A Fête Worse Than Death Read Free Page A

saw Boscombe walking towards them with Colonel Whitfield behind. ‘Oh, God damn it, not again!’
    Mrs Griffin sized up the situation and stepped forward. ‘Do you want me, my dear? Have your fortune told?’
    Boscombe gave a short laugh. ‘Why not? Although I know it already, why not, eh, Whitfield?’
    Colonel Whitfield shrugged. ‘Just as you like.’
    A small boy came hurrying through the crowd. ‘Mrs Griffin? You’ve got to come. They’re announcing the winners for the cakes and I’ve been told to come and fetch you.’
    She clicked her tongue. ‘Just as I was going to see this gentleman, too.’ She turned to Boscombe. ‘Why don’t you go and sit down inside my tent, my dear? I won’t be very long and you look as if a little rest might do you some good.’ Boscombe blinked at her. ‘You’ll be more comfortable in the shade,’ added Mrs Griffin, tactfully. ‘I think you might have a touch of the sun and no wonder in this heat and with all the noise there is too.’ She opened the flap of the tent. ‘In you go. Settle yourself down while I go and see about my cake.’
    â€˜Cake?’ repeated Boscombe uncomprehendingly, but went in all the same.
    Mrs Griffin peered in after him. ‘There. He’s resting nicely now. Might even have a little nap, I dare say.’ She adjusted her headscarf and took the small boy by the hand. ‘Come on, Michael. I don’t want to miss this.’ Hitching up her inconveniently flowing robe, she set off across the field.
    Haldean looked at Colonel Whitfield. So this was the man Marguerite Vayle had fallen for. It was obvious why. He looked as if he should be on the front cover of a film magazine. Whitfield had melancholy sky-blue eyes, a sensitive mouth, broad shoulders and crisply curling blond hair. ‘I saw you in the horse trials this morning,’ said Haldean conversationally.
    Whitfield brightened. ‘Did you? Nice mare, that. She’s inclined to shy a bit so I thought I’d bring her out locally before trying any of the major events. I thought she was going to get a clear round but the noise from the trap-shooting startled her. I’m sorry,’ added Whitfield, ‘I know we’ve met before, but I can’t recall your name.’
    â€˜Jack Haldean. You know Captain Rivers, of course.’
    â€˜Indeed I do. Haldean . . . You’re Sir Philip’s nephew, aren’t you? And don’t you write or something? It sounds damn clever,’ he added dubiously. Obviously being clever was not an unalloyed compliment in Whitfield’s eyes.
    â€˜It pays the bills,’ said Haldean, easily. ‘D’you know Boscombe well, Colonel?’
    â€˜Not frightfully. I’ve had a couple of letters from him. Apparently he’s writing a book about the war for some reason and he was one of the men to come out of that Augier Ridge affair I was involved with. I hardly know him. Do you?’
    â€˜Yes . . .’ The way Haldean said it made Whitfield smile. The smile made his whole face lighten. Haldean grinned. ‘He’s a bit much, isn’t he? He transferred to the Flying Corps and was in my squadron for a while.’
    â€˜You poor beggar. I never had the dubious pleasure of serving with him.’
    â€˜Lucky you.’
    Whitfield laughed. ‘He’s a bit hard to take, isn’t he? Goodness knows what . . .’ He stopped as the vicar, Mr Steadman, approached.
    â€˜Ah, Colonel, there you are. Excuse me butting in, gentlemen, but I have to leave soon and I was looking forward to a word with the Colonel. It’s about this pony I’m interested in for my son, Whitfield. I believe you have it here with you. Thomas is waiting by the loose-boxes at the moment and it seemed an ideal opportunity to let him try it out.’
    A shade of annoyance crossed Whitfield’s face. ‘Can’t it wait, Mr