Raisins and almonds - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

Raisins and Almonds 10
looking more avian by the moment. ‘Bl…very lucky I didn’t
eat any myself. Some ant poison or something must have got
into the feed.’
Dot debated whether to tell him that Mr. Lane was thinking
of suing him for libel, or slander, but decided that it was not
her argument and took her leave politely of both Mr. Gunn
and the parrot.
‘Polly wants…’ it temporized as she shut the door.
‘Make up your bloody mind,’ said Mr. Gunn, irritated.
By the time Dot reached Mrs. Johnson’s teashop she was ready
for a nice cuppa and a sit down. She had drawn blanks in all the
other businesses on this side of the market. Fred Marryat had
shouted over the thud of his press that he hadn’t seen anyone with
a book, and had offered her a special deal on personal cards, no
rubbish, printed in the most elegant type and in the best style.
Dot knew that visiting cards have to be engraved, not printed,
and refused politely. Anthony Martin the chiropodist noticed
only feet, though he was an encyclopedia of information on his
special subject.
‘People all walk differently,’ he told Dot, who had sat down
in his chair. His shop was hung with photographs of feet and
posters which enjoined the reader to wear properly fitted shoes.
An articulated skeletal foot occupied the counter. ‘That’s why
second-hand shoes are always likely to pinch. You wear your
shoe into the shape of your foot. Now you,’ he looked at Dot’s
stockinged feet, ‘you walk like you’re in a hurry, lots to do, must
get on. You wear your shoes on the ball of the foot. Nice straight
wear though, not pigeon-toed or crooked. No bunions. Last you
a lifetime, those feet. Got a good grip on the earth.’
Dot was pleased and bought a tin of foot powder, guaranteed
to soothe and refresh.
Mrs. Johnson was blonde, pretty and slightly harried.
‘I’ll do my best to help,’ she declared. ‘Imagine, arresting
Miss Lee for murdering someone; it’s absurd. All the traders
think so. Mr. Johnson nearly got himself arrested, calling the
police a gang of Bolsheviks. Of course, he is hot tempered,’ Mrs.