The Sign of Death by Callie Hutton (i like reading .TXT) 📕

question and your lengthy diatribe that the answer is yes? I hope so, because I find myself quite hungry.”

William smiled back. His Amy was certainly quick with a sharp retort.

His Amy?

Although, considering how much his mother had fawned over her at lunch this past Sunday, no doubt Lady Wethington was now spending her time writing wedding invitations.

And he found himself somewhat pleased at the notion.

A middle-aged woman with an apron wrapped around her considerable belly approached the table, a huge friendly smile on her face. “Good evening, my lady, my lord. I am Mrs. Brodack. My husband and I own the inn. How may we help you?”

“Something smells wonderful. What’s for supper?”

With pride in her stance and voice, Mrs. Brodack said, “Aye, I just finished cooking a lamb stew. I have bread ready to come out of the oven and two desserts”—she counted off on her fingers—“my famous lemon tarts and an apple charlotte.”

“Good heavens, I believe my mouth is actually drooling,” Williams said. He turned to Amy. “What say you, my lady?”

“Yes.” She grinned at the woman. “Everything.”

The woman hustled away, obviously quite pleased with their response.

“I thought you were a vegetarian. Since you are a vegetarian who eats fish, are you also a vegetarian who eats lamb?” He grinned at her.

Amy raised her chin. “I must be flexible. If that is what the inn is serving, then I must have the lamb stew.”

She glared at him as he laughed out loud. Then with a sniff, she said, “I think, since the innkeeper’s wife is so friendly, she might be the best person to ask about the flask. Or if Harding was meeting people here as well.”

Within minutes Mrs. Brodack returned, carrying a tray loaded with bowls of stew, fresh bread, butter, and both tarts and slices of the apple charlotte. She placed all the items on the table.

“I don’t suppose you have tea, do you?” Amy asked.

“I certainly do, my lady.” She turned to William. “Ale for you, my lord?”

“Actually, tea will be fine.” The ale he’d had in the last two pubs had left him with a sour stomach.

Mrs. Brodack gave a curt nod and left.

Amy stared after the woman as she departed. “How does she know we’re lady and lord?”

William laughed. “You might think we can dress in a working-class manner, but our accent and the way we move and walk all deny what we’re trying to portray. But,” he continued, “dressing this way is still a wise thing to do to avoid drawing too much attention to ourselves.”

Conversation ceased as they consumed their meal, until all the bowls and plates were empty.

“Mrs. Brodack, you are a wonderful cook,” William said as she took away their dishes.

The woman blushed. “Thank you, my lord.”

When she returned with their refilled teapot, William asked, “I am looking for a silver flask that I misplaced. I have reason to believe someone picked it up. It is a family heirloom that I would love to get back. Have you seen anyone in here in the last couple of weeks with such an item?”

Mrs. Brodack placed her hands on her ample hips. “No, I didn’t. But funny you ask that, because there were two police officers in here yesterday who had a silver flask with them. They were trying to identify the person who might have used it here.”

William glanced over at Amy.

The woman continued. “You might want to check with the police. It sounds like they have your flask.”

William nodded. “Thank you. That is a very good idea. I am glad it was found.”

Friday morning, Amy forced herself to sit at her desk and get some writing finished. She’d been too involved in the search for Mr. Harding’s killer to devote enough time to her current book. She had a deadline to meet, and it was not going to be met if she didn’t spend some time writing. The book was not going to write itself.

She and William had not discussed the murder since their visits to the three pubs on Tuesday afternoon, nor had they talked about where they would go from here. They had others on their suspect list besides Miss Gertrude: Mr. Lemmon, Mr. Montrose, and Mrs. Whitney. However, Amy didn’t want to assume one of those individuals was the killer.

William had been busy all day Wednesday and Thursday. He’d told her he would be visiting with his solicitor to have him petition the courts to have Harding’s estate reimburse him for the money stolen. The problem with that, he’d said, was that until he received the files from the police department, he had no idea how much was missing, and more importantly, he needed to make sure he was still solvent.

Although he had said those last words with a hint of humor, she could see in his eyes that he was troubled.

The sound of a carriage drawing up to the front of the townhouse had her pushing her chair back and strolling to the window in her office that faced the street.

Her jaw dropped when her papa and brother stepped out of the carriage and made their way to the front door. Papa had not written that he was going to be visiting.

Then her stomach clenched. Had he heard about her publisher wanting to have her appear at the book fair? She wasn’t quite ready to face him with that matter yet. She was still toying with the idea of agreeing to the publisher’s request.

And therefore bringing Papa’s wrath down onto her head.

She took a quick look in her mirror to make sure she wasn’t disheveled enough to warrant comments about her untidiness, then left the room.

“Papa!” She walked into his outstretched arms and received a warm hug. For as much as she hadn’t seen much of her papa over the years, what with her living mostly in Bath and him staying in London, they still had a warm relationship.

Except when he wanted her to do something she did not want to do. Then they butted