A Tall Dark Stranger Read Free Page B

comfort she turned back to me. “Who was it, a stranger?”
    “Mr. Stoddart.”
    “Oh, the man you and Master Lollie met yesterday.” There are no secrets in a small household such as ours.
    “Yes. I’ll send George to Chilton Abbas to fetch Monger.” George is our footman, the only male house servant other than Lentle, our aging butler. We have grooms and gardeners outdoors, but in the house George is our factotum. I don’t know how we would get along without him. “I’d best tell Auntie first,” I said.
    “She’s doing a reading. Mrs. Murray stopped by.”
    Mrs. Murray is our local M.P.’s lady, nėe Marie Fanshawe. Whenever her husband brings her home from London, she entertains herself by swanning through the village in overly elaborate gowns, flirting with all the local fellows and having her fortune read by Auntie. In the earlier days she had held card parties, but once the local ladies discovered the high stakes she played for, they were always busy when she called.
    As soon as I had caught my breath, I ran upstairs and into the Rose Saloon. Our less worthy neighbors have their palms read in the morning parlor, but as the carpet and curtains there are well past their prime, such notables as Mrs. Murray are entertained in the Rose Saloon. It is a beautiful, lofty chamber, full of sunlight on that morning in May. Mama had redone it just before her death. Mama always liked to be in fashion.
    I stopped a moment in the doorway to compose myself. Auntie was examining Mrs. Murray’s hand. I knew from my own observation that Mrs. Murray was afflicted with club thumbs. It is the only flaw in an otherwise perfect physical specimen. She is a blond, blue-eyed, porcelain-skinned lady who is, incidentally, twenty years younger than her husband but still more than a decade older than myself.
    According to Auntie, those clubbed thumbs indicated an unmanageable temper and a coarse, violent nature. I had seen no evidence of these character flaws. Her nature was flighty and vain; I would hardly call her either violent or coarse.
    “Oh, Miss Talbot,” she said, glancing up. “Have you had a spill? I see your gown is all muddied.”
    “There’s a dead man in the water meadow,” I said. “Mr. Stoddart. He’s been stabbed.”
    “Oh, my!” She lifted both hands to her lips. The clubbed thumbs marred the beauty of ivory fingers and flashing diamond rings. “You’re sure he’s dead?”
    “He’s been dead for hours, I should think.”
    “The devil you say!” Aunt Talbot gasped. “Stabbed? You mean ... murdered?”
    “Yes. We found him floating amidst the bulrushes. Lollie stayed with him.”
    “Stoddart, you say? That’s not a local name,” Mrs. Murray said, “How did you know him?”
    “I met him yesterday. We must send for the constable.”
    “Monger?” Auntie said. “The man’s an idiot. Send for the justice of the peace. This is a job for McAdam.”
    “Oh, I think in a case like this you should call the constable,” Mrs. Murray said. As the M.P.’s wife, she was allowed to have the final say in the matter.
    George—who else?—was sent off for Monger. Mrs. Murray graciously offered the use of her gig for the trip, as Monger has only a donkey cart and the donkey is approaching retirement age.
    “I believe we’ll continue this reading another time, Mrs. Murray,” Aunt Talbot said.
    “But my fate line! You were just about to read it.”
    “I’m too upset to continue this morning. A murder right on our doorstep while we were enjoying ourselves, merry as mice in malt! Gracious me, and Amy and Lollie were talking to him just yesterday.”
    “Who is he and where did you meet him, Miss Talbot?” Mrs. Murray inquired.
    I told her about meeting him while I was sketching.
    “Did he say why he was here?” she asked. I was a little surprised that she asked. It seemed she was beginning to assume the proper provincial curiosity. She didn’t spend much time in the country. Her being here in May was