Dry Bones Read Online Free PDF Page A

will be surprised to hear from me out of the blue. I’m sorry to have been out of touch for so long and hope you are coping all right in your new home. It must be very hard for you without Laura. I know how much she meant to you. I miss her too. She was such a dear friend.
    To be perfectly honest, I am writing because I need your help. Something very horrible has happened and I don’t know how to deal with it. But I know that you will be able to tell me what to do. There’s nobody else I can trust. So, I should be so grateful if you would come and stay this weekend. Howard is away in Hong Kong at the moment, and no one else is staying, so we will be able to talk in private. Do please come on Friday evening, in time for dinner.
    As you will see from the address above, we have moved to King’s Mowbray in Wiltshire. The house is just a mile outside the village and you can’t miss it.
    He had been rather intrigued. What on earth could have happened in Cornelia’s cosseted life that was so horrible? And why was he the only person she could trust?
    â€˜Don’t forget the fête committee meeting next week,’ Naomi reminded him as she drained her other half.
    He
had
forgotten it. ‘Oh dear.’
    â€˜It’s a crashing bore, I agree, but at least we’ll have Ruth there this year, instead of her bitch of a mother, and Marjorie’s not a bad chairman. She’ll keep things moving along as much as she can.’
    He remembered last year’s committee meeting at the Manor all too well. He had been a complete new boy – lumbered with the unwanted job of treasurer – and had listened for what had seemed like hours while detailed plans for the fête were discussed: ticket prices, trestle tables, raffle prizes, numbers of tea cups and saucers, the dread subject of the weather and provision for rain. The late and unlamented Lady Swynford had held court from a condescending distance, seated in a Hepplewhite chair with her ridiculously clipped poodle, Shoo-shoo, on her lap, a long silk scarf trailing theatrically from one of her red-nailed hands.
    â€˜Another one, Naomi?’
    She seldom did, but he always asked.
    â€˜No, I must go. Maybe we can christen the terrace when you get back?’
    â€˜I’ll look forward to it.’
    â€˜I suppose you’ll want to do the bottle stall again, Roger?’
    Major Cuthbertson wasn’t sure he cared for his wife’s tone. He rustled his newspaper. ‘I’ll do it, if nobody else wants the job.’
    â€˜I thought you might.’
    Damned nuisance, actually, and not worth all the trouble, he thought irritably. Only ever one proper bottle of whisky in the whole lot. Perhaps a half of vodka, a quarter of brandy, some disgusting British sweet sherry and a few bottles of undrinkable home-made wine made from the most extraordinary things. Pea pods, he remembered from last year.
Pea pods,
for God’s sake. There had been turnip wine, as well. He knew that you could make vodka out of potatoes but he’d never heard of using turnips. Otherwise, it was fizzy lemonade or American coca-cola or some health thing called Lucozade. People were too bloody mean these days to give anything worth winning. Not that he could be seen to win the whisky. Not the done thing at all. If he did, he’d have to give it up. Last year he’d won the half bottle of vodka fair and square, shutting his eyes when he’d put his hand inside the drum; but nobody had noticed and he’d been in desperate need of a pick-me-up after the way Ursula Swynford had spoken to him. He’d always thought she was pretty keen until then. No need for her to have been so rude. Plenty of other women noticed him. He still had most of his hair, and the grey was rather distinguished, and he’d kept his figure – more or less. What about all those film stars who were in their seventies, or even older? Women liked mature men.
    Marjorie was