The Package Included Murder Read Free Page A

Stepanovna glanced at the distressed woman on the bed and summed up the situation in one shrewd, experienced and probably actionable sniff. She also curled her lip.
    It was lucky that these subtleties went clean over the top of the Hon. Con’s eton-cropped head. ‘Think I’ll just hang on for a couple of secs,’ she explained blandly. ‘Miss Clough-Cooper’s nerves are shot to pieces, don’t you know? I’ll stay and do a bit of the old hand holding.’
    Ludmilla Stepanovna nodded all too understandingly. The one in the bed was quite pretty, she supposed, but far too thin for her taste. Anyhow – Ludmilla Stepanovna stiffened her back-bone – this was no time for dalliance. She had bigger fish to fry and – chestnoye slovo! – those uncultured hotel imbeciles were going to rue the day they were born. By the time Ludmilla Stepanovna had finished with them they’d think twice before rousting a full colonel in the Secret Police out of her bed in the small hours of the morning for nothing.
    She opened the door. ‘ I wish you a good night!’ she proclaimed formally before closing the door with a bang behind her on a widely grinning Hon. Con and a somewhat apprehensive Penelope Clough-Cooper.
    Down the corridor in the double room which for reasons of economy she shared with the Hon. Con, Miss Jones struggled to stay awake. On the face of it she shouldn’t have had much difficulty, motivated as she was not only by jealousy and loyalty but by abject terror as well. Miss Jones had not one carefree moment since she had set foot in the Soviet Union. The Hon. Con might laugh (indeed, the Hon. Con had laughed) but Miss Jones stuck to her guns. Nobody was safe in that dreadful country and, as a clergyman’s daughter, Miss Jones was doubly at risk. Everybody knew what the communists had done to the Church since the Revolution and it was not the kind of record that permitted an unmarried lady of nervous disposition to rest easy in her bed at nights.
    In these circumstances and taking one thing with another, Miss Jones should have had no trouble in tossing and turning until she was satisfied that the Hon. Con was safely tucked up in the other twin bed. The flesh, however, is weak and the flesh of reluctant tourists is perhaps weaker than most. After a mere two and a half days of relentless sight-seeing, Miss Jones was frankly worn out. Mentally, physically and emotionally. She fought a gallant rearguard action but gradually sleep overcame her. She’d just, she told herself, rest her eyes for a couple of minutes and …
    Russian plumbing is pretty noisy at the best of times.
    The Hon. Con emerged from the bathroom and gave a startled Miss Jones a friendly nod. ‘That ball-cock thing’s gone for a Burton again,’ she announced. ‘Hope I didn’t wake, you Bones!’
    Miss Jones gradually relaxed her grip on her heart. No doubt the beating would steady down to something approaching normal. Eventually. ‘What time is it, dear?’
    The Hon. Con consulted Big Ben – her jocular and not entirely inappropriate nickname for her wristwatch. ‘Twenty-five past three.’
    Miss Jones stifled her groan. ‘ Have you been with Miss Clough-Cooper all this time, dear?’
    The Hon. Con stripped off her dressing-gown and stood revealed in all the glory of blue-striped, army surplus pyjamas. She did a couple of perfunctionary physical jerks and then dived into bed. ‘Had to get all the gen, old fruit. And Penny had quite a tale to tell!’
    â€˜Miss Clough-Cooper struck me as a rather excitable young woman,’ observed Miss jones sourly, noting the familiarity of that ‘Penny’ but forbearing to comment on it. She plumped her pillows up with some vigour.
    â€˜Can you blame her?’ asked the Hon. Con reasonably. ‘ I had the dickens of a time gaining her confidence, I can tell you. Had to tell her all about my