Malice in Miniature by Jeanne M. Dams Page B

know if an American could be! It certainly didn’t sound very democratic, and could I ever learn to respond when someone addressed me that way, or would I look around to see who they were talking to?
    That thought finally got me out of bed. If I had nothing better to do than worry about my hypothetical reaction to a hypothetical title, it was time I found something.
    Dawn was well past when I sat down at the breakfast table with my third cup of coffee. I had fed the cats and myself (in that order), tidied up the kitchen, and was now wondering what to do for the rest of the day. It was not one of my days at the Cathedral Bookshop. The house was clean. The plumbers weren’t due to show up to make estimates on the remaining work until next week—if they came then. Two previous appointments had been canceled, English plumbers being, unfortunately, not much different from the American variety.
    I was free, in fact. I could do anything I wanted. I could take the train up to London and do some shopping, or call my friends the Andersons, Americans who have lived for years in a lovely Georgian house in Belgravia. They would probably be available for lunch or tea or the theater or something. Or there were always the museums. I love museums, and London has dozens and dozens of them, including many small ones I’ve longed to see but somehow never had time to visit.
    Or, the thought insinuated itself between sips of coffee, there was always the museum on my very doorstep, or not far from it. I’d said I wanted to buy a dollhouse; why not seize the day? I was still far from satisfied about the Bob Finch incident; if the opportunity arose for a few leading questions . . .
    And I certainly needed something to take my mind off Alan and Bramshill.
    After a look at the bus schedules, and some stern conversation with myself, I decided to drive to Brocklesby Hall. My lack of mobility, with a perfectly good car at my disposal, was nothing short of ridiculous. I knew the way, it wasn’t far, the weather was gorgeous, and no woman of sound mind and body who’d been driving for nearly fifty years had any business being intimidated by little things like roundabouts and the wrong side of the road.
    Besides
, whispered a little voice at the back of my mind, which I tried to ignore,
if you have the car you can get away quickly
.
    Nonsense, of course. But there
was
something about that house . . .
    I put on an entirely proper hat, a sedate blue felt with just one restrained feather, and arrived on the dot of ten o’clock. I had to wait to be admitted. Two school groups, just arrived, were being unloaded from buses, along with harried teachers and helpers. Crowds of children milled around the front door, wriggling and chattering like a cageful of monkeys. I hoped there were enough guides to deal with them today; I cringed at the thought of what unsupervised children could do to the delicate displays.
    But the museum had evidently been forewarned. When I finally got inside, the children had been organized into several small groups, each in the charge of one adult from the school and one neatly blue-blazered guide. They were listening quietly while a fiftyish woman in tweeds explained procedures and rules. I stood listening and admiring. She was a real pro. Without once raising her pleasant voice or uttering threats, she made it clear that this was going to be an interesting experience, but also that any child who made a nuisance of itself in any way would deeply regret it. The groups then dispersed in different directions, still quiet and orderly.
    â€œRemarkable,” I said to the young woman selling tickets, someone I hadn’t seen before. “They were acting like fugitives from a zoo, outside.”
    â€œYes, Mrs. Butler is brilliant with the children.”
    I frowned. “I was here a week or so ago and didn’t meet her. Does she just work part-time?”
    â€œOh, no, she’s the new director of