The next day was Saturday, and Saturdays were Peggy's vet clinic and/or football match volunteering days. Since it was an away game, Peggy's ticket selling and overall faffing about skills weren't required; and she could spend more time at the vet's. Fleckney tended to go rather empty on match days. It hadn't always been so. For years, Fleckney Kestrels hadn't had much to show for; and then Alexander Fergusson happened. Since he'd become, first, the team's forward and captain; and now an assistant coach; they'd been promoted out of the National league; and were currently making their way up the table. A new stadium was in the works; marginally competent professional players had been added to the team; and Flecknians once again had fallen in love with the sport. Dr. Carter, the vet, was one of them; and the clinic was regularly closed on Saturdays; albeit, he stayed on call for any emergencies.
Peggy scrubbed sinks, mopped and sanitised floors, and weighed food portions. There weren't any overnight care patients; so she was done with her chores unusually early. She said goodbye to Gigi, the doctor's assistant; and stepped outside into gusty sleet.
She pulled out her trusted diary, trying to ascertain what she could use this unexpected blessing of extra time on, when a vaguely familiar jingle reached her hearing. It took her several seconds to realise that it was her personal mobile. She wouldn't be able to tell the last time the phone had rang before.
The number was unknown, and suddenly Peggy felt uncharacteristic apprehension stir. She immediately told herself to get a grip and swiped to green.
"Hello?" Her response sounded croaky.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Brown. This is Mathew Ravenscroft."
Peggy forgot that she was hiding on the porch of the clinic and turned to the road. Icy droplets drummed on her diary, and she hastily dashed under the roof again.
"Ms. Brown, are you there?" The man's tone was once again exasperated.
"Yes, yes, I'm here!" Peggy exclaimed. "Sorry, I was– Sorry! May I help you?"
"I've got your number from the solicitor," Ravenscroft stated. "I still haven't received my papers, Ms. Brown."
"Yes," Peggy drew out, mildly entertained. "It's Saturday, Mr. Ravenscroft. There is no post on Saturday."
"It's been two days, Ms. Brown."
An untimely thought that the man had an exceptionally low voice, came.
"How inefficient is your inefficient Mr– Weaselbottom, or whatever his name was– your postman?"
Peggy suppressed a laugh - at his wildly naive attitude, not at the mental image of a weasel's backside that deftly popped up in her mind.
"It's Wigglehorn. Peter Barnabus Wigglehorn."
The silence on the other end of the line clearly signalled that Ravenscroft couldn't care less.
"It hasn't even been forty-eight hours since I mailed the papers," Peggy said.
"We're in the same village! It's not like the envelope needs to travel by boat!"
"When was the last time that you employed the services of the Royal Mail, Mr. Ravenscroft?" Peggy couldn't hold back her sarcasm. "Even if we had a more surefooted postman, who could also remember addresses–"
"Oh for goodness' sake!" Apparently, the man had reached his limit. "Is there a way to retrieve the package now? Or, is it forever lost in the vicinity of Mr. Peter Barnabus Wigglehorn?"
"I mailed copies of your documents, and I can bring you the originals," Peggy said nonchalantly, rocked on her heels, and had to duck back into the shelter.
YOU ARE READING
The Mysteries of Bran House || Fleckney Gothic Mystery
Chick-LitPeggy Brown, a former Carmelite nun, is faced with a series of inexplicable events taking place in Bran House, a dilapidated manor that she agreed to help to restore to its former glory. The man who has recently come into the possession of the House...
