SIX
“WELL?” SARAH ASKED the next morning as I staggered into the small room on the first floor that the pub owner said would serve as our private dining room.
“I’m still alive, my head is still attached to my body, and no other evil elderly people tried to beat the crap out of me after I went to bed,” I said, slumping gratefully into a chair.
“Did you talk to the police yet?”
“Just got off the phone with them. Good morning, Darla. Yes, thank you, coffee and toast. And perhaps an egg, and that delicious-looking marmalade. Is there any bacon? Oh, good. I’ll have some bacon, too. And a grapefruit, if you have one.”
The barmaid/waitress who fed us breakfast and dinner gave me a curious look, but toddled off to bring me the requested foodstuffs.
“And?” Sarah asked around a mouthful of egg
