Death at the Dance: An addictive historical cozy mystery (A Lady Eleanor Swift Mystery Book 2) by Verity Bright

Author:Verity Bright [Bright, Verity]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781838887544
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2020-07-07T16:00:00+00:00

Eighteen

The church bells rang down in the village, their chimes filtering up to Eleanor on the terrace of Henley Hall. Despite wearing a sunhat, she shaded her eyes with her hand as she waved to Joseph, the gardener, pushing his wheelbarrow between the beds of bergamot and ornamental grasses. He didn’t see her as he was chatting animatedly to Gladstone, who was trotting by his side. They were both soon hidden from sight by the high box hedging.

‘Your coffee, my lady.’ Clifford put the tray on the scrollwork table.

‘Perfect, thank you. I say though, it’s already Sunday. For our meeting with the Langhams this morning we need to be as sharp as… as sharp as…’ She waved. ‘Do you see? I can’t even finish an analogy. Quick, coffee! And strong!’

‘Certainly. In the meantime perhaps as sharp as obsidian would do? And I believe “as sharp as” is a simile, not an analogy, my lady.’

‘Actually, I believe it is a metaphor.’

He coughed. ‘A simile is a type of metaphor.’

She dismissed the matter with a wave of her hand. ‘Whatever. What is obsidiwhatsit, anyway?’

‘Obsidian. It is a type of volcanic glass, first used by the Malaysian Indians two and a half thousand years ago. It has a theoretical sharpness five hundred times that of any steel blade.’

‘Really? You know, Clifford, I have never met anyone who has such a wealth of information I neither need nor want.’

He passed her the coffee cup. ‘Thank you, my lady.’

She failed to hide a smile. ‘And actually, I was picturing the woman who runs the Reading Room in Chipstone, Pearly Brody. Her tongue, it’s so sharp it’s incredible she doesn’t cut her own throat just by swallowing. Golly, you should have heard her at the am-dram rehearsal. I mean, I’m all for women’s rights, but there’s a time and a place. And the Little Buckford am-dram rehearsal is neither the time nor the place.’

Clifford’s eyes twinkled. ‘I rather imagined it might be Miss Green, the postmistress, who harbours the most dangerous of forked tongues.’

Eleanor laughed. ‘She’s certainly close.’

‘Indeed, choosing a play each season could be deemed a significant waste of their time.’ At her confused look, he continued. ‘It is merely an observation that one could simply place the am-dram members together in the village hall and open the doors to the public. The audience would be treated to as much intense drama, colourful discourse and unending conflict as any scripted play.’

She snorted and promptly spilt her coffee. ‘Oops! But also, the audience would likely even witness a murder!’

Clifford finished mopping up Eleanor’s coffee and refilled her cup. ‘Might one enquire how you fared with your own performance, my lady?’

She groaned. ‘Terribly, if I’m honest. Learning all those lines is really quite taxing. However, I shall persevere. I refuse. To. Be. Beaten!’ Each of the last three words were accompanied by a rap on the table which sent more coffee flying. ‘Sorry, Clifford, you’ve just cleared that up.’

He set to mopping up the second spillage. ‘Most dogged, if one might say so.

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