Primrose Hill: A 1920s Historical Murder Mystery (Sophie Burgoyne Mysteries Book 5) by G J Bellamy

Author:G J Bellamy [Bellamy, G J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2023-12-09T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Brittany in Britain

“Oignons!” A deep, gravel voice rang out in the square. The call was followed by three pulls on a croaking, ratcheting bicycle bell.

“Oignons!” Wedged in the corner of his lips was an unlit, half-smoked French cigarette. The man in the beret, ancient suit, and dark jersey fraying at the cuffs varied his call. “Gar-lique!”

He slowly rode along the middle of the road, his ancient bicycle so laden with long, heavy double strings of onions, it was a miracle it could move. With knees almost at right-angles and barely protruding past the thick mass of onion festoons hanging from handle bars, frame, and the carrier at the back, he propelled the whole in an easy, unrushed way. It was a moving heap, a veritable mound of onions in motion, and the man responsible for its propulsion was swarthy, stocky and, when dismounted, not tall.

Flora beheld him from the attic eyrie and dashed to the top of the stairs.

“Onion man! Quick! It’s the onion man!”

Sophie was in the parlour writing, and she leapt up. In the hall, she collided with Ada.

“What’s gone wrong, miss?”

“Nothing. It’s the onion man.”

“Onion man!” Ada turned and hurried to the kitchen.

“Mrs Barker, the onion man’s ‘ere.”

“Stop him. Don’t let him go!”

“‘Ow many?”

“One. No, better make it two. The bhajia recipe calls for a lot of onions.”

“Right.”

“Get some garlic, as well.”

“Right.” Ada hurtled from the kitchen.

“You have money?” asked Sophie, ready to open the door.

“Yes.”

“Get one for me. I’ll take it home to White Lyon Yard. And have the man bring them down to the basement. I’ll wait for you there.”

“Right.”

Sophie opened the door, and Ada launched herself into the square. She ran towards him waving furiously, because the onion man is a person of great importance. One can never be certain when he will appear, and to just miss him is one of the greater tragedies in life. He travels widely, appearing at odd times and according to his season but, when sighted, every housewife and servant runs to him, because, as they all declare, he has the best, biggest, and tastiest onions the world has ever known.

“‘Allo,” said the Frenchman, coming to a stop.

“‘Ello,” said Ada.

“Combien?”

“Can I ‘ave three strings, please?” She held up three fingers.

“Trois?” The Frenchman also held up three fingers. When Ada nodded, he replied, “Bon!”

“And some garlic.” She held up a finger.

“Gar-lique, oui, oui.” He was smiling. In fact, he was more or less ready to smile all the time. With an effort, he pushed his bike over the kerb and onto the pavement. He expertly propped it up against some railings.

“Où habitez-vous?”

“What?”

“Ehh, où est votre maison?”

“Oh, ‘ouse, you mean. Number seven.” She pointed.

“Numéro sept.” He wheeled the bike further along the pavement and propped it against the railings of number seven.

“Can you take them downstairs, please?”

“Comment?”

“Down there.” She pointed to the basement area.

“Oui, d’accord.” He handed Ada the bunch of garlic, then picked three strings off his bike. He held one up. “Magnifique, hein?”

“Yes, they look lovely.”

The fat,

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