I Am Half-Sick Of Shadows by Alan Bradley Read Free Book Online Page B

but—”
    “I met her this morning,” I volunteered.
    “Did you indeed! Cynthia will be quite jealous to hear of it. Well, perhaps not jealous, but possibly just a tiny bit envious.”
    “Is Mrs. Richardson one of Phyllis Wyvern’s fans?”
    “No, I don’t believe so. Cynthia is, however, the cousin of Stella Ferrars, who, of course, wrote the novel
Cry of the Raven
, upon which the film is to be based. Third cousin, to be sure, but a cousin nonetheless.”
    “Cynthia?” I could scarcely believe my ears.
    “Yes, hard to believe, isn’t it? I can scarcely credit it myself. Stella was always the black sheep of the family, you know, until she married a laird, settled down in the heathered Highlands, and began cranking out an endless procession of potboilers, of which
The Cry of the Raven
is merely the latest. Cynthia had been hoping to pop by and give Miss Wyvern a few pointers on how the role of the heroine should be played.”
    I almost went
“Phhfft!”
but I didn’t.
    “And that’s why you’re here? To see Miss Wyvern?”
    “Well, yes,” the vicar said, “but not on that particular topic. Christmas, as you’ve no doubt heard me say on more than one occasion, is always one of the greatest opportunities not only to receive but also to give, and I have been hoping that Miss Wyvern would see her way clear to re-create for us just a few scenes from her greatest triumphs—all in a good cause, of course. The Roofing Fund, for instance—dear me—”
    “Would you like me to introduce you to her?” I asked.
    I thought the dear man was going to break down completely. He bit his lip and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his glasses. When he realized he had forgotten to bring them with him, he blew his nose instead.
    “If you please,” he said.
    “I hope we won’t be intruding,” he added as we made our way up the stairs. “I hate to be a beggar but sometimes there’s really no choice.”
    He meant Cynthia.
    “Our last little venture was something of a bust, wasn’t it? So there’s all that much more to make up this time.”
    Now he was referring, of course, to Rupert Porson, the late puppeteer, whose performance in the parish hall just a few months ago had been brought to an abrupt end by tragedy and a woman scorned.
    Bun Keats was sitting in a chair at the top of the stairs, her head in her hands.
    “Oh dear,” she said as I introduced her to the vicar. “I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid I have the most awful migraine.”
    Her face was as white as the crusted snow.
    “How dreadful for you,” the vicar said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I can sympathize wholeheartedly. My wife suffers horribly from the same malady.”
    Cynthia?
I thought.
Migraines?
That would certainly explain a lot.
    “She sometimes finds,” he went on, “that a warm compress helps. I’m sure the good Mrs. Mullet would be happy to prepare one.”
    “I’ll be all right …” Bun Keats began, but the vicar was already halfway down the stairs.
    “Oh!” she said, with a little cry. “I should have stopped him. I don’t mean to be any trouble, but when I’m like this I can hardly think straight.”
    “The vicar won’t mind,” I told her. “He’s a jolly good sort. Always thinking of others. Actually, he came round to see if Miss Wyvern could be persuaded to put on a show to raise funds for the church.”
    Her face, if it were possible, went even whiter.
    “Oh, no!” she said. “He mustn’t ask her that. She has a bee in her bonnet about charities—dead set against them. Something from her childhood, I think. You’d best tell him that before he brings it up. Otherwise, there’s sure to be a most god-awful scene!”
    The vicar was coming back up the stairs, surprisingly, taking them two at a time.
    “Sit back, dear lady, and close your eyes,” he said in a soothing voice I hadn’t heard before.
    “Miss Keats says Miss Wyvern is indisposed,” I told him, as he applied the compress to her brow. “So