Hugh chuckled. “Spoken like a true Londoner. But there’s an alleyway behind the houses that serves both North and South Crofts.
The houses on South Crofts have some lovely Victorian decorations—
stained glass, mosaic tiles.”
Soon the lane curved to the left—the bottom of the horseshoe formed by the two streets, Hugh explained—and they passed the alleyway he had mentioned. Hugh steered her gently again, this time towards the dark mouth of a tunnel formed by overarching green-ery. The snow was lighter, but footprints were still visible in the dusting of powder.
“Public footpath,” he explained. “It connects the Crofts with the center of town. The children will have come this way before us.”
Gemma ducked and pulled up her collar as a clump of snow fell from one of the overhanging branches. “I thought public footpaths crossed farmers’ fields.”
“This one probably did, at one time. Now, however,” he added as they emerged from the tunnel, “it brings us to Monk’s Lane. There are very fine Georgian buildings here.” Gemma looked where Hugh pointed, but again her view was blocked by a wall. Walls, tunnels, secrets, and enveloping deathly quiet—Gemma wasn’t sure she liked this place at all.
“Caspar’s office is just there,” Hugh said as they reached the end of the row, his tone indicating that Caspar didn’t deserve to have an office in a hovel, much less a fine Georgian building. “And off to the
left is the Bowling Green pub, where Caspar stopped off on his way home.”
“Does he make a habit of it?” asked Gemma.
“I don’t know. I’m not usually privy to Caspar’s habits. Although we work such a short distance apart, I seldom see him except for family occasions.” He paused, then said more slowly, “I hadn’t realized how bad things had got. Juliet doesn’t talk to us about it—or at least not to me.”
Gemma recalled that she’d said nothing to her parents about the problems she and Rob were having until she’d filed for divorce—
she’d been too humiliated to admit to her parents that her marriage was a failure. She considered sharing this with Hugh, but doubted he would find it comforting.
Hugh stopped, hands in his pockets, staring up at the dark mass of the church now rising like a fortress above them. Even in the dim light Gemma could see that his face looked drawn. “I should have stopped it tonight. She’s my daughter, for God’s sake. He practically called her a whore.”
“You couldn’t have known what he was going to say.”
“No. But I could have waded in afterwards, not left it to Rosemary,” argued Hugh. “Rosemary doesn’t have to think out what to do, she just goes ahead and does it.”
Gemma knew from personal experience that acting before you thought could have regrettable consequences, and, emulating Duncan, had tried to learn to rein in her more impulsive tendencies.
Odd that his father disliked in himself one of the qualities she’d admired in his son.
“Duncan and I stood by, too,” she said. “Sometimes domestic situations blow out of control more quickly than anyone expects.”
“Of course, you’re right,” said Hugh, but Gemma sensed he was merely agreeing out of politeness. “Poor Gemma,” he added, touching her elbow again to draw her on. “Here I said I meant to make up for our bad impression, and I’ve gone and aired the family’s dirty
laundry. Must be Rosemary’s famous punch. Either that or you have a talent for eliciting confi dences.”
“A bit of both, I expect,” Gemma said with a smile. He might have had too much punch, but his footsteps were steadier than hers, and he was very perceptive.
They passed the church, then a snow-covered expanse Gemma assumed must be the green. Their street intersected another at the green’s end, and there Gemma stopped, her mouth open in an “O”
of surprise and delight. This was what Duncan had described, what she had imagined. The buildings ran together higgledy- piggledy, black-and-white timbering against Cheshire redbrick, gingerbread gables, and leaded windows winking like friendly eyes.
This was the High, she saw from a signpost, but she would have known instinctively that she stood in the very heart of the town.
The shops were ordinary—a WH Smith, a Holland & Barrett, a newsagent’s—but they had been tucked into the lower floors of the original Tudor houses, and so were transformed into something quite magical.
The movement of the buildings over the centuries had caused the black-and-white timbering to shift a little, giving the patterns a tilted, slightly rakish air. Snow iced the rooftops, Christmas lights twinkled, bundled pedestrians hurried through the streets, and from somewhere came the faint strains of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentle-men.” Gemma laughed aloud. “It’s perfect. Absolutely. The best sort of Christmas-card perfect.”
“It is rather lovely,” agreed Hugh, the pride in his voice refl ecting her delight. “That’s the Crown Hotel.” He pointed to a particularly fi ne example of half- timbering. “Built in , after the Great Fire.
It’s famous for its continuous upper-story windows. And down this way is Pillory Street, and the bookshop.” He urged her on, and a few moments later she peered into the window of a less remarkable shop front. The windows, however, were dimly lit, and Gemma caught a glimpse of aisles of books, invitingly arranged.
“You do like books?” Hugh asked suddenly.
“I do,” answered Gemma, laughing. “But I didn’t grow up with them, so I haven’t read all that much. Not like Duncan. And with my job, and the children . . .”
“I was afraid I might have bored you, at dinner.”
“Not at all. Will you keep it? The Dickens?”
“It’s tempting,” Hugh admitted with a sigh. “But it’s valuable, and it’s finds like this that pay the bills. Besides, it’s the discovery as much as anything—the thrill of it.”
Gemma thought of the moment of illumination when the parts of a case came together, and imagined that the instant when you realized the book you held in your hands was something special must be the same. “I can understand that.”
Hugh gave her a searching glance. “Yes, I think you can. Duncan and Juliet take books for granted, you know. They’ve lived with them all their lives.
“But my family were shopkeepers in a small Scottish town—they had the newsagent’s—and other than the papers, the most challenging things I saw in print were comics and a few pulp novels. I was good at my schoolwork, however, and won a place at a grammar school. My English teacher encouraged me, and I’ve never forgotten how I felt when I discovered there were more worlds at my fingertips than I had ever imagined, more worlds than I could ever explore . . .”
He stopped, looking abashed. “Oh, dear. I’m pontificating. A very bad habit, when I’ve so willing a listener. And I’m going to make us late,” he added, glancing at his watch. “It’s almost eleven. We’d better go back. I’ll show you the shop tomorrow, if time permits, or the next day.”
They were quiet as they walked back down to the High, but now Gemma felt comfortable with the silence. She’d found unexpected common ground with Hugh Kincaid.
There were more people in the square now, gathering, she guessed, for the midnight service at St. Mary’s. Hugh had started to
lead her across the High when Gemma saw a flare of light from the corner of her eye. It had come from the direction of the Crown Hotel, a match or a lighter, perhaps, she thought as she looked back.