Free The Ellie Hardwick Mysteries by Barbara Cleverly

whispering, his eyes gleaming like a spaniel’s in the moonlight. ‘It didn’t take me long to work out that you were a strong girl, dependable, discreet . . .’
    I swallowed and in what I imagined to be a light and friendly tone I agreed with him. ‘Oh, yes. All that. And clever too. It didn’t take
me
long to work out that the name Eleanor in conjunction with the name Hartest is not a lucky combination! It gets carved on tombstones. Prematurely. Goodbye, Rupert. I’ll keep an interested eye on the announcements column in the
Times
! I may even turn up at your wedding!’
    Truce? Stand off? Too soft for Sandhurst? He wasn’t the ruthless tactician his father was. He let me get away.
    * * *
    Back in the safety of my Golf, I turned the key with shaking hand and said a quick prayer when the engine started. Two miles away on the busy, brightly-lit forecourt of a filling station I stopped and took out my phone.
    I dialled a number I’d scribbled down in the library on the inside of my wrist.
    â€˜Inspector Jennings?’ I said. ‘Sorry to ring you at home. Ellie Hardwick here. You know—we met at the church this morning . . . I’m afraid I have to tell you something you really won’t want to hear . . .’

A THREATENED SPECIES
    An Ellie Hardwick, Architect, Mystery.
    I knew I shouldn’t be doing this.
    It was against all the firm’s safety rules to enter a deserted church, at dusk, alone.
    I was due to inspect the place the next day anyway, in the morning sunshine and the comforting presence of Ben Crabtree, the county of Suffolk’s best ancient buildings contractor. So why couldn’t I wait? Why was I creeping, ankle-deep in rotting wilton, along the aisle, jumping at every owl hoot and mouse rustle, torch in one hand, mobile phone in the other and the firm’s hard hat on my head?
    I’m a romantic, I suppose, and I love old buildings in all their different moods. I’d come to catch what might well be the grace notes of the splendour of All Souls, adrift in the fields outside the village of Crowden. It would be my five-year survey tomorrow that would sign the death warrant for this once-lovely building. It had been disused for years and the grants of money, never generous enough, had finally run out. The fabric was considered dangerous and it was inevitable that the bulldozers would roll. The only people vocal in its support were the Bat Group.
    â€˜But the pipistrelles!’ they shrieked. ‘They’re a protected species! Their habitat must not be demolished!’
    â€˜I’ve nothing against bats but I’d like to slap a closing order on their support groups!’ I’d said to my boss when he handed me the church file with a warning. ‘The Barmy Bat Army! That chairman of theirs! Lady What’s ’Er Name . . .’
    â€˜Frampton,’ supplied Charles. ‘Laetitia Frampton.’
    â€˜Yes. Well, the lady gave me a very bad time over Mendlesett Church last year. I don’t fancy another encounter just yet.’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t know,’ said Charles vaguely. ‘I suppose the bats are worth saving. Never seen it myself but they do say the twilight flight of bats out of the church tower is one of the sights of Suffolk. They were still firmly in place when the last quinquennial inspection was done. Byam did it. Now
he
seemed to get on all right with the lovely Laetitia.’ Charles rolled his eyes in a meaningful way. ‘They spent quite some time observing the habits of our leather-winged friends in remote church towers all over the county, I seem to remember.’
    â€˜Byam? Byam who? Or should I say who Byam?’
    â€˜Ah . . . He left a couple of years before you arrived. So that’ll be five years, give or take . . . Byam Somersham. Damn good architect . . . Good looking chap as well. Women round here seem to go for that dark, romantic look.’ He grinned,