we didn’t show up.
Excusing myself, I went upstairs to fetch a cardigan. I’d removed my coat before going into the cellar and the cold had leached into my bones and sent shivers running across my shoulders. Half way down the corridor a door stood ajar and I caught a glimpse of Kathy sitting in a window seat as I hurried past. We had simple casements in our room and she looked very cosy, and feminine with her skirt flowing around her and the sunlight falling onto her dark hair. I felt the familiar stirrings of curiosity.
On my way back I stopped at the doorway, hoping to be invited in. Her stockinged feet were flat on the padded seat, her knees drawn up, a sketch pad propped up against them. With quick easy strokes of the pencil clutched in her left hand, she drew on the pad, her face turned slightly away as if whatever she sketched lay to her right, or outside the window. Totally absorbed, and seemingly unaware of my presence, she pursed her lips in concentration, nodding from time to time, presumably in approval.
“You look comfortable,” I said.
She gave a nervous start, balled her hands into fists and slid them beneath her skirts. “Oh, hello, Verity, I didn’t see you there.”
“I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”
“No, I was just doodling something for work.” She turned over the sheet and covered it up.
I stepped further inside, going as far as the bottom of the bed. “Work? Don’t you stop even for Christmas?”
She laughed. “Oh, I’ve learnt when inspiration strikes to seize it straight away. My muse tends to be ephemeral and hard to nail down.”
“My writer boss would agree with you. She complains that her muse, who she calls Maud, takes too many long holidays, and comes back without even the T-shirt.”
She gave a tinkling laugh and nodded in agreement. “I’d like to meet your boss. She sounds my sort of person.” A soft sigh escaped her. “Still, I suppose I am being anti-social. I wasn’t feeling too well.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Is there something I can get you?”
“No, no, thank you. I probably had a bit too much to drink, that’s all. I’m not used to it, and hardly ever drink at lunchtime. Don’t worry, I’ll leave this for now and join you all downstairs.”
In an awkward movement, she clutched the pad to her chest with both hands and slid off the seat. Wondering what was wrong and about to ask if she needed help, I closed my mouth as she brushed past me and locked the pad away in a briefcase. I made no comment on this odd, rude behaviour, but my curiosity gland—always on the alert—twitched with interest and I followed her down the stairs wondering how, if she’d overindulged to the point of feeling ill, she’d managed to sketch anything at all, let alone something for work. Deep in thought. I entered the living room and made a beeline for Jerry, standing alone by the fire.
“What’s the matter, beloved? You look worried.” He put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close.
Needing time to get my thoughts in order, I shook my head. “Probably nothing, and you know me, always curious. We’ll talk later.”
He smiled and I turned my attention to the room. Kathy now sat in an armchair, nibbling at a fingernail and casting darting glances around her. Michael was deep in conversation with Peter and Tom, discussing cars by the sound of it, while Candice was giving a bored looking Sonia the benefits of her housekeeping experience. As this amounted to no more than, ‘get a daily cleaning woman’, I gave it no more attention than it deserved.
My mind was elsewhere and, as is so often the case, wondering what I could do to bring a criminal to justice.
***
While my mind was thus occupied, Martha walked in wearing a white butcher’s apron. Thor and Cecily held on to her hands, jumping up and down in excitement.
“Right, everybody, Thor here wanted to contribute something to the festivities, so what we are going to do now is his idea. It’s a little different to the traditional Christmas party games, so I do hope you’ll all join in.”
I’d swear she looked at Candice when she said this, but she spoke to her son.
“Tell them what they have to do, Thornley.”
He cast an anxious glance behind him in the direction of the kitchen before launching into speech. “You are going to build a gingerbread house, in two teams, aunts against uncles. You mustn’t eat them until I’ve seen them and judged the winner.”
“Is there a prize, young man?” asked Michael.
“Yes, I’ve got something for the winners, but you’ll have to share it.”
“You’ll have to bring the chairs around and we’ll need a couple of coffee tables bringing forward as well please,” said his mother.
When the furniture had been arranged to both parent and child’s liking, Martha disappeared back into the kitchen and we took our seats, ladies to the left of the room, gentlemen to the right.
“Here we are, sit back, everyone.” Martha reappeared, together with Mrs Oadby, each of them carrying a large tray holding several stacks of gingerbread squares, a bowl of white icing with a teaspoon, a butter knife, and several tubes of ready-made coloured icing.
“Oh, what fun!” exclaimed Kathy. She slid from her chair and knelt by the table.
“This is a great idea, Thornley,” agreed Liz.
Thor stood a little straighter and pushed out his chest at a chorus of approval from both sides.
The ladies pored over the contents of the tray while, on the opposite side of the room, the men appeared to be doing exactly the same thing, but sounding more technical about it.
“Have we got blueprints?” asked Bill. “Can’t build without blueprints, chaps.”
“Yeah, anyone get a theodolite for Christmas? We’ll definitely need one of those,” said Michael.
“I’ve got a Swiss Army knife, if that helps,” Jerry offered.
“Ooh, ‘ark at them. Anyone would think they knew what they were doing,” said Martha. She squatted down beside Kathy.
Sonia laughed. “And of course, we do.”
“Does it have to be a house, Thornley?” asked Michael.
The boy thought for a moment. “No, you could make it a skyscraper if you want, or a castle, or a space station ... or anything.”
“As long as it’s pretty,” Cissy put in.
Martha put out an arm and pulled her daughter close. “You can help Mummy on the girls’ team, darling.”
We debated how and where to begin, Kathy suggesting we make a single storey mediaeval hall, while Liz thought a semi-detached was a better idea.
“You carry on, girls,” said Candice. “I’m sure I’d be useless at this.”
“You don’t know until you try.” Martha’s voice was waspish. “Or you could just sit there and choose the interior furnishings, if you like.”
Candice wrinkled her nose and threw Martha a venomous look.
“C’mon, Candy, don’t be such a wet blanket,” said Sonia. She handed the reluctant builder a square of gingerbread and an icing filled spoon. “Just daub some of that over the edge so it will stick, will you.”
Much to my surprise, Candice did just that, and then sat there with it in her fingers, waving it about.
“What do you want me to do with this?”
I didn’t trust myself to reply to that. Martha clamped her lips shut, Sonia and Liz exchanged a glance, and Kathy giggled.
“Oh, give it here,” said Sonia taking it off her, and cementing the square in place.
“If we are building a mediaeval pile, should we put a priest hole in it?” asked Liz. “I think I might be good at making holes.”
“She is, too,” her spouse called out. “Whatever you do, don’t give her a lump hammer.”
I laughed along with everyone else, but the mention of priest holes set me off thinking about the missing tutor again. Had he discovered the hiding place and got stuck? The original builder might have fashioned a one-way door that could only be opened from the outside when all danger to the inhabitant had passed. It was possible, but if that were the case, wouldn’t he have called for help? With the whole family in the house, not to mention the numerous staff, someone would be bound to have heard him.
Another thought. A priest hole, as yet unknown to anyone else, would make a great place to stash a stolen jewel. The Tremayne Treasure might be small, but any determined search of bedroom or clothing would soon turn it up. Secreted away within the walls, or the treads of a wooden staircase, only the thief would know its whereabouts. He who hides can find, as my mother used to say.
If only I could be excused from the merry-making and socialising and instead conduct my own full survey of Thornley Park. Martha might doubt the existence of any priest hole, but I didn’t—and neither did Thor, and if anyone knew where it was it would be the boy. How to get him on his own, though?
I suppressed a sigh. I love mysteries, but hate being stymied by them, and here I was with two or more on my hands. I yearned for my pad and pen, upstairs in my bag, so that I could make notes and lists. When we’d finished playing with gingerbread, I’d commit my thoughts and questions to paper. I might make better sense of things that way because short of rifling through everyone’s bags, and submitting the guests to a strip search upon departure, I could think of no way to get the miniature back.
“Verity! Are you all right?”
I looked up, startled. Sonia peered at me from her place next to Liz on the sofa.
“Hmm, sorry? I was miles away again.”
“You looked it.”
She handed me another square and an icing-laden spoon and I returned to the task in hand. It was becoming all very messy and a huge amount of fun; laughter and chatter rippled around the room as piece by piece we built our respective edifices.
Thornley, who Peter had dubbed the Buildings Inspector, travelled backwards and forwards across the carpet, keeping an eye on progress, or the lack thereof. He didn’t say much, but his bright, intelligent eyes were everywhere, enjoying watching the grown-ups take part in his clever entertainment as much as we enjoyed doing so.
“Damn!” Bill rocked back in his chair. “The wall’s collapsed. Who put the foundations in?”
“Foundations?” asked Martha, feeding a broken piece of gingerbread to her daughter. “Were we supposed to have them?”
“Ha! Typical woman. You’d never make a Chartered Surveyor.”
“I never wanted to be.”
“Are you any good at cutting out?” Sonia asked me. “I think this piece needs a window in it.”
I had visions of gingerbread shrapnel flying all over the room. And taking someone’s eye out in the process. “Erm ...”
“I’ll give it a go, if you like.” Kathy volunteered, holding out her right hand out for the piece.
“How are you men doing?” asked Martha. “You got your house built yet, chaps?”
“Nearly. We are just waiting for Jerry’s garage.”
“Why didn’t we think of building a garage?” Liz demanded.
“Actually, Jerry’s is in imminent danger of collapse.”
“Collapse, be blowed,” replied my spouse. “That’s your original lean-to, that is.” The men roared with laughter and I joined in. This was, after all, the man who’d offered to build me a duck pond, a project for which he admitted to no skills whatsoever, and which consequently still lay on the virtual drawing-board.
Our outer shell was now almost complete and Martha and Sonia discussed the best way to put a roof on it. Candice piped up to suggest a flat one, while Kathy and Sonia favoured a sloping structure.
“How are you getting on?” Thor looked over our offering, pursing his lips and nodding his head vigorously. He brushed a strand of brown hair off his forehead. “It looks pretty good. It’s a lot ... um ... neater than Dad’s team’s house. They’ve got crumbs and icing everywhere.”
“It’s pebble dash,” said Daniel, to general hilarity. “The perfect building technique for these materials.”
“Have you got any gingerbread squares left?” asked Martha. She sounded doubtful that this was the case.
“Yes, but Bill ate one,” replied Tom. he got up and stretched. “Anyone ready for a drink, yet?”
The ladies declined, but the men asked for brandy and whisky. I glanced across at Jerry who had requested a digestif. I hoped he hadn’t got indigestion, though I’d packed antacid tablets in my toilet bag, just in case. When I looked back, Kathy was using her right hand and one of the tubes of icing to pipe a small square onto the gingerbread. Perhaps she was ambidextrous.
“There’s your window,” she said, and handed the piece back to Sonia.
“Brilliant!” said Sonia. “Is there a tube of pink? You could put roses around the door.”
Martha laughed. “Don’t get too carried away, dear.”
Liz sat back and rubbed her hands together. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s coming along nicely. This house is a proper little treasure.”
The blood drained from her face and she clamped her lips together. She gave one quick glance across the room, then cast her gaze downwards. I stared at her closely, doubting the evidence of my own eyes.
Jerry’s younger sister looked as guilty as sin.