Page 11 of Lies in Little Sutherland
I opened my mouth to ask him whether he knew where Lydia Morrison might live, but before I could get the words out, Constance had opened her mouth.
“I don’t see a war memorial in this village.”
The constable shook his head.“No, Miss.Upper Slaughter got lucky.Everyone who went to the front from here came back.”
“Lucky, indeed,” Francis muttered.
The constable nodded.“There were plenty of days I thought I wouldn’t make it home.”
“Same here,” Francis agreed, and with that they were off, reminiscing about where they’d been stationed and whether they had had any friends in common, dead or alive.Which of course they had, and then they started talking about those.
I stood it for about three minutes before I cleared my throat.They both turned to me with identical expressions of mingled annoyance and sheepishness.
“Feel free to talk as long as you want,” I said.“But first… we’re looking for a woman by the name of Lydia Morrison.The vicar’s wife in Lower Slaughter thought she might live here, because of the Methodist chapel.Constance?”
Constance gave a short but concise description of Morrison—late forties, bobbed brown hair turning gray, sallow skin, pointy nose—and the constable nodded.“She’s in one of the cottages on the Square.The one with the blue door.”
“Wonderful.We’ll just have a look.You two keep going for as long as you want.”
I headed in the direction the constable had indicated.Christopher followed.Constance dithered for a moment, looking from me and Christopher to Francis and back, before she made the decision that her fiancé might benefit from having another veteran of the War to talk to, and then she scurried after us toward the rows of cottages up ahead.
They were pretty buildings, if I do say so.Very much the type of mental image one gets when someone says ‘Cotswold cottage.’Honey-colored, of course, with slate roof tiles, peaked gables, and deep-set, mullioned windows.Bagshot Square, the street sign said,1-8.
“There’s a blue door,” Christopher pointed.I looked in the direction he indicated, and nodded.
“Indeed it is.Can you see any others?”
He couldn’t, nor could I.We headed for the robin’s egg blue, and Constance applied her knuckles to the door.And then we stood back, in a tight row, with Christopher in the middle, and waited.
After half a minute, when no one had answered, Christopher stepped forward and knocked again, more forcefully.Just in the event that Morrison hadn’t heard us the first time.I kept an eye on the curtained window next to the door, but there was nothing to indicate that anyone was standing there peeking out at us.
When another few seconds had passed and nothing had happened, Christopher turned to me.“Would you like a go?”
“I don’t see the point,” I said.“Try the handle?”
He gave me a look.“You try the handle.”
I reached for it, and he slapped my hand down.“Not in front of the constable, Pippa!”
No, of course not.I stuffed my hand in my pocket with a guilty look over my shoulder.
“Do you suppose there’s a kitchen door?”Constance wanted to know, and I brightened.
“I’ll wager there is.”Every cottage I had ever seen had had a kitchen door and a kitchen garden of some sort.“Let’s go around back and see.”I tucked one arm through her elbow and pulled her away from the front door while Christopher followed on our heels.
“Francis…” Constance began, with a glance at him.He and his new friend were still deep enough in conversation that there was no point in interrupting them, if you asked me.
“It’s good for him, you know, to have someone to talk to.Someone who understands more than we do.He’s not seeing any of his old friends anymore.”
And thank God for that.But still, while I was relieved that he was going without the alcohol and dope, I understood that he’d also lost the people who understood what he’d gone through.
Constance nodded, worrying her lower lip.Christopher waved at Francis and indicated our path around the cottages, and Francis nodded while he made no move to leave the conversation.
On the back side of the row, each little cottage had a small courtyard.Some had gardens, with herbs or flowers growing—dry sticks at this time of the year, of course—while some were bare patches of dirt and brick.We peered up at the cottages as we went, until?—
“I believe it’s this one,” Christopher said.“The garden gate is blue, too.”
So it was.We slipped through and into the courtyard.
