For Death Comes Softly Read Online Free

least halfway back to normal.
    I climbed a little uncertainly out of bed and as soon as I started to move around the room Mrs C, looking grim and sounding kind, arrived clutching a cup of tea. She fussed around me in the already familiar motherly fashion.
    â€˜Come down to the kitchen when you’m ready and I’ll have a nice breakfast waiting for you, dear,’ she said.
    I saw that the clothes which I had been wearing on my ill-fated trip to the Pencil had been washed, dried and ironed, and were neatly folded on a chair by the bed. After a much needed bath and hair-wash, I put them on, wandered downstairs, and was guided to the kitchen by the sweetly wafting aroma of fresh coffee and frying bacon.
    Mrs Cotley greeted me with a tight smile. I had already realised that her nature matched the warmth of her voice. If it contained any of the paradoxical severity of her appearance then this was probably reserved to add weight to the uncompromising efficiency with which she patently ran this house and all who resided in it.
    I was swiftly provided with a huge fried breakfast followed, in the West Country fashion, by slices of rich fruit cake.
    â€˜Mr Robin’s off at the farm,’ she informed me. ‘He’ll be back just after one for ‘is dinner and ’e’s going to be that pleased you’re up and about.’
    I glanced at my watch, which thankfully appeared to have survived its thorough drenching on the Pencil. It was already nearly noon. The breakfast had been delicious, an orgy of cholesterol, and my appetite – nearly always healthy, I was a great believer in comfort food – seemed even more vociferous than usual. Nonetheless, if I was also expected to have dinner just after one I might be struggling.
    Mrs Cotley, clutching a big mug of tea, came and sat at the kitchen table to watch me finish off the fruit cake.
    â€˜He’s been worried sick about ’ee I don’t mind telling ’ee,’ she confided in an almost conspiratorial fashion, as if informing me of something very important and confidential. ‘You know that’s ’is bedroom you’re in, don’t ’ee? Mr Robin said you must ’ave the best room in house, and he moved isself into one of the guest rooms.’
    I raised an eyebrow and just stopped myself remarking that Mr Robin was quite welcome to share the best bedroom with me, but I suspected that Mrs C would not approve of such flippant remarks about the man she clearly hero-worshipped.
    I spent a fascinating hour or so checking out the Davey home, which I knew to be called Highpoint House, having admired the splendid Georgian building from the outside frequently during my first few days on the island. It’s name had been appropriately bestowed. The house dominated the island from a fine vantage point at the edge of the village, but it nestled into the top of a gully, and, unlike my lighthouse, was considerably sheltered from the high winds Abri was famous for. The grand old stairway and the hall boasted a selection of Davey ancestral portraits. There were more in the drawing room where Mrs Cotley bade me sit by a blazing fire.
    She fussed over me nonstop – as she had probably been told to do, I thought – not surprising when I finally began to learn the truth about the incident that had nearly killed me.
    It was Robin Davey who did his best to explain. Upon returning to the house he came straight into the drawing room and sat down opposite me.
    â€˜I’m just so glad you’re up and about,’ he said, and smiled that smile again.
    â€˜Thank you,’ I responded. And waited. He knew exactly what I was waiting for.
    â€˜I expect you want to know what happened?’
    I merely nodded.
    â€˜Yes, well, I won’t beat around the bush,’ he said. ‘Jason Tucker suffers from epilepsy. Acutely so, and a very extreme form. He appears to be perfectly normal ninety-nine per cent of the time, but when