Page 12 of The Black Trilogy

She chuckled. “This village is far too small for a hotel. The nearest one’s in town, but that’s a fifteen-minute drive or half an hour on the bus. We’ve got a bed and breakfast, though.”

I’d been so zoned out on the journey that I didn’t even know which town she was talking about. “A bed and breakfast will do fine.”

“In that case, I’ll get you the number. It’s ever so nice, really homely. And Carol, who runs it, will cook you dinner if you like.”

I hadn’t got around to buying a phone yet. I needed to pick up a cheap, pay-as-you-go handset, but it had slipped my mind before I left London. It wasn’t like I had anyone I was planning to phone, but it would be handy for situations like this.

“Could you give me directions instead? I forgot to pick up my phone when I left.”

“Of course, it’s not far.”

CHAPTER 6

ARMED WITH A map the barmaid had hastily scribbled on the back of her order pad, I found Carol’s bed and breakfast within fifteen minutes. Melrose was a chocolate-box cottage on a quiet lane, white with wooden beams and a thatched roof, straight out of the pages of one of those fancy magazines dentists keep in the waiting room to remind you how inadequate your life is. Even in winter, the garden looked beautiful, all manicured lawn and neatly edged flower borders. A stone cupid peeped out from between the bare branches, his arrow aimed straight at my heart.

The curtains twitched, and I’d just lifted my hand up to knock when the door swung open and a tiny lady greeted me with a wide smile and curious eyes.

“I’m Carol. Elsa from The Coach and Horses said you’d be stopping by. I’ve opened up a room for you, and the electric blanket’s already on.”

Why wasn’t I surprised she knew I was coming?

“Ashlyn Hale. Or just Ash, if you like. I wasn’t sure you’d have a room available at such short notice.”

“Oh, I’m rarely fully booked. Most people who come to Lower Foxford are visiting family or friends, so they already have somewhere to stay. I just run this place as a hobby. I get lonely on my own.” With her cheerful demeanour, she’d keep smiling through Armageddon.

“I won’t be great company, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t you worry about that, dearie. Elsa said you’d had a tiff with your boyfriend. You just need a good night’s sleep and everything will look rosier in the morning.”

Yeah, right. Unless reincarnation was a thing, we were totally out of luck on that one.

“Let’s hope so, eh?”

She must have sensed my hesitation. “It was a big argument, then?”

“Er…”

“You don’t have to give me the details now. We can have a nice chat about it over dinner. I’m making toad-in-the-hole to start and chocolate brownies with ice cream for after. The ice cream’s from my own special recipe.”

“I ate a really big lunch—I’m not sure I’ve got room for dinner as well.” Or the interrogation that would inevitably come with it.

“You need to eat.” Carol reached out and patted my stomach. “Look at you, you’re already fading away, and that’s not good for a girl. I’ll show you up to your room. You’ll have time to take a bath, and I’ll knock on your door when dinner’s ready.”

Before I could get a word in edgeways, I found myself being marched up the stairs. What was the point in trying to argue? Instinct told me Carol could outmanoeuvre even the most hardened negotiator. Next time my company had a hostage situation, they should call her in. She’d probably win the perpetrators over with cookies.

The room may have been basic and a little too pink, but it represented a definite step up from my digs in London. I tested the weight of the chest of drawers. Yes, I could drag that across the door at night. Anything to keep myself inside. By the time Carol came back, I’d checked my exit routes and fitted in a quick shower with freesia-scented shampoo.

Carol held off on the questioning through the main course, and I suppose I should have been thankful for that. At least her brief reprieve gave me time to come up with a cover story.

Usually, thinking up a plausible tale on the fly came naturally, but today I struggled. My heart wasn’t in it, and Carol’s incessant chattering about the inhabitants of Lower Foxford as I’d picked at my toad-in-the-hole had left my concentration in tatters.

“Marjorie Smith crashed her car into a tree last week after she left The Coach and Horses. I’m not saying she’d been drinking, but it’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Mmm, sounds like it.”

“And Vera saw Mrs. Melton’s daughter in the chemist buying a pregnancy test kit this morning. She’s only been dating the butcher’s son for a month, and they’re not even married.” Carol shook her head. “Youngsters these days. Always rushing into things.”

My initial suspicions had been right—Carol wasn’t just a branch of the local gossip tree, she was the trunk. Everyone in the village, and undoubtedly half the people from the surrounding area, would soon know anything I told her.

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