A Series Of Humorous Cozy Mystery Novels
William Bridge Mysteries by Michael N. Wilton
Series Excerpt
Sally didn’t have long to put her theory into practice. Soon after leaving William she was nearly run over by a sports car that came hurtling around the corner and braked suddenly in front of her.
Getting to her feet shakily, she came face to face with Clive, the driver.
“Can’t you look where you’re going?” he accused in a blind panic, his eyes fixed anxiously on his car. “It was all your fault,” he added automatically, bending down to wipe a speck of dust off the bumper. “You could have caused a serious accident. I don’t know what the owner will say.” Then realising who it was he was taken aback. “Oh, sorry, Sally, didn’t see it was you.”
Trembling, she managed, “I see, that makes all the difference, does it?” Then remembering she was about to ask a favour, she modified her tone. “Oh, I’m all right, just a few scratches, I think. Forget it.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry,” Clive apologised with a weak smile. “I was just on my way to have a spot of tea with your mother, Lady Courtney. I didn’t want to be late.”
“Stepmother,” corrected Sally automatically. “Don’t let me keep you then.”
“You sure you’re all right – there’s nothing I can do?” he asked, half looking at his watch. “Can I give you a lift anywhere?”
“Wait, there is as it happens.” She attempted a smile as she pulled herself together. “I don’t suppose by any chance you know any publishers or agents, in your line of business?”
Clive shoved his business card back in his pocket, realising that the description ‘car dealer – we buy and sell anything’ didn’t quite live up to the line of business she had in mind. “Well,” he said quickly, trying to look modest, “as a matter of a fact, being in PR I do have quite a bit of pull with one or two of the top boys– they often ring me up when they’re after a bargain.”
“Good,” beamed Sally, settling herself in the passenger seat. “In that case you can drop me at the school, and I’ll tell you about it on the way.”
“So you see,” she wound up as they came in sight of the school, “it would mean an awful lot to William if you could help him in any way. It would give him confidence and put him on the right path as well as helping his uncle make the shop a success. Especially,” she started to say, “after all those rumours about that wretched Foxey woman,” then stopped quickly, realising she had said too much.
Stifling his alarm at her enthusiasm about a possible rival, and making a mental note to find out more about the Foxey character she mentioned, he assured her craftily, “Of course, I’ll do all I can to help. I can’t promise anything but leave it to me. Let me have a copy of whatever he’s done and meanwhile I’ll find out who’s the best man to contact. And I think this is where I drop you off.”
And as he braked, a pile of papers shot out of his glove box and landed on her lap.
Picking them up and noting the name on the log book before replacing it, she repeated the name wonderingly, “Ron Smith? Who’s that when he’s at home?”
Laughing it off nervously, Clive stuffed the papers back and lied, “Oh, nothing to worry about - one of the previous owners, you know.” Cursing to himself that he hadn’t got rid of the forged papers when they’d cleaned the car out he joked unconvincingly, “You get masses of paperwork when you take on a car, believe me, and talking about paperwork don’t forget to get me a copy of that young man’s efforts, so I can get someone to see it.” And a fat lot of good it will do him if I have anything to do with it, he promised himself.
As it happened, he had to satisfy his hostess with some of her own searching questions before he was able to put his ideas into practice.
Giving his encounter with Sally as an excuse for being late, he was rewarded with a sniff of displeasure. “Oh, how is the gel?” she enquired frostily, and without waiting for a reply she indicated a vacant seat on the terrace. “Sit there Clive do, while I get the maid to bring some tea and things.” She rang a bell, and to bridge the conversation, she moved into her customary line of enquiry to satisfy herself as to his position in society. “Do say, if you don’t find it comfortable.”
“No, it’s absolutely splendid, Lady Courtney,” he assured her hastily.
“It’s actually Lady Frobisher Courtney, you know,” she pointed out regally. “My husband is most insistent people get it right, otherwise these old fashioned family courtesies just get lost for posterity - I expect you find the same thing.”
He was about to reply when the maid plonked the tray down on the table and nearly spilt the milk.
“Careful, Mary, not there, mind what you’re doing,” she warned with a hint of steel in her voice.
“Now then,” as she passed a cup across to Clive, “do tell me how your family is getting on. You’re one of the Suffolk Brands - a junior branch, I believe,” she added condescendingly. “Let me see, I suppose it goes back a few years or so?”
Clive rescued his cup as it slid off his saucer in his eagerness to agree with her. “Oh, yes, many hundreds of years.” Then, aware there might be a conflict of interests, he added hastily, “Not as far back as your own line extends, I am sure.”
Her placid smile of contentment confirmed he had said the right thing and he sat back with a sigh of relief. The next half hour was spent by his hostess probing his background, with Clive crossing his fingers and making himself sound like a cross between a financial wizard and an up and coming leader of society. Even Clive found himself being impressed by his replies, which was not unnatural for a conman of his ability.
“And from what you were saying, I gather your business prospects are quite well established.”
“Of course, we are still expanding,” he assured her, hurriedly dismissing a picture of a ramshackle garage from his mind. “We’re no Rockefeller, but I am sure he would be happy to learn a thing or two from us in the way we do business. I’m not in a position to mention any names, you understand, but yesterday I had a tempting offer to take us over - from a leading finance company.”
He omitted to mention it was in connection with a notice of foreclosure on his garage for not keeping up his payments, but his reply brought out a satisfied smile of acceptance.
He was beginning to feel he had passed the test, when she homed in on the reason for his invitation. “Of course,” she pointed out airily, “our little estate is not vast – I forget how far it extends offhand, some three or four thousand acres or so I believe, but it will mean a lot of responsibility for someone to look after one of these days, and my husband and I will not be here to keep an eye on things forever.”
She fixed him with a benevolent smile. “I don’t mind telling you this in confidence, Clive, as I know it will go no further, but I am most disappointed in Lancelot, our eldest boy. He’s shown absolutely no interest in taking on the responsibilities of the estate. And as for Sally,” she sighed. “First of all it was motor racing, now her latest fad is teaching. If only you knew how she upsets me.” She pulled herself together and squared up like a sergeant major. “It needs someone with a wider vision. Now, if only Sally had found the right man to guide her, to take all the right decisions on her behalf,” she paused and looked at him invitingly. “If only I knew there was someone to take on the challenge, someone I could trust.”
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