The Scent of Murder Read Free

is an outbuilding nearer the house I could use: a stable, perhaps?’ Dody asked.
    ‘I’m afraid Aunt Airlie would have a fit if she knew the bones were anywhere near the house. She’s very sensitive to this kind of thing, just like our Florence.’
    Our Florence?
    Dody sighed softly. If she put up too much of a fuss and postponed her investigations until a suitable place was found, she might be forced to join the hunt.
    ‘I suppose with the door open and lanterns on the walls I might be able to make do,’ she conceded.
    ‘Splendid,’ Tristram said, helping the women back into the cart. He joined them on the bench seat next to Florence, and this time Dody took the reins, giving the young couple the chance to sit close together.
    It was almost dark by the time they glimpsed the lights of Fitzgibbon Hall. Modest as far as country estates went, the Hall consisted of twenty-three rooms and three staircases, and sat in two hundred and fifty acres of its own deer park and woods. In daylight it was a monstrosity of grey stone, twisted chimneys and faux Gothic towers, but at dusk, with its leering gargoyles hidden, it looked almost welcoming. Ancient monkey puzzle trees lined the wide carriageway, their scale-like foliage clattering in the chill breeze. The dry leaves of deciduous trees scuttled alongside the clopping pony. Exhausted by their labours, Dody’s companions fell silent.
    Suddenly the pony shied. A black shape bounded in front of the cart and disappeared into the shadows. Dody caught her breath and touched her sister’s knee. ‘Good Lord, did you see that?’
    No answer; Florence and Tristram were both asleep.

CHAPTER TWO
    Neither sister could bear the idea of tea with the steadily arriving trickle of Saturday-to-Monday guests and begged Tristram to send their apologies to Lady Fitzgibbon. They were both cold and desperate for a comforting bath. For Dody, especially, changing into the required gown for tea and then only a few hours later changing once more into a dinner gown was an unnecessary and impractical chore. She had been too long in the workforce to waste time on such trifles. Even Florence, who usually liked nothing better than the feel of a silky teagown against her skin, confided that she needed time alone to prepare for the ordeal of dinner.
    Dody had not mentioned the startling appearance of the black dog to Florence. That she herself had been momentarily frightened was unusual. The only things Dody feared tended to be of this world and walked on two legs. Goodness knew how Florence would react to such a tale — she would probably insist on sharing a bed as she had as a small child.
    Their bedrooms were joined by a shared bathroom, making it easier for Annie, their maid, to attend to their needs. In their London household, Annie was both parlour maid and Florence’s lady’s maid. Dody, who favoured practical, tailored clothing, and who usually styled her hair in a simple chignon, did not often require her services. She would need Annie tonight, though, if she wanted to avoid the indignity of her pompadour unravelling into the soup.
    Dody sat in her silk kimono, reading at her dressing table while she waited for her turn in the bath. The sounds of Florence’s splashing reached her as Annie grunted and slid a heavy portmanteau from beneath the bed.
    ‘I think it’s time I unpacked this, don’t you, Miss Dody?’
    Dody propelled herself around on the dressing-table stool. ‘No, Annie, leave it, please. It contains medical equipment that is not to be disturbed.’ If Annie were to discover what was in the suitcase, she would probably resign on the spot.
    ‘If you say so, miss, but it isn’t proper for a lady’s maid not to know everything in her mistress’s bags.’
    ‘No, I’m sure it’s not,’ Dody said, returning to her book. The maid’s curiosity would be the death of her one day.
    With a medley of theatrical sighs, Annie laid Dody’s second-best gown on the bed — her best gown