He concentrated on navigating the hospital car park and headed for the hills. Harriet was frowning, so he asked again. ‘Well? I have no idea what the hell’s going on in Locksley but it doesn’t look good.’
Harriet shook her head. I don’t want to involve these two kids in whatever’s happening, she thought. Then she glanced at Rory. Nonsense, woman, she sighed. He’s a grown man, they’re both adults, come to that, and they’re involved anyway.
‘I think we covered everything yesterday morning,’ she told him. ‘Cousin Walter’s accident; the missing man, Colin Price, and his job at the archive; the news that valuable, if not priceless, items from the archive have turned up in European auctions. And now there’s someone messing about in a field where it’s been rumoured for centuries that a Roman ruin exists. Just because you recognized them it doesn’t follow that they aren’t simply treasure hunters out on the off-chance, doesn’t have to be something more sinister. God only knows.’ She leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Sam has some more news,’ she said flatly, as she subsided into silence.
After a few minutes she perked up and smiled at her driver. ‘You’re a restful kind of man, Rory,’ she told him. ‘Thank you for not nagging me for an explanation. I just needed to gather my thoughts.’
He felt absurdly flattered at her commendation; praise from Harriet Quigley was something to respect. ‘I’m still convalescent myself,’ he explained briefly. ‘I know it’s hard to think straight sometimes. So, what did your cousin Sam have to say?’
‘He rang just after breakfast to check up on me. Apparently he’s been making some calls while he’s stuck at the airport, doing some digging around. He’s come up with a report that’s just come in; the clergy can be astonishingly indiscreet sometimes, thank goodness. Anyway, the European police have produced an identikit picture of a man believed to have been the vendor of the missal that was sold recently.’
She paused dramatically. ‘Guess.’
‘Colin Price, I presume?’ Rory sounded excited.
‘None other.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s good news and bad, I’m afraid. Interesting in that it ties Price in with the disappearances from the archive but bad news in that nobody has the slightest idea how to find him. Leaving aside the theories flying round the village, that he’s been done away with, this part of the world is awash, literally, with inlets and harbours, boats, marinas, yacht clubs, all making it easy to get out of the country in a hurry. And that’s not even considering the commercial traffic, ferries, airports, etc, which he could have used.’
Rory turned into the farm drive and drew up at the front door. Karen, jazzy today in a 1960s psychedelic-print shift dress, came running out.
‘Harriet, you poor thing. Come on in; coffee’s ready, decaf in the circumstances or you can have tea or hot chocolate if you’d rather. Then you can either go to bed straight away or go and relax with Mrs Attlin. She’s upstairs and looking forward to seeing you.’
‘Rory?’ Harriet smiled her thanks to Karen and turned to her chauffeur. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I promised Sam you’d pick him up from Southampton airport at midday. He has to check in at the office but before that he says he’ll buy you lunch and give you a quick unofficial tour of the Stanton Resingham archive if you’d like?’ She shot him a conspiratorial glance. ‘No need to mention it to Edith till you get home.’
It was soothing, Harriet decided, to sit in a pretty, old-fashioned bedroom-cum-sitting room and be served with lunch – even though it was only soup and a cheese sandwich – and later, afternoon tea, in company with a pair of delightful elderly relatives. Not something you’d want to do every day, but once in a while it was like stepping back in time. She smiled her thanks as Karen bustled in bearing more tea and Penelope Attlin leaned forward to pour out.
‘I was just thinking,’ Harriet observed, ‘that I feel as though I’m in a period drama.’ As Penelope glanced at her in surprise, Harriet explained. ‘You know, tea that I haven’t had to make myself in a mug, and served in beautiful old china. Karen is a perfect treasure!’
‘She is,’ agreed Walter, slathering butter on a crumpet. ‘She says much the same, Harriet. She told me she likes to pretend she’s the senior parlour maid in a period piece on television, Downton Abbey, perhaps, though that’s way out of our league.’ He looked thoughtful, a lurking twinkle in his eye. ‘I can just see Karen in a maid’s outfit, complete with frilly cap and apron.’ Mrs Attlin gave him a wifely look and he grinned, ‘Seems a harmless kind of daydream to pass the time and as you say, she’s very good to us. I find it a little less convincing though, when I try to picture Elveece in the role of the perfect butler.’