All Things Undying Read Online Free Page A

guidebook.
    Someone says ‘Dartmouth’ and you think ‘sailing’. But sailors aren’t the only types attracted to this splendid little corner of the world. Writers, poets, artists, and musicians have all found inspiration in Devon – it’s that kind of place.
    â€˜We certainly have had our share of celebrities buying holiday homes down here,’ Janet continued, ticking them off on her fingers. ‘Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Rudyard Kipling. Edmund Crispin. Daphne du Maurier.’ She paused for breath. ‘No, hold on. Du Maurier lived in Cornwall, didn’t she? And Agatha Christie, of course.’ She caught her breath. ‘Hannah!’
    She spoke my name so sharply that I sloshed tea over the rim of my mug. Was there a spider crawling up my sleeve? A rattlesnake coiled at my ankles ready to strike?
    â€˜Sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you,’ she said, handing me a napkin. ‘I suddenly remembered that the National Trust opened Christie’s home to the public just last month, and I know what a fan you are of mysteries, so I wanted to make sure you knew.’
    â€˜Greenway House is on the top of my to-do list,’ I said with a smile. ‘Cut my teeth on Nancy Drew, then graduated to Christie. Never looked back. Visiting Greenway is a kind of pilgrimage, I suppose. Not sure about Paul, though. He’s more of a Grisham fan.’
    â€˜When you go, take the ferry,’ Janet suggested. ‘It’s a wonderful trip. Besides, Greenway gives you a discount if you travel by green transport.’
    â€˜We’ve got National Trust membership,’ I told her, patting the outside pocket of my handbag where I kept the magic National Trust get-into-just-about-anything-free card.
    â€˜No worries, then. In any case, don’t miss the gardens! The rhododendrons should be glorious this time of year.’
    Before Janet could take a long detour on to a botanical tangent, I asked, ‘Susan’s an American, isn’t she?’
    Janet nodded. ‘From your American Midwest. She did a year abroad reading medieval English at one of the red bricks. University of Warwick, I believe it was.’
    â€˜Gosh! I wonder how she got from Beowulf and Chaucer to . . . to . . .’ I thought for a moment. ‘Well, from reading about dead people to talking to them.’
    â€˜Why don’t you ask her yourself?’
    â€˜Oh, sure. What do you suggest? That I walk up to her flat and simply knock on the door?’
    Janet’s smile took on Cheshire Cat proportions. ‘What are you doing on Thursday evening?’
    â€˜Recuperating, I imagine. Paul wants to take the lower ferry to Kingswear and hike to Coleton Fishacre and back.’ Coleton Fishacre – the name, I learned, was a corruption of something bucolic in old French and had nothing to do with fish – was the holiday estate of the famous Sir Rupert D’Oyly Carte whose father was the impresario behind the operettas of Gilbert and Sullivan. Built in the Roaring Twenties, my guidebook gushed, the house was an Art Deco masterpiece redolent of the Jazz Age, set in acres of glorious gardens sweeping down to the sea.
    â€˜I’ll ring her up and see if she’s available for dinner.’
    â€˜Who? Susan Parker?’
    â€˜Of course,’ Janet said, as if inviting celebrities to dinner was an everyday occurrence. ‘Anyone else you’d like me to invite?’
    I thought for a moment. ‘Jon and Alison Hamilton, our friends from the college. You’ve met them, haven’t you?’
    Janet nodded. ‘Indeed. Dartmouth’s a small town.’ She began stacking our empty mugs on the tea tray. ‘I’ll confirm with you later, then. Will you and Paul be wanting dinner in tonight?’
    â€˜Thanks, Janet, but no. We’ve booked a table at the Royal Castle Hotel. When I walked by this morning, they had moules frites on the menu