Free A Bedlam of Bones by Suzette Hill Page A

before they were all snaffled. So after giving him a sharp reminder that I still awaited my Canadian fee, I rejoined the hordes.
And that’s when I saw Lavinia talking animatedly with some elderly gent of about ninety (sixty-five, probably, but he looked pretty decrepit to me) whom she introduced vaguely as an old friend of the family (hers or Boris’s?) and whom she hadn’t met for ages but so hoped to see more of now she was back in London. Apparently the hope was reciprocated as I noticed he plied her with Sidecars for the rest of the evening. Eventually he joined a group about to get the train back to London. But just before he left she whispered to me that he owned a yacht and was ‘worth quite a bob or two’ – an observation which personally I couldn’t help thinking just a mite vulgar. Anyway, she said he was called Frederick – though whether that was his first or second name it wasn’t clear. But she also added that he had once been a schoolmaster in India – Jaipur, I think – but had moved on to more lucrative things. Would need to, presumably, if he was able to afford a yacht!
     
    I reread those last lines with startled curiosity … It couldn’t be, surely! No, of course not. The scholastic world must abound in English ex-schoolmasters who had taught in India twenty years ago or more, and doubtless quite a few in Jaipur … But would so many Fredericks have gravitated to Jaipur? Perhaps not. Even so, it seemed improbable that Lavinia’s elderly friend should be the Freddie Felter so luridly described by Mrs Tubbly Pole. Of course not. It was bound to transpire that this man was called John Frederick, an Oxford graduate in History who couldn’t add up for toffee and had never worn a moustache in his life, drooping or otherwise. That firmly settled I continued with the remainder of the letter.
    Anyway, eventually things wound up and we hitched a lift back with one of the guests, Lavinia clearly having enjoyed herself chewing the cud with her old school chum – Ingaza’s ‘Miss Prissy’ – and then latterly with the attentive Frederick chap. As a matter of fact she had taken quite a bit on board, so when we got home I suggested some coffee but she said it was ‘safer’ to stick with gin. So the three of us (if you count the beloved Attlee) put our feet up in the sitting room and indulged in the usual post-mortem, in the course of which she said she had glimpsed Ingaza across the room but hadn’t the nerve to approach as he had looked so grim(!)
I was going to ask her more about Turnbull’s professional plans and whether she was thinking of partnering him in the language schools project, but before I got there she suddenly trilled, ‘It’s such fun living dangerously, don’t you think?’
Without mentioning the gory French episode, I asked if that was what she had been doing with Boris. She took a sip of gin and grimaced, though I wasn’t sure whether that was on account of the lack of bitters or the thought of her late husband. The latter I think, for she exclaimed, ‘Good gracious, nothing dangerous there – just crashing boredom from start to finish. What a fool I was to be so influenced! Ah well, water under the bridge, things are different now.’ She then turned to the dog and crooned, ‘Isn’t that so, mon petit cheri?’ I don’t think Attlee liked being addressed as ‘cheri’ as he gazed fixedly ahead, making no response.
Well, Francis, all I can say is that either she’s totally unaware that Turnbull did in her old man or she hasn’t the slightest clue that you or I suspect anything. Otherwise how on earth could she be so gormlessly indiscreet!! As said, either perfectly intelligent or as thick as they come! Make sure you give me a bell when you can tear yourself away from clerical delights. Shall be interested to hear your views.
All love – P.
     
    I put down the letter, and tackling tomato and fried bread began to ponder the import of Primrose’s news.
    I didn’t