Chapter 12
The B&B in Clacton-on-Sea was quaint. A brick detached home five blocks back from the ocean, it featured a small front garden in which the owner’s roses were making a valiant attempt at a third bloom as well as hydrangeas whose heads had faded from the bright colours of summer into a pleasing pale pink. Jenna found a parking space just in front of the establishment. The drive down on the M 25 had been largely uneventful, and by the time she had to navigate the narrower streets of the town the detective was feeling more comfortable about driving on the left. Still, when she turned off the ignition and pulled up the parking brake, she took a deep breath and let her underlying stress flow out of her body in a long exhale. It was only ten in the morning, but with her stress-induced adrenaline high fading rapidly now that they had reached their destination, Jenna felt exhausted. Although Larry had nodded off once or twice during the drive down to Essex from Heathrow, Jenna could tell from his face and eyes that he’d reached his limit. She might have to help him out of the car and give him a shoulder to lean on until he regained his equilibrium. Check in time at the B&B was four in the afternoon. She anticipated that their hosts would only just be finishing the breakfast service, and wouldn’t particularly welcome early arrivals, but she decided to ring the doorbell and see what sort of reception they got. Jenna was right. Several of the B&B’s guests could be seen in the dining room when Jean Talbot opened the door. “Yes,” she said. “Jenna Lawson and Larry Potter,” said Jenna. “We’re hours early, but I was hoping there might be a place where we can leave our luggage and relax a bit. The flight wasn’t that long, but we’re both feeling very tired.” “You’re in luck,” said Talbot. “We didn’t have any guests in your room last night, and it’s ready for you. Have a seat in the front room for a few minutes while we get breakfast finished off, and I’ll get you settled.” “You’re wonderful,” said Jenna. Mrs. Talbot directed Larry and Jenna to the left after they came through the front door. “Find a chair that’s comfy. I’ll be with you in a tic,” she said. Fifteen minutes later, she lead them down the hall and around a corner, stopping in front of a natural oak door bearing a brass sign reading Garden Suite. Talbot opened the door and motioned them into the room. It was bright and spacious, with leaded windows and a Dutch door looking out on a small garden. There was a four-poster queen bed, oak desk, oak dresser and oriental carpet on the hardwood floor, and framed prints depicting riders taking part in a fox hunt on the walls. A brick fireplace – which Mrs. Talbot said had been converted to gas – was on the wall facing the bed. There was a vase of fresh-cut flowers on the mantle, which filled the room with a delicate fragrance. The space, like the front room of the house, was welcoming and cozy. “The bathroom’s through here,” said Mrs. Talbot, pointing to a door that was slightly ajar. “There’s a closet and hangers in there as well. Breakfast is at nine. You’ve seen where. There’s bottled water in the fridge and a pot of coffee in the kitchen if you want it – just past the dining room. There’s tea as well, and a kettle. Help yourself. Your car is fine on the street, and we’re quite safe. My husband, Fred, will give you a hand with your bags, and then I expect that you’ll want to settle in.” Mrs. Talbot gave Jenna the key. Jenna told Larry to rest, and followed her host back down the hall to the front door where Fred was waiting for her. When they got back to Jenna’s room, Larry was asleep in a chair. The Daily Mirror that he’d carried with him from the plane to the car to the B&B was on the table beside him. Larry woke as Fred carried their cases into the room. “Luggage racks in the closet,” he said. “Call if you need anything.” After Fred had left the room and closed the door, Jenna hung the do not disturb sign on the outer doorknob, and suggested to Larry that they both try to get a couple of hours sleep before attempting anything else.
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AuthorT. Lawrence Davis grew up in Quebec and spent many summers as a teenager working as a groom at racetracks and on his mother’s Thoroughbred horse farm. He ran his mother’s farm for several years before becoming a journalist and, for a time, managing editor of Canadian Thoroughbred magazine. ArchivesCategories |