Peril by Post by Sheri Cobb South

Author:Sheri Cobb South
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Regency, Historical Mystery, Cozy Mystery, Regency Romance
Publisher: Sonatina Press
Published: 2018-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

THE PUBLIC ROOM WAS unusually full that night at dinner. The poet was conspicuous by his absence—still sulking over his dismissal from the funeral, Pickett assumed—but the rest of their fellow guests were there, including the middle-aged sisters who usually didn’t return from their treks until dark, and the artist who, as far as Pickett could tell, preferred to have his evening meal sent up to his room on a tray. As for the other diners, Pickett supposed everyone wanted to discuss the funeral with those most nearly concerned. His own efforts in that direction had not been entirely successful. When he and Julia had first come down to dinner, he had taken the opportunity of offering his condolences once again to the widow.

“It seems strange that your husband should have taken such a fall, familiar with the landscape as he was,” he’d remarked innocently enough, or so he had imagined. “Has anything been troubling him lately?”

To his surprise, Mrs. Hawkins had all but gone for his throat. “My Ned was as good a man as ever drew breath!” she declared hotly. “So if you’re thinking he done away with himself, like that coroner said—”

“No, no!” Pickett protested hastily. “I never thought any such thing. I only wondered if perhaps he was distracted by some problem, and was not as careful as he would normally have been.”

“I see,” said the widow, the wind quite taken from her sails. “Truth to tell, I’ve wondered about that myself. But I suppose I’ll never know,” she concluded, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief.

Alas, no delicate probing on Pickett’s part as to exactly what might have disturbed her husband had yielded the slightest results, and at last, realizing she was beginning to regard him with some suspicion, he was obliged to drop the subject. He only hoped Julia’s attempts with the poet might yield better results.

He had not long to wait to find out. He and Julia had scarcely finished their dinner when a faint stirring of interest amongst his fellow diners announced the arrival of Percival Hartsong, clad in such funereal garments that any casual observer might have been forgiven for thinking it was his own father, rather than his inamorata’s, who had died. Any suggestion that the poet had abandoned his bohemian manner of dress for a more staid appearance, however, was dispelled by the unstarched cravat that fell in floppy loops from a bow knot, and the artfully disarranged black locks that flowed from his brow. As he entered the inn’s public room, Lizzie—who had obviously been posted as a lookout—began clanking a spoon against the side of a pewter tankard until she had the attention of everyone present.

“Stepmama and I would like to thank you all for coming,” she announced solemnly. “And now, Mr. Percival Hartsong will recite a poem he wrote about poor Papa.”

While it might be true that Ned Hawkins had inspired Mr. Hartsong’s ode, it would have been a stretch to say that he was its subject.

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