THE MARSH & DAUGHTER MURDER MYSTERIES BOOKS 1-5 by Amy Myers

Author:Amy Myers [Myers, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-02-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

They used to be called the dog days. The weeks in July and early August during which the Dog Star rose, dogs went mad, and the days were so hot that the mind was becalmed like a sailing ship on a flat sea. That didn’t seem to happen too much nowadays, but today was the exception. Which way to go and did it matter? Georgia restlessly tried to force herself into mowing her tiny patch of lawn. Too much effort. She’d do it later. Weed? It was well into July, they could grow a bit longer. Dead-head the roses? Now there was a job for a would-be Miss Marple — perhaps later. It wasn’t that she herself felt flat, but the case most certainly did. The spur that meeting Sylvia Lee had brought with it had evaporated into the wake of Jack’s murder. Even her chilling experience at the tube station had receded in her mind. Ten to one it was only her reaction to a somewhat emotional encounter.

Today everything seemed to be waiting. Peter was still waiting for news on the phone number of Alan Purcell, and Luke was still waiting to hear whether his revised offer on the house would be accepted. It was the holiday season, so the agent had said apologetically. Well, good luck to those who could go on holiday. She and Luke hoped to squeeze in a few days after the fate of the house was known, so that too was in limbo. Meanwhile Marsh & Daughter were waiting for something to take them forward. Every time she stared at her notes, each avenue seemed blocked. And yet she sensed the way through lay there somewhere. Overgrown it might be, but the yellow brick road that would lead them to their own particular Land of Oz must exist somewhere. All they had to decide was where it lay.

She had a nasty feeling that Peter shared her frustration. It was a tell-tale sign that for some days now Suspects Anonymous hadn’t been on the screen, and Peter was involved in reading something that had nothing to do with the case. When she had asked what it was, he had merely replied, ‘The Mammoth Book of King Arthur, darling. Edited by Mike Ashley, published by Robinson. Anything else you’d like to know? The ISBN perhaps?’

She had been silenced except to mutter that this had little relevance to Hell’s Corner in 1940, 1975 or even today. He had agreed, and the discussion ended.

Yesterday had proved the last straw in her becalming. She and Peter had gone to Sevenoaks to meet Jack Hardcastle’s guru. He was no Charlie Bone. Michael Hastings looked as though he would be more at home in the Bodleian Library than enmeshed in the web of computers that surrounded him in his ground-floor office in a rambling Victorian house. In his fifties, with a high forehead and forbidding look, he could well have been a retired academic — but then academics never retired. They were like old soldiers, and just faded away.

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