Deadly Desires at Honeychurch Hall Read Online Free PDF Page B

Mrs. Cropper sternly. “His lordship and Lady Lavinia are waiting for you in the drawing room with Shawn.”
    I still couldn’t get used to calling the local police inspector by his first name despite his being Mr. and Mrs. Cropper’s grandson.
    Harry scowled. “I’m not going back to the front. Ever.”
    â€œThat’s not for you to decide,” said Mrs. Cropper briskly.
    â€œKat says I can go to the same school as Max,” Harry said.
    Mrs. Cropper glared at me. “Did she now.”
    â€œDid you know that the bag ladies nearly shot someone to death with their gun today?” said Harry gleefully.
    Mrs. Cropper’s eyes widened in shock. “What is Master Harry talking about?”
    â€œIt wasn’t quite like that,” I said quickly.
    â€œOh yes it was,” said Mum. “This despicable man was trespassing and Joyce encouraged him to leave with her twelve-bore.”
    Harry nodded eagerly. “The sign says TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED & POACHERS WILL BE SHOT. ”
    â€œBut he wasn’t poaching, Harry,” I said. “My mother’s exaggerating. The gun went off by accident.”
    â€œWhat was this trespasser doing?” Mrs. Cropper demanded.
    â€œLaying a runway for the airplanes,” said Harry. “There were big black boards with HS 3 CROSSING FROM HERE .”
    â€œOperation Bullet, I presume,” said Mrs. Cropper grimly. “Well, enough of all that. Come along, Master Harry—”
    â€œWe almost forgot to give you these.” Mum passed her the wicker basket of sloes.
    Mrs. Cropper took the basket in one hand and Harry in the other. “Come along, Harry,” she said again. “Your father will be wanting to talk to you.”
    Harry’s face fell. He looked as if the weight of the world was on his little shoulders. “Don’t forget to write to me, Kat.”
    â€œAnd don’t forget to write to me, ” I said. “I love getting your letters.”
    Mrs. Cropper whisked Harry away.
    â€œI hope he’ll be okay,” I said.
    â€œI wouldn’t mind poking around in these old larders,” Mum mused. “I’ve got a scene in Forbidden that takes place in the meat larder.”
    â€œI hope it’s not a love scene,” I said. “Anyway … I thought we’d turned in your manuscript?”
    â€œWe?” said Mum. “ We turned in the manuscript?”
    â€œYou couldn’t have finished it without my typing expertise,” I pointed out.
    â€œ Finished? It’s not finished,” she snapped. “Turning in the manuscript is only the beginning of the process. I’ll get notes back from my editor any day now. In fact, I should have gotten them yesterday.”
    â€œI thought you just sent it off and that was that.”
    â€œOf course not! It’s a very lengthy process. It’s not a sausage factory.”
    I knew I’d hit a nerve but I was spared further explanation by the appearance of a woman in her early thirties stepping through the doorway of the meat larder carrying a bucket of dirty water. She was dressed in a drab, gray dress under a waterproof butcher’s apron. A lock of dark hair flopped over one eye, having escaped from under a neat cap. She was very pretty with a heart-shaped face and large brown eyes.
    â€œOh!” she exclaimed, bobbing a curtsey. “Beg pardon. You startled me.” I noted a broad Devonshire accent.
    â€œHello. You must be the new housekeeper,” I said. “You’ve done a fantastic job of cleaning up the courtyard.”
    â€œThank you, ma’am.”
    â€œYou’ve certainly got your work cut out for you here,” Mum chimed in. “What’s your name?”
    â€œI’m Parks.”
    â€œWe can’t call you Parks,” I said. “What’s your first name?”
    â€œAngela.”
    â€œI’m Iris and this is Kat,” said Mum.