trust Annie was involved in. The symmetry of the situation was somehow pleasing. I replaced the book and went back into Annie’s room.
The chest was, indeed, very full of papers. I cautiously lifted out one of the files. It contained old sepia photographs with faded writing on the back; some were in the form of postcards, something I remembered from similar ones in my own family. Another file had a miscellaneous collection of old newspaper cuttings, fragile and yellow with age. Yet another had actual postcards, views of seaside resorts with figures in old-fashioned clothes, buildings of various kinds, or sentimental ones with flowers or kittens, some decorated with glitter that fell away from my hand as I picked them up. It was obvious that I couldn’t possibly sort them all out in situ — I’d have to take them home and deal with them there. I eased them carefully into the couple of shopping bags I’d brought with me, painfully straightened my back and stood up again.
Downstairs I went into the kitchen. It was tidy now (Judith and Rachel had done a good job of clearing up) and looked much as it had when I’d been there before. There was no sign of the basket that had contained the fungi. I assumed the police had taken it away. I went over to the back door and, on an impulse, clicked back the lock and went outside. The garden was quite small, but Annie always kept it looking very trim. Now, though, it was beginning to look overgrown and neglected. The tiny lawn needed cutting, and in the flower beds the late dahlias and asters were being smothered by grass and weeds. The small bed by the back door was closely planted with herbs, so that looked all right. I bent down and picked a piece of rosemary, crushing it in my hand and thinking (“Rosemary, that’s for remembrance”) of Annie.
I was startled by a sudden noise. The garden backed onto a field, and a horse, attracted by the sight of someone, had come up to the little gate in the fence. I went towards it, but it shied away and went cantering back to its companion grazing on the far side of the field.
I went back into the kitchen, carefully locking the door behind me. The Welsh dresser, now that I came to look at it, was, indeed, quite large, and I could quite see that Judith would have to make a fairly radical rearrangement to accommodate it. On an impulse I opened one of the drawers. It contained tablecloths, tea towels and other kitchen items, and I supposed Judith would inherit the contents as well as the dresser itself. When I tried to push the drawer back it stuck and, although I moved it from side to side, it wouldn’t move. I put my hand inside and pulled out a piece of paper that had got wedged at the back and the drawer went back quite smoothly. The paper was crumpled and torn from my efforts to pull it out and I looked round for a bin or something to put it in, but I couldn’t see one, so I stuffed it into my pocket and went along the passage back into the sitting room.
My eye was drawn to a small bookcase by the fireplace and I went over to look at it. I always think book-cases look rather sad when there are only a few books in them and the spaces have been filled with ornaments and photographs. There were a few gardening books, an early copy of Mrs. Beeton (probably quite valuable now), the illustrated history of a neighboring village (presumably where Annie got the idea for the Mere Barton book), a couple of paperbacks (ancient Penguins of The Owl’s House and The Lonely Plough ) and a large family Bible, which I opened and noted that the names of the family had been carefully inscribed with the dates of their births and deaths. I thought that Martin would be pleased to have that. But none of the books explained the book of memoirs beside Annie’s bed. I picked up my shopping bags and, with a last look round the room, let myself out and locked the front door behind me.
As I stepped down into the street Judith’s door opened—she’d obviously
The chest was, indeed, very full of papers. I cautiously lifted out one of the files. It contained old sepia photographs with faded writing on the back; some were in the form of postcards, something I remembered from similar ones in my own family. Another file had a miscellaneous collection of old newspaper cuttings, fragile and yellow with age. Yet another had actual postcards, views of seaside resorts with figures in old-fashioned clothes, buildings of various kinds, or sentimental ones with flowers or kittens, some decorated with glitter that fell away from my hand as I picked them up. It was obvious that I couldn’t possibly sort them all out in situ — I’d have to take them home and deal with them there. I eased them carefully into the couple of shopping bags I’d brought with me, painfully straightened my back and stood up again.
Downstairs I went into the kitchen. It was tidy now (Judith and Rachel had done a good job of clearing up) and looked much as it had when I’d been there before. There was no sign of the basket that had contained the fungi. I assumed the police had taken it away. I went over to the back door and, on an impulse, clicked back the lock and went outside. The garden was quite small, but Annie always kept it looking very trim. Now, though, it was beginning to look overgrown and neglected. The tiny lawn needed cutting, and in the flower beds the late dahlias and asters were being smothered by grass and weeds. The small bed by the back door was closely planted with herbs, so that looked all right. I bent down and picked a piece of rosemary, crushing it in my hand and thinking (“Rosemary, that’s for remembrance”) of Annie.
I was startled by a sudden noise. The garden backed onto a field, and a horse, attracted by the sight of someone, had come up to the little gate in the fence. I went towards it, but it shied away and went cantering back to its companion grazing on the far side of the field.
I went back into the kitchen, carefully locking the door behind me. The Welsh dresser, now that I came to look at it, was, indeed, quite large, and I could quite see that Judith would have to make a fairly radical rearrangement to accommodate it. On an impulse I opened one of the drawers. It contained tablecloths, tea towels and other kitchen items, and I supposed Judith would inherit the contents as well as the dresser itself. When I tried to push the drawer back it stuck and, although I moved it from side to side, it wouldn’t move. I put my hand inside and pulled out a piece of paper that had got wedged at the back and the drawer went back quite smoothly. The paper was crumpled and torn from my efforts to pull it out and I looked round for a bin or something to put it in, but I couldn’t see one, so I stuffed it into my pocket and went along the passage back into the sitting room.
My eye was drawn to a small bookcase by the fireplace and I went over to look at it. I always think book-cases look rather sad when there are only a few books in them and the spaces have been filled with ornaments and photographs. There were a few gardening books, an early copy of Mrs. Beeton (probably quite valuable now), the illustrated history of a neighboring village (presumably where Annie got the idea for the Mere Barton book), a couple of paperbacks (ancient Penguins of The Owl’s House and The Lonely Plough ) and a large family Bible, which I opened and noted that the names of the family had been carefully inscribed with the dates of their births and deaths. I thought that Martin would be pleased to have that. But none of the books explained the book of memoirs beside Annie’s bed. I picked up my shopping bags and, with a last look round the room, let myself out and locked the front door behind me.
As I stepped down into the street Judith’s door opened—she’d obviously
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