Malice in Miniature by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

hands.
    â€œOh, sorry. Look, I haven’t definitely accepted the appointment, you know.” He ran a hand down the back of his neck. “If you truly would rather not—”
    â€œAlan, I’ve never even seen the place. I’m certainly not going to say I won’t go just because I’m scared stiff of the whole idea. And anyway, I don’t want you to base your decision on my—my cowardice. You go ahead and go, and decide whether it’s something you want to get into. Maybe next weekend I can visit There must be an inn or something within spitting distance.”
    He grinned. “Yes, I’m sure we can find suitable accommodation somewhere, and a visit would be an excellent idea. I think you’ll like the house when you see it. But you do understand that I don’t require self-immolation from my bride. If you don’t want to live there, I shan’t take the post, and that’s flat.”
    â€œYes, well, we’ll see then.” But I went to bed determined not to let my feelings show again. I was not about to make his career decisions for him, and this was an important step. Anyway, it was a temporary position, and surely I could stand anything for a few months.
    There was little fuss about Alan’s departure. His years as a widower had taught him to fend for himself, so he packed neatly and methodically, arranged matters at the office to run without him for a little while, and had Police Constable Carter call for him very early Wednesday morning.
    I had, of course, ignored his injunction not to see him off, but by the time I struggled out of bed and stumbled downstairs he had brewed his own coffee, boiled an egg, and made toast. I sat at the kitchen table feeling useless. Once we had commented that it looked like turning into a fine day for the run to Hampshire, there seemed little to say. Alan’s mind was plainly on the days ahead, and it was something of a relief when he gathered up his luggage, gave me an absentminded kiss, and was gone.
    â€œHe didn’t have to leave so early,” I said resentfully to Samantha, who sat in the kitchen, her blue Siamese eyes following my every move. “It’s only sixty miles or so. Well, maybe eighty, the way your stupid English roads run. And there’s no point in thinking, miss, that just because I’m up you’re going to get an early breakfast. I’m headed back to bed.”
    I closed the bedroom door to keep out the cats, who persist in thinking that the first sign of human activity, at no matter what hour of the morning, means food. It was only six, and pitch dark, and I had no intention of doing anything useful for hours.
    But I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t just the steady stream of high-pitched complaint from Sam, joined now and then by deeper wails from Emmy, my big British Blue, who also beat a tattoo on the door with well-practiced front paws. I’m used to ignoring feline impatience, and earplugs are a great boon. No, it was my own restlessness that kept me awake and tossing until the stars began to lose their brilliance and the eastern sky to take on a pearly luminescence. The cats had long since given up and gone back to sleep themselves, but I lay amidst rumpled bedclothes and worried.
    Part of me hoped that Alan would find Bramshill unattractive, and would come home determined not to accept the job. He didn’t, after all, enjoy administration all that much. He looked back nostalgically to the days when he was, as he put it, a real policeman, actively involved in solving crimes. This job would be pure administration, with not a crime in sight.
    It would also, the other part of me argued, be a real plum, the capstone to a distinguished career, Alan’s crowning achievement. He might even be knighted; it was not an unknown honor for absolutely brilliant policemen, and it would be well-deserved.
    Good grief! Was I ready to be Lady Something-or-other? I didn’t even