Murder? In Dunsborough

By Sanitee T'Chong

In 1959 Constance Foster opened a bookshop in the old Craig Inn of Dunsborough, Norfolk. She employed 11 year-old Amanda Romanie to assist. Over the next 16 months Constance befriended the local Squire, Nathan Ashbourne, a recluse on his Holtbrooke Estate, whose young wife, Stella, had suddenly left him in 1914—some 45 years previously—without explanation. By 1960 Mrs. Brier, the local and malicious Dunsborough patroness, successfully forced Constance to give up her bookshop. Constance returned to London, with Amanda as her ward.
Ten years later, in 1969, Constance and Amanda visit Dunsborough. They meet Stella’s grandson, Jonathan Ashbourne, who now resides at Holtbrooke Hall. Amanda finds a news-clip about the sudden “accidental” death of Jonathan’s grandfather, Frederick Ashbourne, back in 1914. Amanda is convinced that Frederick was murdered. With the help of Constance and Jonathan, and a touch of romance, she sets out to prove it was indeed murder, and to explain why Stella left so suddenly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Warrior Publishers
• Release date: Apr 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005221706

Sanitee T'Chong

Sanitee T'Chong is a mysterious, low profile academic...

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Murder ? in Dunsborough

Sanitee T’Chong

Copyright 2022 Sanitee T’Chong

Published by Warrior Publishers at Smashwords

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FICTION

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Table of Contents

Chapter One. Going Back

Chapter Two. Dunsborough

Chapter Three. Murder?

Chapter Four. London

Chapter Five. Mysterious Encounters

Chapter Six. Clues

Chapter Seven. Secrets

Chapter Eight. More Secrets

Chapter Nine. Stella

Chapter Ten. Reflections

Chapter Eleven. Revelations

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Chapter One

Going Back

Mrs. Constance Armitage-Foster set about making tea in her small two-bedroom flat, located in a quiet set of tenements in Norbury, London. She placed the small kettle on the two-burner gas range of cream and lime-green enamel, checked some freshly baked scones warming in the small oven beneath, then laid out two cups with saucers on a small, round dining table. As she glanced at herself in a small mirror hanging above the mantle that squared off a small gas-fired hearth she reflected for a moment on how time had passed so quickly. It had been ten years now, she knew, and she had not returned to Dunsborough, not once, in all that time. Nor had Amanda, except one time, when her father had died unexpectedly, when the girl was barely thirteen.

Constance—or Connie—Foster, as she was more commonly known, was pleased that Mrs. Romanie had allowed Amanda to live in London, and be taken care of. It would be one less soul for Amanda’s mother to feed and clothe, and Mrs. Romanie would more stridently insist her two other older daughters carry a greater burden of the household chores and expenses. Of course Mrs. Romanie had been somewhat disappointed with the girl’s final Elementary School grade, which, had it been better, would have allowed Amanda to choose a High School, but it was even more worrisome when Amanda had been suspended from her allotted Technical School in her first term. Mrs. Foster’s offer to take Amanda in hand and enroll her in a London technical Course of Librarianship and Archives Management was, thus, welcomed.

Mrs. Romanie had felt sorry for Constance’s troubles about her bookshop in Dunsborough, but would never say so. She liked Constance, but she stood as an outsider—even though Connie had lived in the Dunsborough area for some ten years—and was better educated. Mrs. Romanie feared putting herself in harm’s way if she were to become too close to Constance. Nevertheless, through Amanda’s occasional letters to Constance, Mrs. Romanie had kept in touch, at least for the first six months, until Amanda had taken up Connie’s offer.

So now, it had been almost ten years since Amanda had come to live with Constance in Norbury, and Amanda had done well for herself, and had her father still been alive Mr. Romanie would have been proud. She had finished her Course in four years, so at age seventeen was able to gain employment at a large local library, as well as take on some part-time work at a fashionable book store. It was the late 1960s, now, and people had money and leisure time. The younger generation sought out all kinds of books—philosophy, politics, travel, and newly written novels by nouveau writers trying to make a name for themselves. And no doubt influenced by her friends, Amanda, not to be left out, so thought Mrs. Foster, had been coaxed finally into reading more than Noddy and Orr Wullie.

As she awaited for Amanda to come from work, Mrs. Foster reflected on her own two years, almost, in Dunsborough, where she had attempted to set up a bookshop in 1959, which, although financially viable, failed because of her own exorcism from the town. Nevertheless, through her endeavour she had come to meet some agreeable local folk, not least of which was Mrs. Romanie, the laundry woman and domestic, and her then eleven-year old daughter, Amanda Romanie, who had helped in the bookshop.

Mr. Croft, the local herdsman and handyman, too, was amiable and helpful, along with his troop of Sea-scouts, of which Charlie McKenzie was the leader. Then there was Nelson Milo, quite the opposite, a lackadaisical young man who worked at FOX in London but spent much of his time in Dunsborough doing—well, not much at all, really. Constance smiled to herself with some amusement.

There was also the well-meaning Mr. Debett, the local fishmonger, who attempted to push the sale of his shop onto Mrs. Foster, and Mr. Dabble, the banker—who the children nicknamed Potato Head—and whom Mrs. Foster had found as cold and as calculating as her very own Solicitor, Mr. Timothy Rosenthorn, and not the other Solicitor, Mr. Jurey, whom no one seemed to have ever met.

There was also Emily Whashford, preferably called Vera, who ran a dress shop and haberdashery of sorts next-door but one, across the lane, to her own bookshop. Constance reminisced how Vera had made a dress, of insistent bright pink, almost transparent, for Constance to wear to Mrs. Scarlet and Colonel Brier’s cocktail party one time, and only time, held at Briercrest Manor, the largest ‘aristocratic’ house in Dunsborough, perched on a high hill looking down over the town.

Then there was, finally, Nathan Ashbourne, the nemesis, it would seem, of Mrs. Brier, and the true and only Esquire of Dunsborough, who had secluded himself in Holtbrooke Hall for some forty years. It could easily be said that Nathan was the only person of culture and intellect in the whole town. Mrs. Foster had occasionally encountered him on walks around the boggy marshes and crags, and had solicited his opinions on various book titles. And, much to Mrs. Brier’s ire, Constance had been the only one whom Nathan had ever invited to tea at Holtbrooke Hall.

But all these were past now, ten years past, and, she had thought, almost forgotten. She had taken on Amanda as a ward, and the future lay ahead…

Her reflections were interrupted as she heard Amanda put a key into the Lockwood silver lock and fling open the door with her usual flourish. The mantel clock chimed exactly quarter-to-five—which jarred a memory of Constance having arrived at Mr. Ashbourne’s home for tea, all those years ago. Amanda was a little early, having arranged to celebrate her birthday with tea and scones, and later attend a café for dinner with Constance.

Hello, Constance. She had been invited to call Mrs. Foster by her first name since she was 16, perhaps as a sign of her growing maturity then.

She dumped her hand-bag and a rather large parcel on the small rose-coloured sofa. Constance thought Amanda still had some way to go, even at age twenty-one, with domestic etiquette. Nevertheless she had grown into an attractive female, although Constance still had a problem coming to terms with that rather puffy, silk hair that scraggled in all directions, it seemed, from Amanda’s head.

But otherwise Amanda was now tall, her face narrower, having lost much of her childhood girly looks, and very womanly, as well as being well-spoken when she wanted. Overall, her mildly round face of fair skin was quite pretty, retaining some freckles across her cheeks and short, almost bulbous nose that comfortably sat above a wide mouth, and which led to bright almost gray eyes and soft brown brows barely arching above.

Happy birthday Amanda. Constance smiled. How was your day?

Oh, the same-same, she huffed a little, shrugging her shoulders, as she took a seat at the table.

That’s good. I’ve made the tea. We’ll just have a bite, you think…? as she placed the still warm scones on a place-mat. Then get ready for dinner, at the café. I think you will be allowed to have a glass of wine, tonight, she winked.

Amanda smiled, inwardly reflecting that this was not the first time she had had alcohol. Although she was a well-behaved girl, she had been with school friends on more than one occasion, and had indulged in what Constance might think as risqué activities.

I have a gift for you, of course. Constance bustled at the small sideboard and brought forth a small package, bound with plain brown paper and string. I guess you know it’s a book, no less, she smiled as usual. And a cardigan, but not pink, she added as she handed another plain brown paper bag to her ward. She always gave Amanda a book and some piece of clothing every birthday. In that respect Constance had little imagination.

Thank you, Mrs. Foster, she grinned. I mean, Constance. What have you got me this time? Let’s see, Gulliver’s Travels? she teased as she pulled the string bow and dexterously unwrapped the package. "Oh! Another volume by Somerset Maugham! I do like him, the rich description he uses."

You’re welcome, my dear. And the cardigan, have a look. It’s a darkish blue, I think it suits you.

Constance poured the tea from a smallish pot covered with a wooly rainbow cozy as Amanda pulled the cardigan from the open bag and held it up against her chest.

It fits. Oh thank you, again, Constance.

My pleasure. Now have your tea and a scone with jam. And tell me about your day.

Well… it was the same as most days…you know. Nothing special. Amanda buttered a scone and put too much jam on it, but she was fond of marmalade. But there was one thing happened….

Oh? Indeed. What? Constance asked with frowned curiosity.

A package came for you, at the library. I had it sent there, so it would be a surprise. Lucky it came on my birthday.

Yes, indeed, but what is it, my dear?

Amanda took the two steps to the large parcel she had flopped on to the sofa, and with a thump plomped it down on the table, almost spilling the tea.

Oh my, it’s very large. And I would say the way it’s wrapped, it’s some books.

Yes, ten of them in fact. But ten of the same…

I don’t understand, Amanda, why would I want ten copies of one book?

Haha! she laughed lightly. You don’t remember…? You once ordered two hundred copies of Lady Chatterley’s Lover!

Yes, of course I remember. But that was different, they were for sale.

Well, these are not for sale, ma’am, they’re for you to give to whosoever you like, she explained in a pretentious voice and giving a little curtsy.

Alright then. As you please. But do open it. I am intrigued now what book you want me to give to friends. Surely not another edition of Lady Chatterley!

Ha, no. Don’t be daft, Constance.

With a flurry she pulled the string bow and quickly revealed from beneath the brown paper two piles of identical books, ten in all, as Amanda had said.

Constance picked one up and stared at the cover. She was instantly confronted by her own self, a picture taken perhaps a few years earlier, standing in front of an old bookshop, that certainly had some similarity to her own, before, in Dunsborough. And then the title in large letters: The Olde Bookshop. When she could draw her eyes away from the picture her attention dropped to the name of the author in large white letters across the bottom: AMANDA ROMANIE.

I…I…I don’t know what to say. What on earth is this? she asked in a level-headed manner, too bewildered to be otherwise. You wrote this book? You’re an author?

Amanda merely nodded.

It’s about your bookshop, in Dunsborough. But of course, I had to change some names…and a few details, she mumbled, seemingly unconcerned with what she had achieved, while munching on her warm, soft scone.

How in Heaven did you manage this? And the front cover…How…? How…?

Constance was, to say the least, flabbergasted, not only with the fact that the 11 year old girl she had known who read only Noddy in 1959 was now herself an author, but also, not knowing how front covers were concocted and created, how could she, Mrs. Foster, appear in such public view.

You remember I used to write them…

"Those," Constance corrected her.

"….those compositions, and I wouldn’t show you?"

Yes.

Well, I had an idea. To keep a diary of sorts, little stories about things that happened, in the bookshop, to different people. Of course I had to fill in gaps, you know, make things up, but it was fun. It was like a puzzle.

Constance could now see how all this came about: Amanda was always all-ears, observant, and she never forgot details, at least those that were important to her. And she had always had imagination. Constance could recall how Amanda, despite her own rather unkempt appearance and fidgeting at times, was also very orderly, so it would not be difficult to imagine the girl putting a puzzle, as she called, of social life together.

And the cover…? How did you manage….?

Constance could barely imagine how Amanda could create such a beautiful but complex cover; she didn’t have an artist’s bone in her body.

Oh that. I took that picture from an album you have, then got my friend at school to help with the design. She’s good like that.

Well, she sighed. "I don’t know what to say. This is the best birthday gift, even if it is not my birthday."

I’m glad you like it. I hope you don’t mind? she thought to check.

Oh no. No, no. I can’t wait to read it.

Yes, tonight, we will read it together.

I think we should get ready for dinner, Amanda. I am speechless. Perhaps dinner will give me some time to take all this in.

Oh, but there is one more thing, Amanda stared at Constance with great earnest.

What’s that? There can’t be more surprises in one day!

Actually, there can be.

What is it, Amanda? Don’t tell me you’ve copied the Mona Lisa to perfection?

Ha! No. You know I can’t paint.

I didn’t know you could…well, write a novel, either!

It’s just that, this book, was published a year ago….

And you didn’t tell me then? Constance was not cross, just confused why this child whom she cared for so much over the preceding ten years didn’t tell her earlier.

I wanted to be sure…and keep it for today. Maybe you would have put me out the flat.

Don’t be silly, Amanda. I would never do that.

Good, because I have more news.

Oh what is it, Amanda? I’m feeling a bit flustered already.

The publisher…He submitted it…for a prize, a book competition.

And…? Constance could hardly contain herself.

It won…. Sort of…

Oh Heaven! Constance bustled as quickly as she could to Amanda’s side and hugged her warmly. That’s wonderful! What book prize?

"The National Book Award, I think they call it. It didn’t actually win, but was nominated."

Gracious me! This is all too much. I think we need hurry. I surely need that glass of wine now. I’ll just change my dress then we’ll go.

With that Constance slipped off a flowery apron to reveal a mauve one-piece dress which, like all her dresses, reached her shins and made her look smaller than the five-feet she actually was. Then she filed into her bedroom, glad to do something normal, something domestic, to give her thoughts time to stop whirling.

A few minutes later she emerged in an Irish-green blouse complemented by a light-brown, long flannel skirt, carrying a beige summer coat. Her slim, small figure was complemented by a narrow, rather non-descript face, not wholly unattractive, with mildly sunken cheeks, a narrow straight nose, a small mouth lightly lip-sticked in pale rose, small black eyes, and short black hair always tied up in some kind of bun.

Amanda meanwhile had freshened up a little her cosmetics and perhaps untangled a few strands of her wispy hair. She didn’t bother to change from her working clothes of brown slacks and sky-blue blouse, but threw on her new cardigan to match, as the weather could readily take a sudden turn.

~

At the café Constance ordered two coffees then they took a window seat so as to watch the passers-by. Amanda was keen on watching people, dreaming of characters she could use, wondering where they might be going, where they had been, their lives, their thoughts, conversations they might have had…. Constance also liked to look upon the bustle, as she had no other view these days. She and Amanda visited the seaports in the summer to get some fresh air and take long walks, to savour the English countryside which they both somewhat missed, but other than that, life had become a drudgery.

Coffee had moved on from Nelson Milo’s offer of Nescafé in 1959, and Constance had acquired a taste for brewed coffee, although she typically much preferred English tea.

The cafe was new in the street; small, but cozy, with white linen tables and hard wooden chairs. Being a Friday it was a little busy. Neither of the women were partial to the fish offered; both had been spoiled by the freshness of the Dunsborough catch. Together they settled for small portions of meatloaf, roasted potato, and some greens.

It’s not a grand meal for your twenty-first, Amanda. I’m sorry. I don’t really know what young girls of age do to celebrate, Constance observed as she sipped her small coffee.

It’s fine, Constance. I don’t expect. I am just happy we can spend a little time, doing something different, again. I’m happy to be with you, and appreciate your kindness.

I think we should order that bottle of wine. We indeed have much celebrating to do.

Besides, I will go out tomorrow night, with friends, and skylark a bit.

That’s good. Don’t do anything foolish, my girl, Constance mildly remonstrated, looking over her cup.

Would you like to come, Constance?

Oh no. You young people do what you enjoy. Anyway, I have a book to read! In fact, ten books to read.

They both laughed. Constance caught the attention of the waiter and ordered a bottle of Shiraz.

The coffee done, they soon sipped on the red liquid, still waiting for their food.

So, this prize of yours…. You have a certificate, a trophy…? Constance broached.

Yes, of course, both. But also, some money.

Constance raised her brows in bright surprise: Oh I dare say…That’s jolly good.

Yes, and it’s quite large—three thousand pounds.

Oh my, oh my. Constance so stared at this once scraggly girl, then shook her head, as if to shake all other thoughts from her mind. That’s just….just…oh so wonderful, Amanda. What will you do with it?

Although Constance herself had once borrowed from the bank in Dunsborough some three thousand pounds, she had never actually seen it, it had never really been hers. She could barely imagine what such an amount looked liked, or the many things toward which it could be used.

I have an idea, but first, I want to ask you a question.

Constance raised her eyebrows at the seriousness with which Amanda now spoke.

Yes… Go on.

I really appreciate all that you have done for me. I must have been a brat at times.

No, never. You had your moods, but I was always happy to have you with me.

Why didn’t you have children, Constance?

Is that what you wanted to ask me?

No.

Well…, she sighed, reflecting on her fifty years of life and some ten years of marriage to Mr. Armitage, deceased now, since 1949. We simply never got around to it…and the war. It wasn’t something you…I…we, my husband and I, consciously thought about.

You loved him?

Yes, of course…wait a minute, why are you asking this? Are you pregnant, Amanda?

Ha no. I’m just curious… So am I the child you never had?

Oh no, I never thought of it, us, that way…..I…I just felt somehow, you know, we could be friends, you gave me company, made me laugh. I helped you….I never really thought about it. Just goes with my maiden name, I guess, Foster. It means ‘carer’ or nurturer, you know, in old English. But why are you asking? Is this what you wanted to know?

No. I’m just curious. But, you don’t have family…?

I suppose not. I have a cousin, still, I think, somewhere in Kent, who sends me the occasional Christmas card.

I see… So, what I did want to ask is this: How could you afford to pay for me, my school? To support me. You left Dunsborough with nothing. You work simply in a bookstore. I appreciate what you have done, I love being friends, but it must have been hard for you.

Ah, I see. There’s a gap in your story. A piece of the ‘puzzle’?

Yes.

Well, you know Mr. Nathan Ashbourne died, suddenly. We all know it was shortly after his leaving Mrs. Brier’s house, Briercrest Manor.

Yes. And aptly named, I should think.

Yes. Be that as it may… So, all we can surmise is that he had a stressful encounter with her, and he died of a heart attack.

Yes. But that doesn’t answer my question. Did you have a relationship with him. You know it was all over the village?

Ha! No, and no. I didn’t know everyone thought that. And no, I didn’t have anything but a platonic relationship. He once said to me that he had wished he had met me in another time. So I suspect in all his loneliness he had found me, shall we say, exciting.

And you?

"Oh no. He was endearing. A gentleman, a man of culture. I had one husband, and will remain faithful to him."

But you still haven’t answered my question. The doggedness of the child-Amanda flared.

Well, unbeknown to me, Mr. Ashbourne left me, in his Will, five thousand pounds, with a sealed note.

I thought he died intestate, without a Will? Amanda inquired.

Apparently not. The cheque came with his note from another solicitor, in London, not Mr. Jurey. Mr. Ashbourne didn’t trust any solicitors in Norfolk.

What did the note say?

Oh, something like, I had given him faith in humanity, culture, innocence…and so on. That I had ‘courage’. And he wanted me to have the money so as to start afresh, somewhere else perhaps, to bring my spirit to other people, more deserving. He had little respect for the fools of Dunsborough.

I assume, then, he meant you could start another bookshop, somewhere else, where there was no Mrs. Brier?

There is always a Mrs. Brier, my dear, always a thorn. That is why it makes the world, progress, so horrid.

But you didn’t start a new bookshop.

No, I put it into the new generation.

That was a gamble, I dare say!

Yes, but it paid off !

By this time they had each finished a glass of wine, and thankfully their dinners were served, or else Constance may well have over-indulged on an empty stomach. They ate with little conversation, briefly commenting on the moderately tasty meatloaf and potatoes, and occasionally drawing one another’s attention to some odd character strolling past whom they had observed.

Constance leaned back and relaxed after finishing her food. It wasn’t often she could escape cooking for a growing girl.

Let’s have another glass of wine. I think you deserve at least that much.

Yes, please, Amanda beamed. She wanted to boost her courage, and fortify Constance for what she was about to say.

Drink slowly, Amanda. We still have that book to read.

Ah yes, the book….

Constance furrowed her brow as she usually did when she was concerned or couldn’t understand something.

Or rather, the money…., Amanda continued. Have you ever thought about opening another bookshop, Mrs. Foster? She beamed from ear to ear, steadfastly looking at Constance.

No. No I haven’t. I’m quite happy where I am, surrounded by books and meeting people who also like books. And all without the worry of double-column book-keeping, thank you.

I was thinking…with the prize money, we could…

Constance put up her hand to stop Amanda saying what she could now predict. The girl hadn’t expected such a strong and negative response, but thought it was perhaps justified after the way Mrs. Foster had been mistreated in Dunsborough.

Sorry, Constance. I thought I could do something for you, after all you have done for me.

Constance patted Amanda’s hand that lay on the table. You don’t have to do that, my reward has already come. I am so proud of you!

And… Maybe you owe it to Mr. Ashbourne, do you think?

Owe him? I didn’t kill him, Amanda. It was the fault of Mrs. Brier, I should think, if anyone is to blame. I know he went there on my behalf, or so he said he would do so, but according to the Colonel, what he said to me in the bookshop, Mr. Ashbourne had gone to Mrs. Brier to congratulate her on the art centre.

We don’t know that for sure, Constance. Anyway, times have changed, people have passed, to be sure. I just thought you could start again, your dream, in Dunsborough.

Dunsborough does not deserve a bookshop, Amanda. At least not one I could bring them. As Mr. Ashbourne would agree, I dare say.

Fine then. Amanda could clearly hear some bitterness in Constance’s voice, so felt it better to leave the topic at that, for the time being.

Perhaps you could go home for a vacation, Amanda, Constance suggested, trying to think of something positive to say. You haven’t seen your family, now, for what? Eight years?

Yes, I could, I suppose. But… Won’t you please come, also? she almost pleaded.

Oh I don’t know. I’m not sure I would want to see the old place again.

Oh please do. It’s changed, I’m sure, and I would value your company, really I would.

Let’s read your book first. And I will give it some consideration. By the way, has anyone in Dunsborough read your book?

Oh don’t be daft. How could they? There’s no book shop in Dunsborough!

The mood relaxed a little as they both laughed at the irony.

***

Over the next two days, being a weekend, Constance and Amanda frequently sat together beneath a sunny window and rapidly read the girl’s tome. Often Constance would disrupt the process by asking how Amanda knew this event or that conversation, and at times pointing out that something was not exactly how Amanda had made it appear. But Amanda always replied she had to make things up, it was fiction, and she had poetic licence.

By Sunday, as the brightness and warmth of the summer day waned, the two women sat down together for a light dinner, before each of them prepared for work the next day.

I’ve decided, Amanda, Constance initiated. I will accompany you, to Dunsborough, if that’s what you want. Though, I don’t know what I will do there.

Long walks perhaps, along the marshes, Amanda suggested.

And I don’t know who might be there, who would want to see me.

Oh I am sure Mr. Croft would be pleased. And Emily Whashford, the dressmaker.

Oh, how could I forget that horrid pink dress, of all things! I felt like a walking pink rose amongst the briers. But no, she was a bit surly with me in the end.

People change, Constance. I dare say some of the older folks, your bank manager, for instance, has moved on.

Moved on? I wonder what happened to Nelson…?

He hasn’t been seen since the fire. Some say he went mad and wandered off some where. That’s what Charlie told me when I was last there.

Oh. You don’t say.

Yes. And Charlie thinks he started the fire and got himself trapped inside, and it sent him mad. Serve him right!

And Mrs. Brier….?

That painted witch! I don’t know. She was there eight years ago, of course, but now…she must be over seventy by now, to be sure.

Well, thank goodness I got the books sent down to London before the fire. I managed to sell them, you know, most of them anyway, through my work place, at cost, of course. That’s how I was able to pay back the bank, and with some help from Mr. Ashbourne’s money.

Yes, I know. You told me, some years ago.

So, Dunsborough…? Constance raised her brow. Well, when shall we go? Soon, I should think, while the season is still warm.

I think perhaps a week from tomorrow? That would give us time to arrange our absence from work, for five days? Don’t you think?

Constance agreed. And while she spent the next seven days with some misgivings, she nevertheless slowly prepared a modest suitcase.

***

The train ride to Stownmarket from London was pleasant enough, the two women chatting aimlessly between stints of reading and looking out upon the passing scenery. From the station they caught a taxi to a Bed-and-Breakfast that Amanda had booked, as Constance didn’t want to actually sleep in Dunsborough. They would wander about Stownmarket for the rest of the day, before heading out by bus to Dunsborough proper.

The B&B was a modest cottage of newly painted white terracotta walls, an old gray slated roof, and a small manicured garden in front. Mrs. Biddy, the proprietor, sat on the front porch as the two ladies alighted from the local cab. She was a short rather plumpish woman, with Scottish red hair tightly tied up in a bun, ruddy flabby cheeks and a short nose. She wore a cotton, flowery dress mostly covered by a black apron, and solid black boots. She was pleasant and smiling in greeting the two ladies.

I’ll show y’r room, then, she spoke softly as the two travellers stepped into a small entry hall. Up the stairs if you be mind, I have five rooms to let, all upstairs, if you don’t be mindful. Most are full right now, but it’s quiet, all the same.

Room Two subsisted as a pleasant although small room, large enough for two single beds, an old ply wardrobe, a vanity table, and an even smaller bathroom. Much of the thin walls were coated with wallpaper in soft colours of a bygone style.

Breakfast’s at seven thirty, but gets run out for some of the lazy bones we have come through ‘ere.

Thank you, Mrs. Biddy, Constance responded. Can you suggest a nice place for lunch or dinner? It’s been quite a while since I have been here.

Oh I dare say I can. Take a walk down the high street, you’ll find quite a few of those new café type places, and the pub, of course. They serve some dinners now, you know. They did what’s called an extension, on account of more and more people coming through here. Mostly youngins.

Thank you.

So you be having a vacation yer-self then? Mrs. Biddy enquired of the ladies, more to be intrusive than from genuine interest.

You could say that, Amanda informed her. We’re actually going up to Dunsborough tomorrow, to visit some old friends.

Oh, that be so? No doubt you will find that place a’changed. People come, people gone…

Oh, you know it so well, then, ma’am? Amanda wormed.

I do indeedy. I have a sister in them parts. And you know these small places, news abounds.

Yes, of course, Constance interceded. You know Mrs. Brier then? Of Briercrest Manor?

Oh yes, indeedy, I do. By name only, however. The old lady, we call her. You know her husband, Colonel…? Colonel something….I can’t quite recall, he passed away a few years back. Bless his soul. She quickly made a sign of the Cross.

I’m sorry to hear that, Constance feigned her condolences.

Yes, yes. And shortly after that, I think it must have been too much for Mrs. Brier …..soon after she had a stroke. Hasn’t been quite right in the ’ead ever since. If you know what I mean. Mrs. Biddy tapped her temple with her stubby forefinger, to give emphasis.

The two guests looked at one another with burning curiosity.

Oh how sad, Constance again proffered.

Oh, you know her, d’you? Mrs. Biddy asked, thinking now she may have given away too much information.

Only as an acquaintance, Constance assured her.

Righto. Then I’ll leave yer to freshen up.

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