Joint Enterprise (The Romney and Marsh Files Book 3) Read Online Free PDF

total control of his appetite and then, in turn, his waistline. Costumes like that probably didn’t come cheap and therefore weren’t to be replaced often on a DC’s wage.
    Romney was not surprised to see that Grimes had imposed himself on proceedings. Despite it being his warrant-card-carrying-duty as a serving police officer – on duty or not – to respond to incidents that required police involvement, Grimes enjoyed being in the thick of it, at the centre of the attention, especially if there was a dead body involved. He never seemed to do much, but he was always there, in the way. Still, Romney realised that he should be grateful that there was a serving police officer on the scene quickly, someone who knew what was what; someone who had experience of what needed to be done. At least procedure would have been observed and any forensic evidence preserved.
    Without preamble and trying not to stare at the traces of food stuck t o the corners of the detective constable’s mouth, Romney said, with businesslike expectation, ‘What have we got?’
    ‘I only arrived a minute before you, gov. I was in the food tent when I heard about it.’
    Typical, thought Romney, although he resisted the urge on this occasion to voice his disappointment. Perhaps, he should have expected as much. Grimes reputation went before him. A reputation for disappointing.
    ‘I had a quick look. He’s definitely dead. He’s wearing a French uniform.’ Grimes said this as though that was all right then.
    Romney made a face and continued on past him for someone hopefully more helpful.
    Marsh was talking to the other gentleman dressed in period costume, or rather, she was mooning up in some nauseating pose of spell-bound enchantment by the time Romney reached them.
    In contrast to Grimes, even a spoiler like Romney would have to concede that the man looked faintly splendid. He showed no sign of the heat of the day affecting him. The uniform fit his tall lithe frame as though it had been tailored for him. Perhaps it had. It looked expensive and so did he, from his neat, well-groomed thick curls, past his authentically Napoleonic and neatly trimmed moustache down to the highly polished spurs on his knee-high shiny boots. A dashing Darcy of a character. Romney’s eye was irresistibly drawn to the considerable bulge in the front of the man’s jodhpurs and was embarrassed when looking up to find the man staring, smirking knowingly back at him. The man dipped his head and in an archaic and surreal display of chivalry, leather and metal brought his heels together with a harsh click and a tinkle.
    While Romney was trying to make sense of the effect that a fancy dress costume could have on a grown man, Marsh said, ‘This is Doctor Gerard DuPont, sir. He’s with the French contingent.’ She looked up at the man as though seeking approval for her pronunciation of his name. He, in turn, nodded and bestowed a tight little smile on her for her childish efforts.
    Romney felt a little queasy. ‘You don’t say,’ he said, trying to convey with a withering look what he thought of Marsh’s apparent fascinated attraction for the uniformed man. He made a mental note to take his subordinate to task at the earliest opportunity regarding the appropriateness of overtly fawning over men in uniform when there were dead bodies lying around to be investigated, especially when the uniform was meant to be two hundred years old. He wanted to tell her to get a grip.
    ‘You’re a medical doctor?’ said Romney.
    The man’s English was, of course, excellent. ‘Yes. As you can see, I’m part of the French force here. I am a medical doctor, Mr ...?’
    ‘Detective Inspector Romney.’
    ‘Of course, Detective Inspector.’ The Frenchman smiled stiffly at the correction and with the tolerance one would normally reserve when suffering the errant behaviour of other people’s children. ‘This man is dead. I can certify that. And it would appear on first inspection that