Death of a Poison Pen

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Jenny Ogilvie was curled up on a sofa in her friend Priscilla Halburton-Smythe’s London flat. They had been talking for most of the evening. Jenny was secretly jealous of Priscilla’s cool blonde looks. Although an attractive girl herself with her mop of black curls and rosy cheeks, she longed to look as stylish and composed as her friend.

A desire to rattle her friend’s calm prompted her to say, “You’ve talked an awful lot about this village policeman, Hamish Macbeth. I mean, you’ve barely mentioned your fiancé. Come on. What gives? I think you’re still in love with this copper.”

A faint tide of pink rose up Priscilla’s face. “I was engaged to him once and we shared a lot of adventures. But that’s all. What about your love life? You’ve been letting me do all the talking.”

“Oh, you know me. I like to shop around,” said Jenny. “I’m not prepared to settle down yet.”

“What happened to Giles? You did seem frightfully keen on him.”

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