Murder's Sad Tale by Joan Smith Page B

story. No need to remove Minou, who served as the sounding board for Lorraine’s worries. He envisaged his novel as a stage play as he wrote, and used a good deal of dialogue, unlike Mrs. Radcliffe. As his heroine was so often alone she had either to talk to herself or to a dumb animal. She talked to Minou. Minou was an homage to his own brief flirtation with a kitten called Petruchio, whom he had to abandon due to the depredations on his furniture, and the littering of his jackets with white hairs.
    Each wrapped up in his own thoughts, they scarcely noticed the countryside. Handsome country seats surrounded by arable land nestled between the undulating hills. The valleys were mottled white and green, where the snow was melting. Charles Lamb, Prance remembered, had referred to Hertfordshire as “hearty, homely and loving.” Wonderful how Elia always got it dead right in the simplest phrases. Despite the old saying that “He who buys a house in Hertfordshire pays two years’ purchase for the air,” Prance felt they could keep their air during the winter months. They bore west and were in Bedfordshire for lunch. Coffen was in too much of a hurry to bother with sightseeing.
    They continues north and with a stop for dinner and a change of team, continued driving through the dark to Bedford. For convenience, they chose to put up for the night at the George, a quaint inn in the High Street. It seemed business was slow in the winter, for the proprietor welcomed them like royalty, made no demur to Coffen’s request for “a bite to eat” at such a late hour, and even found a decent bottle of wine for Prance. Prance disliked sharing a bedroom with Coffen, but at least there were two beds, and Coffen didn’t snore too loudly.
    The weather continued fair when they awoke the next morning. They took breakfast in the rustic, busy, noisy public room as the one private parlor was occupied. It didn’t bother either of them that the food was greasy and ill prepared. Prance never ate much and Coffen ate whatever was placed in front of him.
     By nine o’clock they were on the High Street, Coffen carrying the suspect hat and Prance with the miniature of Russell in his pocket. They had directions from the innkeeper to Brinks Hat Emporium and headed toward it. The sun was shining, the wind brisk but not cold, the locals impressed with Prance’s many-collared great coat. The street was busy with people hastening off to work. Shopkeepers stood in their doorways, shouting along the street to each other and to passersby and nodding to the two visitors.
    “A fellow called Bunyan must own this town,” Coffen said, as he noticed how often the name appeared on signs and businesses.
    “I believe the name refers to John Bunyan,” Prance informed him. “He spent time here — in prison, if I recall, where he did much of his writing.”
    “Ah, a writer. That explains why you know him.”
    “Surely you know, the Pilgrim ’ s Progress”
    “I’ve heard of it. A holy book, isn’t it?”
    “A religious allegory. Vanity Fair, Slough of Despond — that sort of thing.”
    Coffen said what he always said when he lost track of a conversation. “Eh?”
    They were both saved further explanation by a sight of Brinks Hat Emporium. “Here we are,” Coffen said, lengthening his stride in his eagerness.
     

Chapter Thirteen
     
    Brinks Hat Emporium was the old-fashioned sort of shop with its weathered wooden shingle hanging out front, creaking in the wind. It boasted no broad bow window displaying its wares or the fancy boxes they came in. Its door wore no shining brass hardware. By placing his eye against the narrow pane Coffen could see a counter backed by a row of shelves holding half a dozen plaster heads topped by gentlemen’s hats of various sorts. A bell jangled as they opened the door and entered. From a doorway at the rear a clerk came hurrying out, struggling into his jacket as he came towards them.
    He was a tall, long-limbed man in