Three silver birches bordering a sweeping lawn justified the name of The Birches Bed & Breakfast standing beside a main road leading into Sleaford. The house was plaster over brick and painted white, its grey roof tiles providing a stark contrast. The flare of red geraniums beneath the ground floor windows broke the harsh monochrome effect. All around the lawn were variegated bushes, hosting innumerable birds, all orbiting a wooden birdhouse standing erect on its pole.
The BirchesBed & Breakfast“Oh boy, it sure is pretty,” Fells drawled, “Be ready at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“What about you?” Lightbourne was surprised.
“Better we separate, honey. No hesitations, no contrasting stories. Oh, and your name’s Clarke, you got that? They’re expecting you. I’ll be round tomorrow, Tom.”
