young visitor.
He looked up at her. ‘Don’t know,’ he said, his voice brittle, the lights in his eyes dancing with panic.
‘If in doubt, I’d advise it,’ she said, reaching forward and drowning the golden liquid in cold water drawn from the tap.
Ruth caught his eye. ‘There’s no need to drink it if you don’t want, Craig. Just try a sip and see.’
Harriet swivelled a look of devilment at her parent. She raised her eyebrows. Another of your lame ducks! Don’t worry, I’m not going to make a fuss .
Craig stood up, making the chair legs scrape against the flagged floor. ‘I think I’d better be going.’ His glance darted about, as though he were a cornered fox.
‘It’s too late to find a place for the night now,’ Ruth said, drawing deep on her reserves of calm. She loved her daughter, she was happy for her new-found well-being, but she wasn’t going to let this poor terrified young man be turned out of her house by Harriet’s covert baiting. ‘And, anyway, I want you to stay.’
Craig stood stock still. Then sat down and took a tentative sip of whisky.
Harriet turned her back on him and spoke to Ruth. ‘I told the chief inspector the whole story. He didn’t think the desert incident was relevant to Christian’s death. Not at all.’
‘Good.’
‘And then on the way back here, Charles phoned, just to let me know how things were going at his end.’ She took a large gulp of whisky and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and letting the fiery spirit soothe her.
Ruth recognized the signs. She knew that Harriet had undergone severe stress, had possibly reached a point where the strain had become unbearable, but that in some way the incidents of the evening had put things right. She understood too that Charles and Harriet’s marriage was lived out on a knife-edge of passion, deep love and dangerous conflict. A dangerous mix of ingredients. But so far a heady brew which had worked for both of them.
All’s well that ends well , Ruth thought. So far.
DAY 6
Swift set out at 8 a.m. next morning bound for the Black Sheep Inn, the only pub in a small hamlet accessed from the Dales village of Pateley Bridge.
If he had been travelling as the crow flies he could have made if from his cottage near Cracoe village to the Black Sheep Inn in probably less than twenty minutes. However, the lower slopes of Great Whernside were something of an obstacle, so he drove south to the small town of Pateley Bridge and then north again along a road which took him through the village of Ramsgill, after which the road became narrow and steep, ending just past the Black Sheep Inn. If you wanted to go further north at that point you had to get out of your car and walk.
The route was another tourists’ gift of velvety hills, hedgerows crammed with wild flowers and in the distance glimpses of the river Nid curling through the valley with the sheen of a grey pearl. It was a clear morning with the expectant feel of a glorious sunny day just beginning. Now, in the middle of July, the foliage on the trees was beginning to darken, and in places looking a little tired, well past the dazzling acid green of May, and seeming to be just hanging on, waiting for the fiery beauty of autumn.
The pub’s door was open when he arrived at 9.30 and one or two guests were taking advantage of the sunshine to breakfast outside on the wrought-iron tables set along the outside wall of the inn. He managed to squeeze his car into the one vacant space in the pub’s tiny car park, fitting it in beside a gleaming red Audi RSS which, ten or so years before would have stabbed him with a tiny pang of envy. After a little searching inside the inn he eventually found a young waitress clearing a table in the oak-beamed dining room. ‘I’m looking for Mr Charles Brunswick,’ he told her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I only work here on Sundays. I don’t know all the customers’ names.’ She thought for a moment, and then shot him a
He looked up at her. ‘Don’t know,’ he said, his voice brittle, the lights in his eyes dancing with panic.
‘If in doubt, I’d advise it,’ she said, reaching forward and drowning the golden liquid in cold water drawn from the tap.
Ruth caught his eye. ‘There’s no need to drink it if you don’t want, Craig. Just try a sip and see.’
Harriet swivelled a look of devilment at her parent. She raised her eyebrows. Another of your lame ducks! Don’t worry, I’m not going to make a fuss .
Craig stood up, making the chair legs scrape against the flagged floor. ‘I think I’d better be going.’ His glance darted about, as though he were a cornered fox.
‘It’s too late to find a place for the night now,’ Ruth said, drawing deep on her reserves of calm. She loved her daughter, she was happy for her new-found well-being, but she wasn’t going to let this poor terrified young man be turned out of her house by Harriet’s covert baiting. ‘And, anyway, I want you to stay.’
Craig stood stock still. Then sat down and took a tentative sip of whisky.
Harriet turned her back on him and spoke to Ruth. ‘I told the chief inspector the whole story. He didn’t think the desert incident was relevant to Christian’s death. Not at all.’
‘Good.’
‘And then on the way back here, Charles phoned, just to let me know how things were going at his end.’ She took a large gulp of whisky and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and letting the fiery spirit soothe her.
Ruth recognized the signs. She knew that Harriet had undergone severe stress, had possibly reached a point where the strain had become unbearable, but that in some way the incidents of the evening had put things right. She understood too that Charles and Harriet’s marriage was lived out on a knife-edge of passion, deep love and dangerous conflict. A dangerous mix of ingredients. But so far a heady brew which had worked for both of them.
All’s well that ends well , Ruth thought. So far.
DAY 6
Swift set out at 8 a.m. next morning bound for the Black Sheep Inn, the only pub in a small hamlet accessed from the Dales village of Pateley Bridge.
If he had been travelling as the crow flies he could have made if from his cottage near Cracoe village to the Black Sheep Inn in probably less than twenty minutes. However, the lower slopes of Great Whernside were something of an obstacle, so he drove south to the small town of Pateley Bridge and then north again along a road which took him through the village of Ramsgill, after which the road became narrow and steep, ending just past the Black Sheep Inn. If you wanted to go further north at that point you had to get out of your car and walk.
The route was another tourists’ gift of velvety hills, hedgerows crammed with wild flowers and in the distance glimpses of the river Nid curling through the valley with the sheen of a grey pearl. It was a clear morning with the expectant feel of a glorious sunny day just beginning. Now, in the middle of July, the foliage on the trees was beginning to darken, and in places looking a little tired, well past the dazzling acid green of May, and seeming to be just hanging on, waiting for the fiery beauty of autumn.
The pub’s door was open when he arrived at 9.30 and one or two guests were taking advantage of the sunshine to breakfast outside on the wrought-iron tables set along the outside wall of the inn. He managed to squeeze his car into the one vacant space in the pub’s tiny car park, fitting it in beside a gleaming red Audi RSS which, ten or so years before would have stabbed him with a tiny pang of envy. After a little searching inside the inn he eventually found a young waitress clearing a table in the oak-beamed dining room. ‘I’m looking for Mr Charles Brunswick,’ he told her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I only work here on Sundays. I don’t know all the customers’ names.’ She thought for a moment, and then shot him a
Similar Books
