DEATH BEFORE WICKET - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

1 Kerry Greenwood
in mended lace gloves, offering cheap tea in a bone china cup.
We might be poor, said Glebe, but we’ll be genteel or die.
What on earth was the Dean doing here? Phryne said as
much.
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Brazell. ‘He used to live in Bellevue.
Glebe is not his s-sort of place at all, one would have thought.’
‘Onward,’ said Phryne, straightening her hat.
Mrs. Gorman was not pleased to see visitors. However, social
duty was social duty, and she escorted her unwelcome guests into
a parlour which was crammed with furniture.
‘I will fetch the Dean,’ she told them, and stalked away,
closing the door with a suspicion of a slam. It raised dust and
Phryne sneezed.
‘I can think of more interesting ways to s-spend an afternoon,
Phryne,’ suggested Edmund Brazell. Phryne could also.
She lifted the hand which he had slid onto her knee and held
it for a moment.
‘This is the last one,’ she told him. ‘Then we can go back
to the hotel.’
Brazell brightened. After an uncomfortably long interval,
Mrs. Gorman swept back into the room, carrying a tray on
which reposed a Crown Derby teapot, sugar basin and milk jug,
four teacups, silver spoons, and a silver strainer. She set it down
briskly on a large dining table.
‘My maid left this morning without notice,’ she stated. ‘It’s
so hard to get reasonable servants these days! Milk and sugar,
Miss Fisher? My husband will be here shortly. It is his practice
to spend Sunday afternoon writing letters.’
Which was another name for lying back in an easy chair and
catching forty winks, Phryne thought, as Mr. Gorman stumped
into the parlour and accepted a cup of tea. ‘Well, Brazell, how’s
the investigation?’ he asked. ‘You seem to have wormed your
way into Miss Fisher’s confidence all right.’
He spoke over Phryne’s head, as though she was not there.
Phryne did not take offence, but watched Mrs. Gorman. She
did not blink.