Chapter Nineteen
RAFFERTY WAS NERVOUS. It was the night of Llewellyn and Maureen’s dinner party. At least, this time, he could attend the party as himself, in his own clothes, his own name and with his own accent. Please God, he thought, tonight I won’t be involved in murder.
He readjusted his burdens of wine and flowers, and was reaching out his finger to press the doorbell. But before he could do so the door was yanked open.
He had expected Llewellyn to answer the door—he was usually punctilious in fulfilling the social duties of a host. But tonight, instead of Llewellyn, he was greeted by an elfin, dark-haired girl in bare feet.
‘Oh. You must be ‘The Inspector’, as Dawdlin’ calls you. For some reason he always seems to say it in capitals. I’m Abra.’ She eyed the bandage wrapped roun
