Into Death’s Arms by Jack Cartwright EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Jack Cartwright
- Language: English
- Genre: Traditional Detective Mysteries
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 4.7 MB
- Price: Free
The curtains had been opened and the morning was fine and bright with the
type of sky that fools a woman into leaving the house ill-prepared for the
waiting chill. From the warmth of her bed, Freya pulled herself up to a
seated position, the view through the window as new as the ruffled sheets
on the other side of the bed.
The village church dominated the view, with
the beck running from left to right and the old, red phone box that some
kind soul had converted into a book exchange. Before all of that was a
small village green with a bench which, even in the short time she had
owned the house, Freya had noted was the meeting spot for two lovers, who
sat closer than two friends might, but refrained from any obvious public
displays of affection.
As if on cue, the landing floorboard creaked and with a bare,
outstretched foot, he toed the door open enough to edge through with a tray,
which he laid down beside her.
“You might have dressed,” she told him, as he strutted around to his side
of the bed in nothing but his briefs. “What if a neighbour sees you?”
“So what if they do?” he replied, carefully lying down beside her with
the tray between them. “Or are you afraid that I’ll be tempted by a better
offer?”
“A better offer? Do you mean from the lady with the two spaniels?”
“What lady?” he asked, and made a comical show of scampering over to
lean on the window ledge to peer down at the road. “What time does she
come past?”
Freya chose not to pursue the conversation. Instead, she took a moment
to savour the new addition to her view and then poured a coffee from the
cafetière when he had sloped back to bed.
There were two cups, but she only poured one, much to his obvious
amusement. While he poured his own coffee, adding in a lump of demerara
sugar and a splash of milk, she took a slice of toast from the rack.
“Aren’t you going to butter it?” he asked, to which she shook her head.
“No.”
“Dry toast?”
“Yep,” she said, taking a second polite bite.
“That’s just wrong,” he said and began buttering himself a triangle of
toast of his own. He watched as she took the final bite, and then wiped her
hand on one of the little napkins he had added to the tray. “Blimey. You
worked up an appetite.”
“Don’t be so vulgar, Ben,” she told him. “Besides, we’re not eating
lunch until twelve-thirty. I need something to keep me going.”
“Yep, you’ll need all the energy you can get.”
“Ben,” she snapped, and he laughed to himself.
“What are you cooking anyway?” he asked. “What culinary delights
have you in store for me? Something French, I suppose?”
“What makes you think I’m going to cook you dinner?”
“Because you always cook dinner, Freya,” he told her. “Because for
some reason, you think that beans on toast cannot be classed as a nutritious
meal.”
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