The Grass Widow's Tale (Felse, Book 7)
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When George Felse finds himself called away to London on urgent police business, his wife Bunty is left alone feeling depressed on the eve of her 41st birthday. To shake off her black mood she goes out to the local pub where a chance meeting places her in deadly danger.
then took the keys away to search her flat, and all the time it was where she’d hidden it, in my car. Where do you suppose she got it?” “It’s stolen money. What other possibility is there? I can’t believe she was up to anything on her own. Somebody deposited this with her until it cooled enough to be distributed or moved out of the area. And before the heat was off she’d had it in her possession so long she’d come to think of it as hers—so much in clothes and clubs and parties and travel and
and not reflections of these two, God only knows! The bed was smooth, sterile and cold. She lay in the panting, unquiet darkness, and did not sleep. And in the morning, which was her forty-first birthday, there was no letter from Dominic and no telephone call from George. The early light of Saturday was grey, chill and calm, and she was utterly alone for perhaps the first time in her life. In a life which was half over, and shrinking in upon her even as she dressed to face it. * * *
the connection between these events scattered through two months of time and three hundred miles or so of country. Bunty and Luke had still quite a lot to account for. The dead girl upstairs was going to come as a shock. And the money… Bunty had almost forgotten about the money, but it was high time to retrieve it now. It was, after all, the chief evidence they had to offer for their own integrity, and the stake for which they had defied Fleet and all his private army. “Before we start,” she
haggard lines of his mouth, and a brisk spark that was burned out instantly in the intensity of his eyes. “You didn’t look as if you belonged here,” he said. “Why are you here?” Conversation came out of him without premeditation, and indeed with a famished urgency that ruled out premeditation, but in brief, jerky sentences, spurting from the muted violence that filled him. Violence was the word that first occurred to her, but she found it unacceptable on reflection; agitation might have been