Murder Most Antique: The Stamford Mysteries by E. C. Bateman

Author:E. C. Bateman [Bateman, E. C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780008564926
Publisher: One More Chapter

Chapter Twenty

One thing Felicia couldn’t fault about Sergeant Pettifer was his prescient timing. The kettle was just beginning to whistle on the range when his familiar bailiff-style knock shuddered through the diminutive cottage.

“I’ll get it,” she said hastily, as Peter reached for his crutches, wobbling precariously on his bandaged foot. “You stay here and keep an eye on the toast.”

She saw his mouth flatten mulishly as she turned away, and made an exasperated mental note to ask the doctor if there was anything which could be done to speed along the recovery period on a broken leg. Her father wasn’t exactly the most patient of patients, and…

There was a crash from the kitchen behind her. She winced, fumbling with the awkward locks on the cottage’s original 18th century front door. Never mind the doctor, she thought, with increasing desperation; if Western medicine couldn’t do the trick, she’d go to the herbalist, the witch doctor, the runes … anything if it could save their collective sanity.

It took several tugs at the door – it always swelled in hot weather – before she found herself face-to-face with Sergeant Pettifer. Or rather, face-to-crown-of-head; he was a good couple of inches shorter than she was. Behind him, almost blocked by his poorly-suited shoulders – Sunday’s version of Sergeant Pettifer, apparently, looked exactly like every other day’s version – she glimpsed what was rapidly blooming into another ambrosial June day, rustling lime green canopies vivid against a cloud-dolloped sky. But a glimpse was all she was destined to get, as Pettifer stomped into the cramped hall, shutting the sunlight out behind him – both metaphorically and literally. The sombre look on his face dispelled any potential lightness of heart in an instant, reminding her why he was here. After all, this wasn’t a social call. He wasn’t here as her friend, but as a policeman. And policemen, on the whole, were harbingers of doom.

It must be nice for them, she thought, as she watched Pettifer exhaustedly rubbing a hand across his unshaven face, on those occasions when they were a welcome presence, bringing something good in their wake. A lost cat, or a stolen purse. They must savour those moments, brief as they were. Until they were called on to the next thing; another fight, another accident, another death.

“Breakfast, Sergeant?” Peter plunked a plate of hot buttered toast in the middle of the kitchen table, balancing on one crutch. “Tea’s just mashing, if you want a cup.”

“Not for me, thanks.” Pettifer hefted himself into a chair with an exhale like a tyre deflating. “I’ve already had enough tea to sink a battleship this morning. I don’t think I can stomach any more.”

Peter and Felicia stared at him, agape. Even Godfrey blinked owlishly from his position on top of the Welsh dresser.

“Well, I never thought I’d hear a Yorkshireman say that,” Peter said incredulously, pouring liquid the approximate colour and consistency of treacle into two chipped mugs. Felicia felt her insides contract in anticipation of the tannins coming their way.

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