Bonfire Night Read Free Page B

ghost of his usual grin, and I pressed a kiss to his cheek. As I pulled away, he touched my hand. “In light of...the dream last night,” he began, “I have asked Monk to look into the matter of Mr. Sanderson. Just a few general enquiries.”
    I blinked. “Won’t he have quite enough to do since you’re leaving the enquiry business in his hands whilst you’re away?”
    Brisbane stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Things are rather quiet just at the moment. Nothing Monk can’t handle. And something about this bequest disturbs me.”
    “Well, it is unusual simply to hand a house over to a man,” I agreed. “What do you suspect?”
    “I don’t know,” he replied simply. “And that’s what vexes me. It is too murky at present. It seems straightforward enough, and it well may prove to be so. But in the meanwhile, Monk will burrow around and see if there’s anything our Mr. Sanderson has kept from us.”
    “An excellent notion. But if I’m to find a maid by tomorrow, I must make haste. Oh, and Cook said to tell you she has a special surprise for dinner tonight?”
    One black brow winged up. “Oh?”
    “Stewed bananas.”
    * * *
    In spite of everything, we managed to depart on schedule, trunks and cases and carpet-bags in tow, trailing the odd book and umbrella and lap robe behind.
    “For God’s sake, we look like a travelling circus,” hissed Plum as we emerged from the carriage at the station. A pack of porters descended, scooping up our detritus and following Brisbane’s tall form as he strode down the platform.
    “Hush,” I ordered through gritted teeth. “You’ll frighten the new maid.”
    Plum glanced around, past Portia giving instructions to her nanny and Morag as they stood clutching their screaming charges. Portia’s stout maid, Clement, followed carrying Mr. Pugglesworth, my sister’s decaying pug, and in her wake trotted a slim, pleasant girl of perhaps twenty-two who was called Liddell.
    “She looks like a blancmange,” Plum said dismissively.
    “How can she look like a blancmange?” I demanded. “Human beings do not look like puddings.”
    “Of course they do. She’s pale and morbid-looking. Blancmanges are the saddest of the puddings.”
    “You are ridiculous,” I retorted as I glanced again at Liddell. Now that he brought the likeness to my attention, I could see it. A little.
    “Yes, I am ridiculous,” he acknowledged, “but that child’s face will sour your milk, so mind you don’t let her bring up your breakfast tray.”
    I went to pinch him but he dodged smoothly away. “Don’t be vile. You’re an invited guest, Plum. Act like it.”
    He adopted a wounded expression. “I am no guest. I am family.”
    “That’s worse,” I returned.
    He looked back at the long train of harried porters and scattered belongings. “Yes, I think it is. However can you exist in such a state of domestic chaos? I shall never marry,” he vowed.
    “It’s not always like this,” I answered tartly. “We do occasionally have things in order. It’s just that the building work has thrown everything into sixes and sevens, and it isn’t easy to organise a move to the country on two days’ notice, you know.”
    Something in my tone must have warned him I was dangerously close to exhibiting a strong emotion, for Plum—never the most demonstrative of my siblings—suddenly touched my shoulder.
    “I know, pet. And I’ll wager twenty guineas that Thorncross is an absolutely glorious place.”
    It occurred to me much later, as we stood on the steps of our new inheritance, I ought to have taken that bet.
    * * *
    “Perhaps a lick of paint might improve it,” Portia suggested helpfully. “Or perhaps an exorcism?”
    “Hush,” I ordered. “It’s utterly splendid,” I added in a somewhat breathless tone.
    We had arrived at the station in Greater Wibberley, the town across the valley from the village of Narrow Wibberley. The maids had stayed to collect the baggage while we journeyed ahead in