Finders and Keepers by Catrin Collier Page A

who’d insisted he could pay him ‘anytime’ once he’d discovered that he’d booked into the inn.
    â€˜Does the room Enfys showed you suit?’ She pulled a dark-amber pint of ale with a creamy head, and pushed it over the counter towards him.
    â€˜Enfys?’ Harry asked blankly.
    â€˜The maid.’
    He recalled the red-faced, red-haired serving maid, who’d puffed and panted up the stairs ahead of him, and thrown a bedroom door open before walking on silently down the passage.
    â€˜It’s fine, thank you, Mrs Edwards.’ The room was perfectly adequate but it wouldn’t have met with Diana Adams’s approval. There were far too many things in it that could harbour germs. The floorboards were covered with rag rugs, the bed was made with a quilt as well as Welsh flannel blankets and feather-filled pillows and bolster. And there was an upholstered easy chair and a writing table in addition to the pine bedroom suite. The furniture was solid and built for durability rather than beauty. Recalling Alf saying that the pieces he made ‘seemed to suit the farmers round here’, Harry wondered if they were examples of his handiwork. To his amazement the room also had electric light.
    â€˜Enfys will serve you supper in the dining parlour,’ Mrs Edwards indicated a door in the corridor behind the bar. ‘It’s steak and kidney pudding, boiled potatoes, peas and carrots tonight, with rhubarb and custard for afters. If you want more beer, there’s no need to disturb yourself. Just bang the table or call out and Enfys will get it for you.’
    â€˜Thank you, Mrs Edwards.’
    â€˜I’ve only one other young man lodging here at present. He’ll share the dining parlour with you.’
    â€˜And here he is, Mrs Edwards.’ A slim man, as dark as Harry was fair, walked down the narrow passageway towards them. ‘Good evening.’ Juggling the knapsack, easel and folder he was carrying, he freed one hand so he could lift his hat to Mrs Edwards.
    â€˜Been off painting again, Mr Ross?’
    â€˜You know me so well, Mrs Edwards. A pint of your best, please. Painting’s thirsty work.’ He set down the easel and folder, turned to Harry and held out his hand. ‘Toby Ross.’
    Harry shook it firmly. ‘Harry Evans.’
    â€˜I hope the dressing-down Miss Adams gave me earlier hasn’t coloured your opinion of me.’ He picked up the pint of beer Mrs Edwards had pulled for him and downed half of it in one thirsty swallow.
    â€˜Toby Ross – that was you behind the mask at the sanatorium?’
    â€˜It was. Please, call me Toby. I’ll dump these things in my room, wash my hands and I’ll be with you.’ To Harry’s astonishment he finished his pint in a second gulp. ‘I’ll have another with a whisky chaser when I come down, please, Mrs Edwards.’
    â€˜He’s an artist,’ Mrs Edwards confided superfluously after Toby ran up the stairs. ‘So’s his uncle. He’s famous and paints pictures that get put in books. But by all accounts he’s in a bad way. That’s why Mr Ross spends all his time painting, trying to do as much of his work for him as he can.’
    â€˜Frank Ross!’ Harry exclaimed.
    â€˜I think that’s his name,’ Mrs Edwards poured a measure of whisky into a glass.
    â€˜To think that I met Frank Ross today, and didn’t know who he was. He’s been my idol for years. You should have seen his exhibition in London two years ago. The way he blended the colours -’
    â€˜You met Mr Ross’s uncle in the sanatorium! You were in the same room as him?’ Mrs Edwards exclaimed in horror.
    â€˜All visitors are gowned and masked,’ Harry assured her.
    â€˜Well,’ Mrs Edwards set about refilling Toby’s pint mug, ‘those precautions Mr Ross is always telling me about had better work, that’s all I can say.