Much Ado In the Moonlight Read Free

innkeeper hired to see to things in the owner’s absence, made a quick search of her garden, then reluctantly retreated back inside her domain.
    He heaved a sigh of relief and quickly contemplated his next action. He could, of course, use the front door. He did that often. Indeed, the inn was, for all intents and purposes, under his direction; he was certainly free to enter and leave it when and where he chose. But tonight he would take a different path—
    And hope to heaven that Mrs. Pruitt would be so weary from her daily tasks that she would leave the kitchen empty for the night.
    He tapped his foot for what he hoped was long enough for any and all innkeepers inside to have put themselves to bed, then tiptoed around to the back of the house and peered into the kitchen window. All was dark inside. He sighed in relief, then walked through the door, lit candles with a flick of his wrist, and stoked up the shiny black stove with another negligent movement of his hand.
    He drew up a chair to the stove with a sigh, reached out and plucked forth a cup of ale from thin air, then sat back and prepared for an evening spent contemplating the happy events that would no doubt transpire when his granddaughter, several generations removed, arrived from America later in the month. She was feisty, to be sure, and headstrong, but since he found those traits to be quite acceptable in himself, he couldn’t see why he should begrudge her the same in her own person.
    The back door opened and shut with a bang. A man stood on the rug, stomping his feet and blowing on his hands. “Cold out, still,” he groused. “One would think that by the end of March we might have a had bit of relief from the chill.”
    Ambrose pursed his lips. “You’ve lived in England for four hundred years, Fulbert, and I daresay you’ve complained about the weather for at least that long. Why do you continue to expect it to be warmer than it wants to be?”
    Fulbert de Piaget threw himself into a chair and conjured up his own cup of hot ale. “Hope springs eternal,” he grumbled. “Or some other such rot.”
    “Hope may spring eternal,” Ambrose conceded, “but spring comes when it wants. Be grateful you grew to manhood in this soft, southern country. In the Highlands, March is still hard with ice and chill.”
    “Which is no doubt why you Scots are of such foul and ill-seated humors,” Fulbert said.
    Ambrose had scarce opened his mouth to instruct Fulbert on the finer points of Scottish character before the back door opened and his own kinsman, Hugh McKinnon, peered in hesitantly.
    “Is she about?”
    Fulbert pursed his lips. “Who?”
    “Mrs. Pruitt,” Hugh said, his teeth chattering. “Who else?”
    “Haven’t seen her,” Fulbert said shortly. “She’s likely off tidying up her aspect to better impress her sweetheart here.”
    “The saints be praised,” Hugh said as he entered the kitchen, shut the door behind him, and took up his place by the fire. “I wish you’d just get on with it, Ambrose,” he said. “Have yer meetin’ with the poor woman and be done.”
    “Aye,” Fulbert said, turning a jaundiced eye on Ambrose. “You promised the good Mrs. Pruitt a parley and you’ve yet to keep that promise.”
    “I will speak with her when I have the time,” Ambrose said, through gritted teeth.
    Fulbert grunted. “Be about finding that time as soon as may be. The woman’s beginnin’ to ruin my sleep with all her gear beepin’ and squealin’ at all hours.”
    “She’ll tire of hunting us,” Ambrose said confidently.
    “Perhaps,” Fulbert conceded, “but she’ll never tire of hunting you .”
    “I have to agree,” Hugh said with an uneasy nod. “She certainly has the gear for a goodly bit of paranormal investigating. It seems that every fortnight that big brown UPS lorry brings her something new to use.”
    “Well, we’ve no need to worry about that tonight,” Ambrose said. “I’m quite sure Mrs. Pruitt has gone to