Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew'd Read Online Free PDF

hedges grew on either side, their scarlet berries sparkling in spite of the gray, watery light. These pretty but poisonous berries, I recalled with pleasure, contained, among other things: caffeic acid, quinic acid, chlorogenic acid, kaempferol, caffeine, quercetin, rutin, and theobromine. “Theobromine” means, literally, “the food of the gods,” and is the bitter alkaloid found also in tea, coffee, and chocolate. An overdose could be fatal.
    Death by means of a lavishly large box of chocolates delivered to a rich and elderly aunt was not just something that happened in mystery novels. No, indeed! It was probably no coincidence that holly and chocolates were always somewhere about at Christmas: the time of year when mortality rates peaked among the aged.
    This pleasant train of thought was interrupted by the appearance of a pair of crumbling brick pillars on my left. A cracked wooden signboard, its painted letters peeling as if it suffered from eczema, read: T HORNFIELD C HASE . I braked, turned carefully into the drive, and dismounted.
    All that remained of the estate was a Gothic hunting lodge, and what was left of that was in sad disrepair. A carpet of green and black moss covered the sagging roof, the doorframes were rotten, and the windows were as dull as dead eyes. A dismal
drip-drip-drip
came from the plugged gutters, the remains of which hung in metallic tatters.
    What an odd place for a so-called master carpenter to live,
I thought. There must be more than a little truth in that old proverb: The cobbler’s children and the blacksmith’s horse are always without shoes.
    What were Colonel Haviland de Luce’s children without?
    That part of my mind switched itself off.
    A derelict Austin sedan stood under the trees, a liberal spattering of bird droppings suggesting that it had not been recently moved. I glanced quickly in through its spotted windows. A pair of soft leather driving gloves was visible—one on the seat, the other on the floor. Nothing else.
    I turned and slogged through dead wet leaves to the door.
    A tug on an old-fashioned bellpull—an ivory knob in a brass plate—produced a surprisingly bright and crisp ringing from somewhere inside the lodge.
    In case someone should be watching me through a peephole, I brought the envelope out from beneath my mackintosh and arranged my features into what I thought might pass for eager efficiency: one elbow crooked and slightly raised, brows slightly beetled, lips lightly pursed—a cross between a Post Office telegram boy and Alice’s white rabbit.
    The gutters dripped.
    I rang again.
    “Mr. Sambridge,” I called out. “Mr. Sambridge…are you here?”
    No answer.
    “Mr. Sambridge, it’s Flavia de Luce. I have something for you from the vicarage.”
    “Something” sounded more tantalizing than “a letter.” “Something” might be money, but then, I imagine, so could “a letter.”
    But my choice of words made no difference anyway: Mr. Sambridge was not responding.
    I suppose I could have dropped the envelope through the mail slot, but that is not the way of Flavia de Luce. Cynthia had given me an errand to run, and I would carry it out come hell or hobnails. It was a question of honor and—yes, let’s face it—curiosity.
    I lifted the flap, applied my eyes, and peered through the slot at a painted brick wall with a single coat-hook, upon which hung a Norfolk jacket of the style worn by gamekeepers.
    “Hello?” I said, speaking into the opening. “Mr. Sambridge?”
    I tried the door, knowing even as I did so that it was pointless, but to my amazement, it swung open easily and I stepped inside.
    Aside from the boxy little entranceway—constructed to keep the weather from blowing directly in—the ground floor of the lodge was a single large room, and it was clear that this was Sambridge’s woodworking shop. The smell of fresh shavings filled the air: The room was fragrant with the sappy scent of the forest.
    A workbench stood in the light