Murdering Ministers Read Online Free PDF

understand you,” said Sam Quarterboy tentatively.
    â€œOh. Well, my uncle’s playing Bottom in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream , you see, and I’m going to a performance.”
    Oliver waited in vain for the comprehending laughter. Quarterboy adopted a look that suggested he was about to explain Diaconalism to a slow eight-year-old (something he might have attempted). “Then perhaps, you could have put it that way in the first place,” he said starchily. “I’m sure you didn’t mean it, but your comment implied you were going to look at a close relative in an unclothed state.”
    â€œIt’s just as well our Tina didn’t hear,” whispered Joan. They all looked across to where their young daughter was talking animatedly to Ben Motley and Barry Foison. Ben glanced up at that moment and noticed Oliver’s shamefaced expression.
    â€œOliver,” he called quickly, interrupting the girl’s flow of words, “you should really hear this. Tina’s been telling us how much she likes writing.”
    Tina Quarterboy swivelled on the piano stool and fixed her intense brown eyes on Oliver. Her face had a permanently eager expression, as if someone had grasped her nose and pulled it forward slightly, dragging the rest of her features after it. Oliver just had time to notice her long dark pigtail and the casual clothes on her thin body, which were mercifully contemporary, when she began speaking to him, very rapidly.
    â€œOh yes, I love writing,” she said, beaming. “I write all the time. I was just telling Mr. Motley here that I want to be a writer when I grow up. Every evening, you know, instead of watching television, I take out my journal and put down everything that happened and everything I’ve thought of during the day. I don’t mind at all. I’d spend my whole day writing if I could—stories, poems, my thoughts, my ideas, anything and everything. I just want to be a writer.”
    Ben interrupted quickly. “Yes, I was just saying, Ollie, that since you’re a writer yourself, Tina might want to pick your brains, gather a few tips.”
    â€œThat’s so interesting,” Tina cut in again. “It must be wonderful to be a professional writer. What sort of things do you write?”
    â€œWell, I write stories for children,” Oliver began cautiously.
    â€œHow marvelous!” cried Tina. “I’d like to write stories for children. I’ve done some adventure stories, imagining myself in all kinds of peril, but they’re really for grownups. How do you think of your stories, Mr. Swithin?”
    â€œNow that’s an interesting question. I suppose—”
    â€œI really don’t know how I think of my stories,” Tina interrupted. “They just come to me. I was writing this really fascinating one the other day…”
    The front door to the manse slammed. Tina trailed off as Paul Piltdown appeared in the doorway, to Oliver’s great relief, since the beaming Quarterboys showed no inclination to wrestle their daughter to the ground and gag her. Piltdown greeted his guests and immediately took orders for tea and coffee.
    â€œPatience and Dougie will be joining us shortly,” he added. “They’re just running the church flowers round to poor Mrs. Aymis, who’s been in bed with her leg.”
    Oliver sniggered, but nobody else seemed to see the humor, so he turned it into a throat-clearing.
    â€œLet me give you a hand,” said Joan Quarterboy, making no attempt whatsoever to rise from her comfortable chair.
    â€œNo, let me, I know where things are,” shouted Tina, to Oliver’s relief, and she bounded off the piano stool and followed Piltdown toward the kitchen.
    â€œThe minister thinks a lot of our Tina,” Joan said softly. She signaled this family victory with a peculiar smile, which actually turned the corners of her narrow mouth