Read I Am the Only Running Footman for Free Online Page B

sweater and sea green ascot tucked in the neck of a turquoise crepe de chine shirt. For Trueblood, this was a costume downplayed. “Thank God, another day in the stews and sweats is finished.”
    Marshall Trueblood could afford anything but sweat. He was fond of slandering his own antiques business located in the small Tudor building next door, a thriving shop despite Long Piddleton’s slender population. It prospered because it drew on a London clientele, among them some very knowledgeable dealers. Business was also helped along by the patronage of the two — even richer than Trueblood — who shared the table.
    â€œIt’s only just gone five,” said Vivian Rivington with a melancholy air. Winter’s dregs left the trio with little to do but comment on one another’s departure from the norm. “You don’t close until six,” she said, shaking her watch.
    â€œThere’s no custom. I left a sign on the door to check over here if someone wants a distressed bureau. What’re you reading, Melrose?” he asked as Scroggs set drinks before them.
    Melrose Plant turned it cover-out so that his friends could see.
    â€œThe Plum-Pudding Group. Strange title. Cheers.” He raised his glass.
    Vivian was squinting at the name of the author. “It’s another one of that Polly’s, isn’t it?”
    â€œI’m afraid it’s not very good. But don’t tell her.”
    â€œShe’s not around to tell,” said Vivian with just a touch of fractiousness. “I don’t understand what your relationship is.”
    â€œCareful, careful, Vivian. You’re not one to talk of engagé involvements.”
    â€œYou’re so right, Melrose,” said Trueblood. “Is this another Christmas you’ll not be spending with the ill-starred Franco of Florence?”
    â€œVenice,” she said, a little waspishly.
    â€œDid you get bad news in your letter?” Trueblood dashed a bit of ash from the end of his black Sobranie and smiled roguishly.
    Vivian’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, in my letter?”
    â€œWhy, the one you must have got this morning. The one in your pocket.”
    The hand that had strayed to the pocket of her cardigan was brought back quickly to make a fist on the table.
    â€œPostmarked Venezio.”
    â€œJust how do you know?”
    â€œIf Miss Quarrels must sort the post by spreading it out on the counter like a cardsharp, is it my fault?”
    â€œAnd you went to the trouble of reading it upside-down!”
    He had brought out his little gold nail-clipper. “No, I turned it right-side up.”
    â€œSnoop!”
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    Hearing her cue, Lady Agatha Ardry appeared in the Jack and Hammer’s doorway, making her snowy entrance with a shake-out of her cape and a stamp of her shoes. “I looked in your windows, Mr. Trueblood,” she said to Marshall Trueblood even before she called to Dick Scroggs for her double shooting sherry. “It’s not six, Mr. Trueblood. Your shop should be open. But then if custom means so little  . . . my dear Plant, I was just bucketing along to Ardry End —”
    Doing her rounds like Miss Crisp’s terrier, thought Melrose, turning a page and finding Lady Dasher dead in the hydrangeas . . . .
    â€œâ€” and I passed a car —”
    Lucky for the driver. Usually she just drove into them. Agatha had acquired an old Morris Minor that looked like her: rounded dome and dumpy body.
    â€œâ€”just coming down the drive as I drove in. Woman driver, thirtyish, brown hair, black Porsche —”
    â€œNumber plate?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œSurely, you got the number so we can run it through Scotland Yard’s computer system. They do wonders finding hot cars these days —”
    â€œDon’t be daft, Plant. Well, she got straight away before I could stop her. Who is she,