'Well, you've been all the talk of the village these past few weeks, I'd best warn you. Mr. Ridley let out that you were an artist, and from London, so everyone's fair curious. If you don't have a few disreputable, bohemian friends to invite down for weekends, you'd best get some, else the whole village will be disappointed.'
I laughed. 'I'm afraid they'll find me very boring. And I don't have any bohemian friends."
'Not even a disreputable relative?'
'They all moved to New Zealand. My parents are out there now, actually, on holiday, so the only person likely to visit me in the near future is my brother,' I confided. 'And he's a vicar.'
'Ah. Well.' He accepted the information graciously, tilting his head to one side. 'What do you think of my garden?'
'Very nice,' I said honestly. 'This is your land, then?'
'No.' He shook his head. 'It belongs to a friend of mine. I just do this as a favor to him. There's only room for a few flowers, nothing much.'
'And brambles,' I added, remembering his hands.
'Aye.' He grinned ruefully. 'And brambles. Goes along with the gardening, that does.'
I reached out a hand to touch the stone wall, liking the feel of the sun-warmed roughness beneath my fingers.
'What was this place?' I asked him.
'Used to be a dovecote, they tell me, for keeping pigeons. Not much left of it, now.'
'Is it very old?'
'As old as the house, I believe. Maybe older.'
'The people who lived here were farmers, then, originally?'
'Tenant farmers, maybe.' He shrugged. 'The land you're standing on is manor land, and always has been to my knowledge.'
'I've an interest in old houses,' I confessed, still caressing the weathered stone with an absent hand, 'especially this one. I'd love to learn more about its history.'
'Ah,' he said, smiting, 'you're talking to the wrong person, then. I've not been here more than five years, myself. Vivien's the one you should ask.'
'Vivien?'
'Aye.' His eyes softened. 'Vivien Wells, at the Red Lion. A regular walking encyclopedia, she is. If she doesn't know it, it's not worth knowing.'
I wasn't really listening, because as I'd raised my head my attention had been captured by a solitary horse and rider who had appeared just over Iain Sumner's shoulder, in the distance. They were standing in the shadow of an oak, watching us. The horse was a large, powerful gray, and the rider was a man, dressed in dark clothes, but they were too far away for me to see them clearly.
Iain Sumner narrowed his eyes. 'Is something wrong?'
'What?' I brought my gaze back to him guiltily. 'Sorry. No, I was just looking at that man.'
'What man?'
That man on the horse, behind you,' I said, pointing.
He turned to look, but the shadow under the oak was empty.
I shook my head. 'He's gone now. A big man, on a gray horse.'
'Might have been Geoff,' Iain said slowly. 'That's manor land. Though I don't know that he has any grays in his stable.'
'It's not important,' I told him.
'Perhaps not.' He smiled. 'Well, I'd best leave you in peace. I just came back to get my spade.'
He retrieved the forgotten tool from its resting place in the corner of the wall and, wishing me a good evening, pulled his cap down over his eyes and strode off toward the road, whistling.
After a final look round, I went back into the house where, unable to recapture my previous energy, I ignored my earlier resolution and settled myself in the study. After unpacking nearly two boxes of books, I came across a dog-eared copy of Wilkie Collins's The Moonstone, and it was well past midnight when I finally dragged myself upstairs, bathed, and fell asleep exhausted, with the shadow of the poplar tree lying like a guardian across my bed.
Three
It wasn't difficult to locate Vivien Wells the next afternoon, in the bar of the Red Lion pub. This was the same pub where Tommy and I had stopped to ask directions all those years ago, its Tudor beams and plaster looking slightly cleaner than I remembered beneath a new thatched roof. Inside, the main bar was low-ceilinged and intimate, a little threadbare, perhaps, but comfortable, the old floor covered with a worn carpet that deadened the sound of conversation.
Apart from a small group of old men clustered around a corner table, I was the only other customer enjoying the pub's congenial atmosphere at that hour of the day. And of the two people keeping bar, only one was a woman.
Vivien Wells was tall and healthy-looking, close to my own age, with long honey-colored hair, honest blue eyes, and a quick dimpled smile. I liked her on sight.
She slid a gin and tonic across the bar to me and leaned her elbows on the scarred wood, tilting her head appraisingly.
'Iain said you were pretty,' she remarked without malice, and I shifted awkwardly on my stool.
'He said you were an encyclopedia,' I offered. £ She laughed in genuine amusement. 'Praise indeed. And how are you enjoying Greywethers?'
I quirked an eyebrow. 'I'm sorry?'
'Your house,' she elaborated. 'That's its name.'
'I thought it was called Braeside. That was the name on the deed, surely?'
'Eddie's invention, that,' she told me. 'The last owner. He thought it sounded grand, despite the obvious fact that we haven't a brae round here for miles. No, it was just plain Greywethers when I was growing up, and that's what everyone still calls it'