the shop suggested otherwise – less so the personality of the woman.
“You seem to be well informed of the history of the village. In London I don’t even know my own neighbour.”
The comment made Martha laugh. “We’ve never had a lot of people living here in Wootton. Most of the people have roots here.”
“How well do you know Susan Rankin?” Jen asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“All my life.”
“I went to see her today. Has she always lived in the village?”
“Aye. Her mother grew up here.”
“How about her husband’s family?”
“No. He was an outsider – he was originally from another village.” The woman hesitated slightly. “Why do you ask, pet?”
“No reason, my producer asked me to research everything.”
The answer reassured her. “He was a lovely man, at least on the surface.”
“Was he a different man beneath the surface?”
The woman laughed. “No, I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t know him as well as Susan, you know?”
Jen nodded. “What was she like? Before, I mean.”
The hairdresser shrugged. “Wouldn’t know how to describe her. Normal, really.”
“Was she popular? Well liked?”
“No different to the rest of us.”
Jen nodded, paying particular attention to the woman’s body language. It was clear the subject wasn’t her favourite.
The woman backed away, her attention on Jen’s hair.
“I think this is coming along nicely. How about we leave this for now, and you can come back in a couple of hours to finish the cut.”
Jen hid her disappointment. Ideally she still wanted to interview the daughter.
“That sounds super,” she said, checking the time. According to the clock on the wall, it was 10:10am. “You wouldn’t happen to know what time they take lunch at St Joseph’s?”
“It depends on the class, pet. It can be anything from 12:15 to 1:45.”
That was the last thing Jen wanted to hear. “I don’t suppose you know what time Miss Cartwright is likely to be free?”
“What day is today?”
“Tuesday.”
“Tuesday she has a half day. She’ll be finished by 12:15.”
Jen smiled. “Thank you so much. I’ll be back about 1:30pm.”
16
Riverton, Lincolnshire
Riverton Court was an imposing sort of place – even in the mist, it was often visible from a distance. Located on the banks of the River Ancholme near the villages of Cadney and Hibaldstow, lying against the picturesque backdrop of the Lincolnshire countryside, it was the type of place where tourists, ramblers, or members of the National Trust might pop in for a couple of hours to admire the architecture, investigate the portraits or the bedrooms, or roam the gardens, enjoying the sparkling scenery.
Or at least they would if it was open to the public.
The word was that the owner was quite eccentric – reports varying from a bit of a crank, an egotistical bigot, or simply a complete and utter wanker. Either way, not one for outsiders.
So went the local talk.
It was approaching 11:00am when Thomas arrived. He had seen the property before, at least in photographs, and immediately recognised it on leaving the main road. Like many of England’s finest, the mansion was a stunning Elizabethan country estate long used by the lower gentry for fishing and game. As a minor royal, he was used to much bigger, but he wasn’t as snobby as some. Since joining the army, he had got used to the barracks’ life, and since taking on his new position, he had taken to living as and where. In his second year at Oxford he had shared a house with four others, two girls and two guys: none of whom were aware of his exact background. Despite the lies, that year had been his personal favourite.
Now, low-key was often his aid.
The village of Riverton was in keeping with the mansion – picturesque but slightly in decline. Its Saxon church and quaint buildings aside, it was the type of place that had prospered from tourism and fishing enthusiasts in the boom years, but
“You seem to be well informed of the history of the village. In London I don’t even know my own neighbour.”
The comment made Martha laugh. “We’ve never had a lot of people living here in Wootton. Most of the people have roots here.”
“How well do you know Susan Rankin?” Jen asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“All my life.”
“I went to see her today. Has she always lived in the village?”
“Aye. Her mother grew up here.”
“How about her husband’s family?”
“No. He was an outsider – he was originally from another village.” The woman hesitated slightly. “Why do you ask, pet?”
“No reason, my producer asked me to research everything.”
The answer reassured her. “He was a lovely man, at least on the surface.”
“Was he a different man beneath the surface?”
The woman laughed. “No, I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t know him as well as Susan, you know?”
Jen nodded. “What was she like? Before, I mean.”
The hairdresser shrugged. “Wouldn’t know how to describe her. Normal, really.”
“Was she popular? Well liked?”
“No different to the rest of us.”
Jen nodded, paying particular attention to the woman’s body language. It was clear the subject wasn’t her favourite.
The woman backed away, her attention on Jen’s hair.
“I think this is coming along nicely. How about we leave this for now, and you can come back in a couple of hours to finish the cut.”
Jen hid her disappointment. Ideally she still wanted to interview the daughter.
“That sounds super,” she said, checking the time. According to the clock on the wall, it was 10:10am. “You wouldn’t happen to know what time they take lunch at St Joseph’s?”
“It depends on the class, pet. It can be anything from 12:15 to 1:45.”
That was the last thing Jen wanted to hear. “I don’t suppose you know what time Miss Cartwright is likely to be free?”
“What day is today?”
“Tuesday.”
“Tuesday she has a half day. She’ll be finished by 12:15.”
Jen smiled. “Thank you so much. I’ll be back about 1:30pm.”
16
Riverton, Lincolnshire
Riverton Court was an imposing sort of place – even in the mist, it was often visible from a distance. Located on the banks of the River Ancholme near the villages of Cadney and Hibaldstow, lying against the picturesque backdrop of the Lincolnshire countryside, it was the type of place where tourists, ramblers, or members of the National Trust might pop in for a couple of hours to admire the architecture, investigate the portraits or the bedrooms, or roam the gardens, enjoying the sparkling scenery.
Or at least they would if it was open to the public.
The word was that the owner was quite eccentric – reports varying from a bit of a crank, an egotistical bigot, or simply a complete and utter wanker. Either way, not one for outsiders.
So went the local talk.
It was approaching 11:00am when Thomas arrived. He had seen the property before, at least in photographs, and immediately recognised it on leaving the main road. Like many of England’s finest, the mansion was a stunning Elizabethan country estate long used by the lower gentry for fishing and game. As a minor royal, he was used to much bigger, but he wasn’t as snobby as some. Since joining the army, he had got used to the barracks’ life, and since taking on his new position, he had taken to living as and where. In his second year at Oxford he had shared a house with four others, two girls and two guys: none of whom were aware of his exact background. Despite the lies, that year had been his personal favourite.
Now, low-key was often his aid.
The village of Riverton was in keeping with the mansion – picturesque but slightly in decline. Its Saxon church and quaint buildings aside, it was the type of place that had prospered from tourism and fishing enthusiasts in the boom years, but
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