The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much of an idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brothers’ Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then it went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and I am at the editor for the last reading.

I have high hopes of publishing it mid 2026. It even has a cover.

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers. Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier. I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village. I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed. In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passenger’s attention. Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back. He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury. He looked at her ticket then nodded dismissively, and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway. I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see there was something about her. It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile. I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone. Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model. I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris. The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on. I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me. I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin. My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast. With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination. It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight. It would give me enough time to sample the local fare, and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch. After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward. I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and let the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked, and what part I played in it. And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out. What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land. There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would need to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later a keen military mind. If nothing else I could ride a horse, and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no-one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared. I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue and I had an aptitude for programming. I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which although I hated the subject, I excelled in. Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse. There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life. My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks. It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer simply because of who I was. In that time I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist, and through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues. I knew that in building a relationship compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing. There was a certain expectation I had to fulfill, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented. The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged. Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian. He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties. He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns. He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa. From that moment, my obscurity disappeared. It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses. He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door. There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa? For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her when she had a certain air of unpredictability. That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future. She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her. It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move. The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red. It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific. In fact, her sublime beauty was the one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact her hair was short, rather than long, and jet black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid. I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes, before retracing my steps to the front of the ship and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water. It was almost mesmerizing. There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa, and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned. The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close me without my realizing it. How did she do that? I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping. I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck. There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her particularly around the eyes, and of her hair which was jet black. An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtle, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory. The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent, and fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate. Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes. My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No. Not yet.” I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak. And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanor as a little warmth reached her eyes. “So that’s a maybe. Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away. Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped she turned to face me again. She did not move closer.

I realized then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket. “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe. By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease. “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side then the other, looking intently at me. “You seem to be familiar. Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings. If she was, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me. Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.” I also didn’t mention the fact she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realized who I was. “Yes, I remember now. You made the front cover of the Economist. You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course. She was not the first who had recognized me from that cover. It had raised my profile considerably, but not the Sternhaven’s. That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family. I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.” Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky. It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.” She smiled again. “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts. I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me. It had been Sebastian on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money. He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right. I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around. “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head. Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit. “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised, or amused. “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment. “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave. Instead she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot. To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true. Aside from the fact this excursion was probably a bad idea. And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignoring their natural instinct. I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing. I was supposed to be traveling with my prospective bride. I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?” Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment then came back to me. She seemed surprised I might be traveling with someone.

“No. She is back in England, and the wedding is off. So is the relationship. She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her? I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge. No walking the plank today. She moved towards it and sat down. She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair. Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds if she used this approach with anyone else. I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us. After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message. It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.” She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her. “But it is done, and I moved on. Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry. Sometimes I ask personal questions without realizing what I’m doing. It is none of my business.” She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood, and held out her hand. Should I take it and be drawn into her web? I thought of Sebastian. What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet. “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

newdevilcvr6

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 44

Back on the alien vessel

…

I was surprised the alien captain was not getting impatient with the way this matter was dragging on.

If this was back on earth and we were dealing with an alien incursion, there would be a lot of shooting by short-tempered small-minded fools who only knew one way of dealing with seemingly insurmountable problems.

In that regard, these aliens were better than us, and I had to wonder if they were dealing with this problem in a manner we would understand, and if that was the case, what would have happened if my ship had not made a timely, or untimely, arrival.

It also begged the question of how either of us could move forward from this point, because the only logical outcome was to hand back the criminals.

I wonder what Nancy was thinking, the fate of diplomatic relations, if they were possible after this, in her hands.

There was also a question of what the Russian captain had been promised in return for trying to save them. It would have to be significant for him to put his vessel and its crew on the line.

I looked at the Russian Captain, not looking very comfortable, on the end of a weapon he clearly knew could kill him, or worse.

“What did they promise you?”

His mouth moved, an indication to me he was going to say they didn’t, which to me meant that it was not something he wanted to talk about in front of the Aliens.

The alien answered for him. “Technology, perhaps our secret weapons, the criminals are all people who have worked with or worked on some of our most secret projects.”

Which begged the question, what did they do wrong that they were labelled criminals.

Perhaps the alien could read my mind because he added, “and who had used that technology illegally, or tried to sell it to our enemies.”

So, a new piece of information; the alien has enemies. It raised another question, what if we had met their enemies first?

“Sir.” Number one had come back online, hopefully from the location if the so-called criminals.

“What the situation?”

“I’ve spoken to a chap named Midava, who seems to be the spokesperson for a group of seven I can see. Firstly, they are different from the captain of the vessel you are currently on. He tells me, and several of his colleagues are from a different world, as are others, who were recruited to work on advanced technology. It seems their home planets are far more advanced than the captains.”

“OK. Just hold it there for a minute.” I looked over at the Captain. His expression hadn’t changed, but he had been listening intently.

“Would you like to explain your planets existence among what it seems to me, a galaxy of other civilisations.”

“We are just part of a much larger galaxy, yes, though I would question our level of development in their eyes “

“So, these so-called criminals are from different worlds?”

“We do not discriminate, as some others do.”

There was no acrimony or anger in his tone. He was relating information, and answers to my questions, from their perspective. I realized that I could not judge these people in the same terms as I would one of my own people, and that was going to be the hardest problem we were going to have in dealing big with new people

Quite simply, they were not us.

And, equally, we had no right to judge them according to our rules.

“Sir.” Number one again.

“Yes?”

“Midava tells me they are being held against their will simply because they want to go home. Apparently, their hosts do not want their homelands to know their level of technology improvement. I think you can understand the implication.”

I could. “Thank you, number one.”

“It’s all a matter of perspective,” the alien captain said. “Other worlds, like other countries on your planet, group together in what you call blocs. They are more technologically advanced, so they deigned to ignore us, and it has taken a long time for us to become as advanced. Those people came to us and said they wanted to help us, without the knowledge of their leaders, because it was unjust. We willingly accepted it and for years the association was mutually beneficial, they got the recognition they would not get on their homeworlds, and we got the technology. This ship is one of the benefits, along with its weapons. When they wanted to go home, their work, they said, was done, and they wanted to see their families, the high council decided against it, for security reasons, and when they tried to escape, they were detained. You would call it political expediency.”

“But in an enlightened and just society such as yours, don’t you think that is wrong to deny them. I suspect as you might give a bit more thought to the matter, that telling their homeworlds what they’d done would most like condemn them to death, so I’m sure telling anyone anything about their time with you was the last thing on their minds. It’s food for thought. However, since is not my objective to interfere in your sovereign right to dispense justice in accordance with your laws, I will have the prisoners returned to you.”

“You can’t do that,” the Russian captain said.

“I can, and you will. There are far larger implications in play and if necessary, I will enforce our laws upon you, which will, if the Captain desires, hand you over as well. I suggest, to avoid trouble you give the necessary orders to your crew forthwith.”

To the alien captain, “I expected as a courtesy that you, myself, and the leader of these so-called criminals sit down and have a discussion about their options.”

“I will need to deal with the high council.”

“Then do so now, before we make any arrangements. And release my fellow captain. Using force will not give what you want, and sets a bad precedent if you seek to have any sort of relationship with us.”

A nod from the alien captain to his subordinate, and she let him go, and it was hard to tell if she was upset or not.

Both then disappeared, leaving us alone on an empty bridge, if that was what it was.

“You do realize what will happen to them when he gets them back,” the Russian captain said.

“That’s not our problem. If our roles were reversed, would you want them to weigh in on our affairs?”

“That’s not the point “

“That is the point. Were not here to tell others what to do but to hopefully forge new relations with people who have the means to help us find a place in a new galaxy. We’re here to learn and share if that’s what it takes.”

“And if they are the devil instead?”

“I’m sure you will be very well placed to discern whether they are or not, based on your own actions.”

He didn’t seem annoyed at the inference, which to me showed a marked disregard for anyone but themselves, underlying the people who had put him aboard his ship and what their purpose in getting out into the galaxy first was.

The cold war back on earth had just moved out in the galaxy, and if not now, they would eventually be a threat, not only to ourselves but anyone they came across in their travels.

“You’re making a mistake, once they get what they want they will dispense with us.”

It was a possibility, but the problem for the alien people was, we were here, now, and if he did destroy us, they had to know we knew about them and more of our ships would arrive in time, and they would be hostile, especially if we didn’t report back. And if they had been observing life on earth they’d know we would seek retribution

Perhaps that was the reason why he didn’t destroy us in the first instance.

“How long do you think they will be?” Nancy had found her voice, finally.

I’d almost forgotten she was there.

“How long do you think it would take to talk to a high council? If it’s anything like back home, it could take forever. Any ideas on how, if you get the chance, you’re going to approach setting up diplomatic relations?”

“None whatsoever, sir.”

“Good, a clean slate. Start thinking about it.”

She looked around. “You’d think there’d be a chair to at least sit down.”

A second later three chairs appeared.

“You only had to ask!”

…

A to Z – April – 2026 – A

A is for – A Ghost from the past

…

Sometimes, when you are in the moment, you don’t get to see what comes out of left field.

First, the inheritance.

A castle, yes, a real castle with a moat and a drawbridge. Towers at each corner and a thousand acres of adjoining lands

Second, the responsibility.

Not to hand it over to the blood-sucking developers who wanted to turn the property into a golf course and millionaire condos.

Third, the fact that my life was so consumed with work, and then more work.

I didn’t know just how hard it was to run an estate such as the castle and its surroundings. I had no idea how my grandmother had done it or why she had picked me for the job.

My brother would have made a better fist of it, but he was too busy chasing the girl of his dreams in Bermuda. Now, he had his inheritance.

He felt sorry for me after briefly lamenting that our grandmother hadn’t left him the place.

Good thing, too. He would have sold it out from under us and blown away any chance of regaining the affinity we were supposed to have with the land we had inhabited since William the Conqueror.

Our names were in the Doomsday Book.

This morning was like any other morning: busy, and I was out of my depth. The help I had, those who had last helped grandmother, had lost their patience with the new Master, and several had given their notice.

I was trying to organise replacements with a hiring company in London, and it looked like I would have to go down

That’s when Broadhurst, the butler, whom my grandmother specifically asked to keep on, came in, after lightly rapping on the door to the study, which was supposed to be my refuge.

“What is it that can’t wait?” I asked in a slightly testy tone. It was not his fault I was losing it, but there was a limit, and I’d reached it.

“There’s a lady to see you, Miss Emily Wentworth.”

“Who is she?”

“I believe an old friend of your grandmother’s who hadn’t seen her for years came to visit.”

“You did tell me she died recently?”

“Not part of my remit, sir,” with the most inscrutable expression I’d ever seen. He could be covered in blood, a knife in each hand, and still look that inscrutable.

I glared at him. Nothing, apparently, was part of his remit.

“Where is she?’

“In the drawing room, sir.”

“Tea for two?”

“Already in hand, sir.”

He could make the word sir sound like an insult, and had it not been for my grandmother’s insistence that he stay on, I would have long since tossed him to the wolves.

I looked over towards Mary, my late grandmother’s personal assistant, a woman who was as impossible to work with as she was a walking encyclopaedia of my grandmother’s reign as mistress.

“You know an Emily Wentworth?”

“No, sir. Not in the ten years I was working with her.”

“Who do you think she is?”

“Someone from before my time. She knew a lot of different people. Hundreds of Christmas cards. Christmas was an event, sir.”

“Thank you, Mary. We’ll pick this up later.”

…

I went down the passage and left towards the drawing room, my favourite room in the building. It was where breakfast was served, where the book collection, dating back well over two hundred years, existed.

When I was feeling overwhelmed, I just found a first edition of one of my favourite authors, the same into the luxurious leather lounge chairs, and read.

I opened the double doors to the room and went in. The sun was out, and the gardens were looking immaculate.

An old lady, older than my grandmother, stood by the window looking out. She turned as I came into the room.

“Young David, I believe?”

“Miss Wentworth. You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Oh, I’m an old friend, very old, and hadn’t realised she had recently passed. I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. What can I do for you?”

“Your grandmother once said that I’d I ever needed a place to stay. I would be very welcome to stay here with her. It seems that might be difficult now that she is no longer here.”

“Slightly. She did not mention you in any of the papers she left for me.” They had mentioned about a hundred others, some I was familiar with, others she warned me about, and the rest were worth half a line or two.

At least there were no scheming relatives I had to challenge to a duel.

Yet.

She rummaged around in her voluminous handbag and pulled out a yellowed, crumpled envelope and handed it to me. “This might explain the circumstances.”

I took it. It had a furious aroma of mildew and mothballs. I took out the single folded sheet and read,

My dear Emily,

It was with interest and alarm that I read of your predicament, first in the newspaper and then in your letter.

I always suspected that Adolf was one of those men.
You poor thing. Of course, you may come and stay for as long as it takes to regain your sanity.

I am looking forward to your imminent arrival.

Love, Matilda

It was my grandmother’s writing. But it was dated 13th December 1957, some 68 years ago. The woman before me had to be approaching a hundred, but hardly looked a day over seventy.

“You do realise this invitation was written 69l8 years ago.”

“I was in America. It took a long time to get here.”

I was waiting for her to tell me she had walked, but no. She chose to leave the conversation right there.

I shrugged.

“Have you been here before?”

“On the occasion of her wedding to your grandfather. Did she tell you about me?”

“She did not.”

“Pity. It might have been possible you were my grandson, but your grandfather chose her, not me. There’s a story there, but not today.”

Broadhurst appeared as if I had summoned him. He had a habit of doing that, and it was scary.

“Sir?”

I shook my head. “Take her to whatever spare room is available. She will be staying for a while. Tell the cook, there’s an extra person for dinner.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Your grandmother was right about you.”

It wasn’t until after she left the room that I realised that she couldn’t know anything about me. If she had not seen my grandmother in 68 years, how could she know about the 40-year-old grandson?

A question to ask at dinner.

I spent the afternoon reading through my grandmother’s diaries for that period from 75 years ago, and sure enough, Emily Wentworth was there, large as life, the girl who was bold, brave, and rebellious

The girl who got into mischief at Miss Irene Davenport’s Finishing school, where apparently raggle-taggle guttersnipes were turned into elegant and charming young ladies.

I could not imagine my grandmother being a raggle-taggle guttersnipe. Emily Wentworth was a different story and had that look of defiance even now. I could be easily persuaded to believe Emily would lead her well and truly down the garden path.

I remember my mother once telling me how she had easily been led in her younger days. It was hard to imagine it, in her later years, when she presented as almost formidable.

It seemed those days at the finishing school would have made interesting reading, but pages had been ripped out, perhaps because she preferred to forget about them.

There was, however, a section around the time of her wedding to my grandfather.

The incomparable and treacherous Miss Emily Wentworth arrived this morning; in defiance of her mother’s orders, she was barred at the gate.

That despicable act of trying to entrap Herbert in an attempt to snatch him away from me was about as low as she could get. This is the girl who could have any man she wanted.

And with Herbert denying the affair, well, this wedding is hanging by a knife’s edge. Daddy wants to kill him and is certain to challenge him to a duel at dawn.

It’s an impossible situation.

There was nothing more written until two weeks later, the first day of her honeymoon, with the wonderful Herbert.

Two weeks of intrigue. I was looking forward to dinner.

…

I had dined formally once since I had arrived at the castle. A group of my grandmother’s friends insisted on a wake, and Broadhurst and two serving girls presided over what could only be described as a feast.

Although there would be two of us, it would be no less a feast, presided over by Broadhurst and Anna, who attended breakfast time.

One feature of dinner was dressing up, a tradition I took seriously, as did Emily, who had an amazing gown befitting the dowager she was.

I escorted her into the dining room, and Broadhurst made sure she was seated comfortably. There was no sitting at either end of a table that sat 24. We’d need cell phones to talk.

We started with a glass of champagne and the first verbal duel. I led with the first question, “Tell me about Miss Irene Davenport’s Finishing School.”

She smiled, “My, if I were a betting woman, I would not have expected that question. Miss Davenport.” She closed her eyes and, after a few seconds, sighed. “Yes. All the girls believed she was a witch.”

“At that age, somewhere around sixteen, I think, all girls would have thought that. After being indulged by your parents all your life, I guess running into a formidable disciplinarian would have been a shock.”

She looked at me with a curious expression, one that told me that she had probably thought I would not have such knowledge.

“You must have had some interesting conversations with your grandmother.”

“She maintained a diary, well, quite a few.”

An almost imperceptible change in expression. “Well, that’s surprising. She never struck me as a person who would. Certainly, she never mentioned it, and we were best friends, shared everything when we were younger.”

Perhaps without realising that she had overstepped certain boundaries. Or that Emily was that sort of friend who assumed she could. I had read more about the relationship that existed between them, and my interpretation was that Emily was more worldly than her friend and had to a certain extent, both taken advantage of the situation and of her naivety.

It made me wonder just why she was here.

The question was asked in a tone that suggested an answer or comment to repudiate it was expected, a test to see exactly how much I knew. She had not lost any of her powers of manipulation.

“Yes. It was what I understood from her writing. Typical girlish stuff. She never mentioned anything about her time at Miss Davenport’s to my mother or to me, but she did tell me about her dancing lessons in Paris, under Mademoiselle Dubois. She always insisted that the foundation for becoming a proper gentleman was grooming, manners, and being able to execute a perfect tango.”

“That’s one thing she excelled at, the tango. It was what brought Matilda and Herbert together. They could set the dance floor alight.”

Was it said as a wistful memory or with just a touch of envy?

“Sadly, my rendition of the tango is somewhat lacking. She tried to smooth the rough edges, but I think in the end, she decided I was a lost cause.”

“Are you married?”

“No. There hasn’t been a one to dazzle with my dancing skills or lack thereof. I lack that certain charm my father and grandfather possessed. Now, being lord of the manor, what girl would want to live in a draughty castle?”

“More than you could imagine.” That was a wistful expression, and given what I’d read, perhaps she had at one time been one of them.

It was the right time for soup to be served.

…

Broadhurst had selected a very good Cabernet Sauvignon from the cellar and had poured two glasses.

The entrees were beef cheek, something I’d had before and found that a little went a long way, but no less an amazing dish.

A bit like the conversation at that time, she was picking over the memories of her best friend that she could share, perhaps with the intent of finding out how much I did know.

It was leading us into the main course, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, which I’d had before and could take or leave. But given the culinary experience of my grandmother’s selection of cook, I was preparing myself for an experience.

It was something I could get used to.

It also bothered me that it was difficult to consume all of the food that was prepared, given that there was mostly one of me, and the twenty-odd permanent staff who lived and worked in the castle, and on the estate. There were a hundred or so others who didn’t.

My grandmother had decided that meals were to be provided for all those working in the castle and nearby, and I had extended that to everyone who requested a meal. It meant hiring more staff, much needed in an area where unemployment was growing. It was a discussion that I’d had with Mary, who had been juggling requests from organisations and individuals for employment opportunities, and one project in particular, a live-in farming community where troubled youth could break the spiral into crime and drugs by being given something useful to occupy their minds.

I know my grandmother would have taken it on in an instant.

“How are you finding being lord of the manor, as you call it?”

“More interesting than living in a tiny flat in a run-down building.”

She seemed surprised. “You were not always wealthy. Your mother, I believe, was a countess.”

Yes. She was. Married to a man who was a Count, a real Count with a real title, but one who had no money and had married her thinking he could tap into her family’s wealth and restore his fortunes.

It worked for a year before he got greedy, and his grandmother cut her off. She got pregnant, he hung around until after I was born, and then he left. Or not so much left as he started innumerable affairs, and Mother kicked him out.

After that, it was all downhill. Grandmother and mother were estranged and never spoke to each other again after she had been cut off. I visited from time to time once I left home, only because I knew my mother would explode if she knew I was seeing her. Then my mother died, a drug overdose, the end of a very unhappy life, and I disappeared into obscurity. It seemed appropriate because, for a long time, I blamed her for my mother’s death.

“In name only, there was a title and nothing else but a pile of debts. I’m ashamed to say my father was a scoundrel of the worst sort and only hastened my troubled mother’s path to the grave. Wealth had never made her happy. In fact, it was a curse. To be honest, being lord of the manor has no real meaning. I live in a bigger house and eat better food, but my job is endlessly trying to juggle impossible projects and demanding people.”

“Perhaps you should just tell them all where to go and move to the Bahamas. You don’t have to burden yourself with other people’s problems.”

Was that what she would do? I had to ask. “What would you do in my place?”

The look of amusement turned into a smile. “I admit, once upon a time, I had thought about it. Would it be worth pursuing Herbert to become the Marquis and Marquess? I also admit that I envied Matilda because she had it all and never had to struggle once in her life. It was annoying sometimes to listen to her complain endlessly about how bad it was. I’m not sure what she writes, but I suspect there’ll be comments on me that are hardly flattering.”

She took a deep breath and took a moment. Perhaps she was considering how far she would share her experiences. Decision made.

“I get it. We were teenagers, young, at times stupid, and sometimes volatile. It’s one of the most testing times that period from 15 to 21, and we had some interesting arguments, bust-ups, and reconciliations. But we ended up best friends, as you can see by that letter, written after she married Herbert.”

Anna came and cleared the dishes from the table and left us wondering what was for dessert. I could use some coffee to dilute the effects of the wine.

When Broadhurst brought out the tray, I knew instantly it was my favourite, a pudding my grandmother insisted on when I visited.

Roly Poly.

I could see Emily’s eyes light up when she saw it.

Of course, there could be no more conversation until we had devoured two helpings, one with custard, the other with clotted cream. I could not remember the last time I had it because I could never find the recipe, or that is to say, the proper recipe.

Then, when the coffee came, along with a vintage Portuguese port, I could see she had more to say.

“Let’s stop dancing around the elephant in the room.”

It was a curious expression, one my grandmother used and at times my mother. I’d been known to use it myself.

“You will have read, no doubt, about my efforts to steal Herbert away from your grandmother. It’s true. I did. Try, that is. I got tired of her telling me how he was the one, that he had only eyes for her, that there was no other woman for him. It was tosh, but I doubt she would have believed me if I told her he was dating two other girls at the same time he was dating her.”

It was not surprising, after what my mother had told me. The affairs continued after the wedding, mostly unknown to his wife.

“It was a month before the wedding, and Matilda had organised a birthday party for him and invited a few close friends. One of those was a girl called Eloise, daughter of a Duke, another of Miss Davenport’s protégés, and as it happens, a former girlfriend of said Herbert. I knew from a friend of a friend that they were still an item, only more on the hush-hush side because his family needed the family connection to Matildas.”

In my mind, I would have thought a Duke was better than a Marquis, but I could be wrong. But the story that marriages were arranged for such reasons was common and had an element of truth, especially considering the times. Could I believe it of my grandmother, perhaps? She had always said she would have married for love, that she had never been forced into marriage, but it could have been orchestrated by scheming parents.

“Did you try?”

“Of course, and was disappointed when he turned up in my room late one night, one where Matilda decided she needed a heart-to-heart. It was as if I expected him to come; I had dropped hints, not expecting him to act on them. He did. She came, and it all blew up.”

“Yet you came to the wedding?”

“Matilda’s mother contacted me about a week later, after Matilda had told Herbert that the wedding was off and that she never wanted to see me again. It was quite an affair. The problem was that Herbert’s parents couldn’t afford for this match to come to fruition. She asked me what my game was, and I told her it was simply to prove that Herbert was not exactly the man he made himself out to be and that I never had any intention of trying to seduce him.”

At a time when there was a far stricter moral code enforced on daughters, it was not hard to imagine the scenes that played out in those weeks before the wedding. Men could virtually do whatever they liked, and women couldn’t because of the risk to their virtue and getting a reputation that could ruin their position in society. I remember my grandmother lamenting the fact that men had all the freedom and women had none.

It also gave me pause in how I considered my grandmother, given this information. If it was correct. I still didn’t know what the purpose of telling all this was.

“I can’t see my grandmother forgiving you.”

“It wasn’t the first time. We were not exactly angels when we were at Miss Davenport’s. That place was one where, if you were so inclined, you could get into a great deal of trouble. Two of the girls in the class did. The dance instructor, a devilishly handsome Frenchman with the most exotic accent, had his way with them, resulting in the worst possible outcome. None of us was immune to his wiles.”

“Are you saying…”

“He had his way with her. Yes. But he did with me, too. I think it was the first time for both of us, and as impressionable girls, it was a delirious, happy time followed by the depths of despair when we were rejected. Still, although I never knew for certain because I didn’t see her again for about a year, I believe she got pregnant, had a child, and then had it adopted. Or her parents would have.”

If it happened, I could see why it had been kept a secret. Her reputation and character would be ruined. But I was trying to reconcile the description Emily was giving me with what I knew of her. It was impossible.

I took a deep breath. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m not here to cause trouble. Nor am I here to drag skeletons out of the closet. The fact is, I’m here to warn you. Heed it or not is up to you. Believe me or not, it is up to you. I still have friends, though, as you can imagine, most of them have passed. I received a letter about three weeks ago from someone whose name I didn’t recognise. It asked me if I knew the name of the baby your grandmother had. The first baby. You could have knocked me over with a feather.”

“What did you do?”

“I wrote back and told them wherever they got their information it was a lie.”

“Then they sent an official copy of the birth certificate with the girl’s name and the two parents, one of whom was Matilda. It was her signature on the document.”

“Could it be a forgery?”

“It could, so I had it checked out. It was legitimate. Then I wrote back and told them I would not help them prove or disprove anything out of respect for my friend. I fear these people will not go away. If they have gone to all this effort, then they want something from you.”

“Money, and a lot of it, or a slice of the inheritance. The thing is, if it was legitimate, why haven’t they got lawyers onto it? Did the person who wrote the letter have a name?”

She pulled out an envelope from a hidden pocket and slid it over to me. Inside, there was the birth certificate and a copy of the first letter written and signed by Josephine Llewellen.

“I suggest you get a team of private investigators to check her out and get ahead of it.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing. I’m here out of respect for my friend and to warn you of what might be possible trouble. Other than that, a place to rest my weary bones. I’m not long for this earth, and this is the place where I was most happy.”

She slowly got out of her chair and stood for a moment. “Thank you for your indulgence, and a room at the inn. I am more grateful than you could ever know.”

…

It was still a strange experience to wake up in what was the master bedroom in the castle. The bed itself was so large it could fit half a dozen people with room to move.

That same bed was over three hundred years old, an antique four-poster with the curtains more like tapestries than curtains.

Broadhurst had opened the curtains and brought water and the folder with the day’s activities. I had a quick scan, and there was nothing to attract attention

It was another half hour before I came downstairs and into the morning room. Anna was there, refreshing the coffee, making me marvel again at how the internal communication system knew exactly where I was.

“Good morning, sir?”

“Good morning, Anna. Has Emily been down for breakfast?”

“Who, sir?” She looked genuinely surprised.

“The lady who arrived yesterday afternoon. Emily Wentworth. We had dinner last night.”

“No, sir. There’s been no visitors.”

Broadhurst came into the room with a tray.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

“Emily Wentworth, the lady who arrived here yesterday afternoon. You told me of her arrival.”

He looked blank; it was the only way I could describe his expression.

“I don’t believe I did, sir. There are no visitors in the house at present, just yourself.”

He put the tray down on the sideboard and brought the plate over to where I had just sat down.

“Then I must be going crazy. I would have sworn there was a visitor and that I had dinner with her last night.”

He shrugged. “This place can be a little strange at times, sir. The mistress used to talk to people whom she could only see. Perhaps it may have been a dream, sir. Did you sleep well last night?”

“I did.”

“It is this place, sir. Hundreds of years of goings on, stories my mother used to tell me. I don’t believe in ghosts, sir, but there are odd noises.”

It felt real enough. I would go to the study later and see if the documents she had given me were still on the desk.

…

I went upstairs to the room she had been allocated, and it was empty. Moreover, it had the look of not having been used for a while.

Then I went to the study, and there was no sign of the documents, certainly not where I left them or where i thought I left them.

Was it my imagination, or as Broadhurst suggested, a dream induced by the eeriness of the castle itself? He wasn’t wrong. The first few nights were very creepy, and I swore I’d heard a ghost.

The chauffeur, yes, there was a chauffeur and a mechanic, and a fleet of five cars, and one of the downstairs maids had just arrived back from the town about 5 miles away, to refuel and collect the mail, and any particular stores the housekeeper needed.

I was reading a document on small farming techniques sent to me by email when Anna came in to deliver the mail. We were still getting letters and invitations to events addressed to my grandmother, invitations that were extended to me in her stead, some of which seemed interesting.

Today’s pile had three more, and one other, a curiously old envelope with my name scrawled on it. It was not the first time I’d seen one like it, one that belonged to a time past.

I opened it and found another inside. Just like the one that Emily Wentworth had given me. It had her name and address on ot, somewhere in France, but the postmark was what interested me.

It was 7th October 1943.

My hands were shaking when I took out the two sheets of paper. One was the birth certificate; the other was a letter, also the same as the previous evening, signed by Josephine Llewellen.

What the hell?

I put everything back in the envelope in the top drawer under a pile of folders. I needed air.

What was going on?

I got as far as the front foyer when I saw Mrs Rattigan, the housekeeper, talking to a young girl.

“Good morning, sir,” she said when she saw me.

“Good morning, Mrs Rattigan.” She had said I could address her by her first name, but given how formidable she looked, I still couldn’t.

“A visitor?”

“In a sense. We are interviewing for the assistant cook position. This is Josephine Llewellen.”

…

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 60

What story does it inspire?

…

…

What does a photograph of a wall conjure up?

If it’s a bad day, then the answer to that is nothing. Looking at a bare wall is like examining the whys and wherefores of writer’s block.

Some days the ideas just can’t find their way to the surface. Other days, they come out of left field, and some, well, you have to wonder where they came from.

For instance…

There is that eternal device in stories that fuels many a story, how does a person get murdered in a room with no windows, a single door, and it is locked from the inside, with the key in the lock.

The simple answer, there has to be a hatch, in the floor or in the wall.

Yes, there’s a secret panel – or on thorough checking, there is not. But there has to be, and so we just about pull the wall apart looking for the secret entrance.

Maybe if there were shelves in front of the wall, we could have the classic shelf door.

Is it possible that the murderer could somehow pass through the wall? We could have people postulating that the killer was able to rearrange their molecules so he or she could pass through.

Scientifically impossible.

But, there again, we are writing fiction. Anything is possible.

I like my idea better, the killer arrived in a time machine. I’ve often wondered just how much damage we could do if we could travel in time, backwards or forwards, but the more I think about it, time travel could only be into the past, because the future hasn’t been written yet.

So that’s my premise, as the main character, as the detective. The story is trying to convince everyone else, and that I’m not stark staring mad.

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

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