Death Devil's Bridge Read Online Free Page A

wrapped in bacon and fried—and to finish off, the black currant ice, which had been worked in the ice-pail that afternoon by Harriet and Nettie. It was a menu of which Sarah might be proud. And yet she trembled, remembering the charred roast pork of the previous evening and the cheese soufflé that had emerged, cratered, from the gas oven.
    Disaster was doomed to be revisited on Sarah Pratt’s kitchen, however, for the bottoms of the lobster bouchées turned black, rather than brown. The hollandaise curdled, the vegetables were cooked to a pulp, and the savory was as soggy as old sponge. When the black currant ice went up and Sarah could at last lower her stout frame into her chair, she was near tears.
    â€œ ’Tis that cursed cooker,” Bess Gurton said darkly. “A tool of the devil himself.” She spoke from the opposite side of the fire, where she sat with her injured ankle propped on a stool, the cat on the floor beside her, and her wet and muddy cape spread over a chair.
    â€œWe both bin cursed,” Sarah said. “If ‘twould of bin a carriage instead of Lord Marsden’s motorcar that come round the corner, ye could’ve got out o’ the way wit’out mishap.”
    â€œAn’ pore Old Jessup,” Bess Gurton muttered, reaching down to stroke the cat. “Give me quite a start, y‘know, findin’ ’im like that, face up i’ the ditch. Stark starin’ dead, ’e was.”
    â€œBut it wa‘n’t Lord Marsden’s motorcar that kilt ’im,” Harriet reminded her, wringing out the washing-up cloth. “Ye said ‘e di’n’t bear a mark.”
    â€œYe-es,” Bess replied slowly, “but it might still of bin the motorcar. Say ‘e died o’ fright at bein’ near run down. ’Oo kilt ‘im then, I’d like to know? Young Jessup, ’oo come along not two minutes after I found ‘is old dad, ’e was askin’ that question. ‘ ’Spose me dad died o’ fright,‘ ’e sez. ‘ ’Oo kilt ‘im then?’ ”
    â€œ ‘Twere drink an’ the devil that did fer Old Jessup,” Sarah remarked. “The way ’e beat ‘is pore ol’ wife, the man had it comin’ to ’im, I say. I doubt Tilda Jessup’ll grieve overlong.”
    Bess frowned down her long nose. “All the beatin’s in the world don’t give folks the right to act like maniacs. No regard fer anybody. Mad fer speed they are. That motorcar was flyin’ faster’n a bullet!”
    Harriet drew close, her eyes large with excitement. “Faster’ n a bullet!” she marveled. “Oh, Bess, ye’r lucky to be alive!”
    Bess nodded. “Would of bin dead as mutton ’f I hadn’t flown into the ditch. But they’ll git wot’s comin’ to them,” she added, with grim satisfaction. “I laid one o’ Gammer Gurton’s best curses on that motorcar, I did. They’ll find out it don’t do to treat Bess Gurton oncivil-like. Sooner er later, they’ll go smash.”
    â€œYe better watch out, Bess Gurton,” Sarah cautioned. “Ye don’t want to go layin’ curses on the gentry’s motorcars. Curses come home to roost, same as chickens.” She heaved herself out of her chair. “Ye’r probably wantin’ to git home an’ put that wrenched ankle to soak. Pocket kin take ye i’ the pony cart, an’ come back fer the vicar. I’ll git the blood.”
    She paused, looking down at her friend, hoping to hear Bess’s reason for walking out on a dark night to acquire a pint of fresh pig’s blood. But Bess, still stroking the cat, was staring into the fire with such concentration that she didn’t notice. So Sarah went to the pantry and fetched the glass container of blood, along with a packet of cake and a small crockery pot that had until recently contained a