Free Farm Fatale by Wendy Holden

quite suitable. Then came the creepy corner house with the pearlized diagonal fifties plastic door handles, boxlike rooms, and air of something inexpressibly hideous having happened in the attic. Next up was the cottage whose apparently limitless garden, clearly and gratifyingly visible on the particulars, turned out to be that of the old people's home next door. Last—and probably least—there had been the only tenanted dwelling on their list, a squat building coated with gray concrete rendering and a drive festooned with broken lavatory bowls and piles of crumbling breezeblock. It was the property of a pinch-faced man of few words, and its low price, Rosie and Mark subsequently discovered, reflected a desire to get out quick. "'E's goin'," a shuffling figure passing the end of the drive informed them as they emerged, "because 'e shot 'is neighbor's dog on Christmas Day."
        "How awful ," said Rosie, whose desire to make a speedy exit from the property had been equally strong. "But at least he has the decency to move out fast."
        The shuffling figure looked at her with eyes as flat as buttons. "Not that fast. 'E shot it five years ago. But folk don't forget that sort of thing round 'ere."
        "I'll tell you what we need," Mark said as they scrambled back into the Peugeot and sped off as if demons were at their heels.
        "A seventeenth-century cottage with beams, open fireplaces, a cared-for garden, and a sound roof at about half the price the agents are usually asking?"
        "No. Alcohol."
        Rosie nodded, picturing a quaint inn with ivy and badges of culinary excellence without and vast beams heavy with brassware within. "Sounds great."
        "And here's a pub," Mark announced, slowing down as they entered a village. A long, low building of indeterminate age opposite the village church, the pub was almost romantic. Apart, that was, from its sign, which, creaking alarmingly in the wind, depicted a sixteenth-century woman resplendent in ruff and farthingale but conspicuously lacking a head. Below her was painted the pub's name: The Silent Lady.
        "Ha ha ha," said Mark. "Local humor, I suppose."
        "Very droll," said Rosie sarcastically.
        Inside, it was completely empty apart from a small dog with a very protuberant bottom who sat in front of a roaring fire. As a dolorous landlord eventually shuffled into view, Mark strode jovially up to the bar. "Two pints of your best beer, please."
        Rosie shuddered. As a rule, she wasn't keen on beer. Yet she sensed that to ask for city affectations such as a gin and tonic or a spritzer could be asking for trouble.
        "'Airy 'Elmet, Belter, or Knickersplitter."
        "Um, er, one Hairy Helmet. Oh, and one Knickersplitter. I'll live a little." Mark grinned at the landlord, whose hangdog expression remained resolutely hung. "Erm, could I see the, erm, bar menu?"
        "There isn't one," muttered the landlord. "These is t'menu." From her seat by the infernally hot fire, Rosie saw him wave a dismissive hand at two thick plastic covers on the counter.
        "Oh, I see. The pork pies look wonderful. Are they homemade?"
         Pork pies . At this, even Rosie's vegetarian stomach rumbled. But she couldn't. She couldn't.
        "We keep us own pigs round t'back."
        "Erm, a large pie, yes. And could you possibly cut it in half?"
        "Here's t'knife and t'plate. Cut it in 'alf yoursel'."
        "Oh. Right . Thanks. And this is the mustard, is it—yes, I see, there is a scrape or two left. Thanks very much indeed." Mark, grinning, came back to the fireside and sawed the pie in half to reveal close-packed meat of a near-neon pinkness.
        "Go on, Rosie," he urged her. "There's nothing else to eat. No one will know."
        Rosie shook her head resolutely, keeping her eyes trained on the dog's bottom. As an appetite suppressant, it was very effective.
        "They do rooms here," Mark said,