It was a little market town, full of traditional half-timbered, black-and-white houses, with a library and a reasonable range of shops. Most importantly, for Rachel, it had a main branch post office manned by the inquisitive and bad-tempered Rita. The place was heaving with what seemed the entire county’s over-sixties. She assumed it was pension day. Joining the queue and enjoying ear-wigging the cheerful conversations they were all having, she finally managed to send off some examples of her work to a prospective client.
It was a soft sort of a day and Rachel was reluctant to return home immediately. Strolling along the town’s main street, she found herself outside the windows of Grant, Foster and Fitch, the estate agents. Out of habit, she glanced at the houses for sale. There was a chocolate-box thatched cottage not far from Stoke St Mary on offer. In the usual estate agents’ parlance, it claimed it was immaculately presented and deceptively spacious. ’No work required, move in condition,’ Rachel read. She couldn’t help a sigh escape and then gave a twisted grin as she saw the asking price. Far more than she’d paid for Clematis Cottage and far more than she could ever hope to afford. It looked as though Clematis Cottage and she were destined to have a scruffy and dusty relationship for a bit longer.
She was just turning away, intent on investigating the irresistible smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the baker’s next door, when she saw Mr Foster smiling and waving at her through the window.
He came out into the sunshine. ‘Miss Makepeace. How lovely to see you! Come on in, have a coffee with us. Do.’
Rachel hesitated.
‘I’ve got raisin croissants, they’re my weakness, I’m afraid.’ Mr Foster patted his impressive stomach ruefully. ‘Shouldn’t eat them at all and if Mrs F finds out, she’ll have my considerable guts for garters. Come and eat the third one I shouldn’t have bought.’ He made a face. ‘Save me!’
Rachel grinned and nodded. She followed him into the office, familiar from her weekend property-hunting trips, and which now seemed to belong to another lifetime and lifestyle. As her eyes adjusted to the comparative gloom she saw another man rise from behind a desk.
‘How nice to meet you at last,’ he said and held out a hand.
He was startlingly good-looking. So much so that Rachel took his hand in silence and only mustered up a smile as a first response.
‘Miss Makepeace,’ said Mr Foster, ‘allow me to introduce you to my partner, Neil Fitch.’
‘Hello.’ She took in the man’s height, blue-black hair and vivid, blue eyes. ‘It’s Rachel,’ she said, a little shy, and then pulled herself together. ‘If I’m about to share your food, perhaps we ought to be on first names at least.’
‘Delighted to be so,’ said Neil Fitch formally and gave a dazzling smile.
‘Splendid, how simply splendid,’ said Mr Foster. ‘And I’d better be Roger, then. I’ll just see to the coffee. How do you like it, Rachel?’
‘Just milk, please.’ She tried to say his name, but just couldn’t call him Roger, somehow. It didn’t seem right. She looked to where he had disappeared through a door at the back of the office. To the kitchen, she presumed.
‘Where are my manners? Neil leaped into action. ‘Please take a seat.’ He dragged out an office chair and gestured for her to sit down. Resuming his position at his desk, he leaned back, idly twirling a fountain pen between long fingers. ‘And, how are you getting on with Clematis Cottage? Such a beautiful location but a lot of work I imagine?’
Rachel nodded. ‘I do love it, but you’re right, it is a lot of work.’ She’d never met such a stunning-looking man. He quite took her breath away.
‘You’ve got the Llewellyns working on it, I believe?’
Rachel forced herself to concentrate. ‘Yes, although they haven’t done all that much yet. The roof is in need of serious repair and I’m having them install central heating, too.’ She pulled a face. ‘I think the wiring may need re-doing, as well.’
Neil nodded. ‘Only to be expected, with an old house like that. But Mike Llewellyn’s a hard worker and reliable. He’ll do a good job.’ He treated Rachel to another attractive smile. ‘And some heating is an excellent idea. It can only add value to the property, should you wish to sell, that is. Yes, Mike’s a good worker. It’s just such a shame about his wife.’
He was interrupted by Roger bringing through a tray loaded with a cafetière, cups and saucers and a plate piled high with pastries.
‘It really is a scandal having an office so close to Mervyn’s bakery,’ he said, as he put down his load on Neil’s desk and began to arrange cups, saucers and plates.
Rachel smiled. ‘I was just on my way to it. I simply couldn’t resist the smell.’
Roger tutted and raised his eyes to the ceiling in comic fashion. ‘It’s death to the diet, I’m afraid.’ He pouted. ‘On a daily basis. Not that my young friend here has to worry about these things.’
Neil laughed and reached for the plate of cakes. ‘I’m one of those insufferable people who never puts on any weight, I’m afraid.’ He offered Rachel first choice and, after deliberating, she took the smallest.
‘It’s all the running he does,’ Roger’s tone was gloomy. ‘Can’t join him, not at my age and with my knees.’ He began to pour coffee. ‘Neil has run three marathons,’ he added, with pride.
‘Roger!’ Neil began to protest.
‘Nonsense, my boy, if you’ve got the energy to run twenty-six-odd miles you should make more of it. I’d have a job to walk that far!’
Rachel took the cup of coffee Roger offered, sipped and relaxed. It was pleasant to witness the men’s banter. They were obviously great friends as well as work colleagues. Working from home as she did, she’d never had the chance to develop office friendships.
Roger, after fussing with the crockery and making sure everyone had everything, sank down onto a chair. He took an enormous bite of croissant and closed his eyes in bliss. ‘Perfection. But the last one I’ll ever have,’ he said, still with his eyes shut.
‘He says that every Thursday,’ Neil said and winked at Rachel. ‘Thursday is a croissant day. On Mondays he has a doughnut, Tuesdays a Danish, Wednesday’s a Belgian bun day and on Friday Roger treats himself to a fresh fruit tart. You must try one of those, they are really delicious.’
She laughed and, at the sound, Roger opened his eyes. ‘It’s the tiny pleasures in life that makes it more bearable, I’ve often found.’ He sat up. ‘Now Rachel, tell me how you are getting on with old Mrs Lewis’s cottage.’
Rachel hesitated. She thought of the Huntley and Palmer’s biscuit tin still containing the secrets of Hetty’s life. That the memoir had been so candid had surprised and shocked her. She had expected something duller; a dry account of an Edwardian miss, perhaps.
After the initial excitement, she’d avoided reading any of it recently, having become uneasy at delving so deeply into the woman’s life. When she was on her own in the evenings and it was quiet, it was all too easy to imagine the tangible presence of Henrietta Trenchard-Lewis in her home. Sometimes there was an echo of the woman so strong that Rachel could almost conjure up her image. She thought of Friday night when she’d suddenly become very aware of the dense
