what it meant.”
He set down a bottle he’d been wiping with a cloth and considered his answer. Approaching middle age, with dark, wavy, carefully groomed hair and the beginning of a belly, he seemed happy enough to pass the time chatting. The lounge was almost empty—a bit early for the regular Friday night customers, Gemma supposed—but cozy with a wood fire burning and comfortable tapestry-covered furniture. A buffet of cold pies, salads and cheeses stood at the bar’s end, and she eyed it with anticipation.
Thames Valley CID had certainly been up to the mark, booking her into the pub in Fingest and giving her precise directions. When she arrived she’d found a stack of reports waiting for her in her room, and having attended to them, she had only to enjoy her drink and wait for Kincaid.
“The Chiltern Hundreds, now,” said the barman, bringing Gemma sharply back to the present, “they used to divide counties up into Hundreds, each with its own court, and three of these in Buckinghamshire came to be known as the Chiltern Hundreds because they were in the Chiltern Hills. Stoke, Burnham and Desborough, to be exact.”
“Seems logical,” said Gemma, impressed. “And you’re very knowledgeable.”
“Bit of a local history buff in my spare time. I’m Tony, by the way.” He thrust a hand over the bar and Gemma shook it.
“Gemma.”
“All the Hundreds are obsolete now, but the Stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds is still a nominal office under the Chancellor of the Exchequer, the holding of which is the only reason one is allowed to resign from the House of Commons. A bit of jiggery-pokery, really, and probably the only reason the office still exists.” He smiled at her, showing strong, even, white teeth. “There, I’ve probably told you more than you ever wanted to know. Get you a refill?”
Gemma glanced at her almost-empty glass, deciding she’d drunk as much as she ought if she wanted to keep a clear head. “Better not, thanks.”
“You here on business? We don’t let the rooms much this time of year. November in these hills is not exactly a drawing point for holiday-makers.”
“Quite,” said Gemma, remembering the fine drizzle under the darkness of the trees. Tony straightened glassware and kept an attentive eye on her at the same time, willing to talk if she wanted, but not pushing her. His self-assured friendliness made her wonder if he might be the pub’s owner or manager, but in any case he was certainly a likely repository for local gossip.
“I’m here about that drowning this morning, actually. Police business.”
Tony stared at her, taking in, she felt sure, the curling ginger hair drawn back with a clip, the casual barley- colored pullover and navy slacks. “You’re a copper? Well, I’ll be.” He shook his head, his wavy hair not disturbed a whit by his incredulity. “Best-looking one I’ve seen, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Gemma smiled, accepting the compliment in the same good humor as it was given. “Did you know him, the man that drowned?”
This time Tony tut-tutted as he shook his head. “What a shame. Oh, everyone around here knew Connor. Doubt there’s a pub between here and London where he hadn’t put his head in once or twice. Or a racetrack. A real Jack the Lad, that one.”
“Well liked, was he?” asked Gemma, fighting her prejudice toward a man on such good terms with pints and horses. Only after she’d married Rob had she discovered that he considered flirting and gambling as inalienable rights.
“Connor was a friendly sort of bloke, always had a word and a pat on the back for you. Good for business, too. After he’d had a couple of pints he’d buy rounds for everybody in the place.” Tony leaned forward against the bar, his face animated. “And what a tragedy for the family, after the other.”
“What other? Whose family?” Gemma asked, wondering if she’d missed a reference to another drowning in the reports she’d read.
“Sorry.” Tony smiled. “It is a bit confusing, I’m sure. Connor’s wife Julia’s family, the Ashertons. Been here for donkey’s years. Connor was upstart Irish, second generation, I think, but all the same…”
“What happened to the Ashertons?” Gemma encouraged him, interested.
“I was just a couple of years out of school, back from trying it out in London.” His white teeth flashed as he smiled. “Decided the big city wasn’t nearly as glamorous as I’d thought. It was just about this time of year, as a matter of fact, and wet. Seemed like it had rained for months on end.” Tony paused and pulled a half-pint mug from the rack, lifting it toward Gemma. “Mind if I join you?”
She shook her head, smiling. “Of course not.” He was enjoying himself thoroughly now, and the longer she let him string out the story, the more detail she’d get.
He pulled a half-pint of Guinness from the tap and sipped it, then wiped the creamy foam from his upper lip before continuing. “What was his name, now? Julia’s little brother. It’s been twenty years, or close to it.” He ran his fingers lightly over his hair, as if the admission of time passing made him conscious of his age. “Matthew, that was it. Matthew Asherton. All of twelve years old and some sort of musical prodigy, walking home from school one day with his sister, and drowned. Just like that.”
The image of her own son clutched unbidden at Gemma’s heart—Toby half-grown, his blond hair darkened, his face and body maturing from little-boy chubbiness, snatched away. She swallowed and said, “How terrible. For all of them, but especially Julia. First her brother and now her husband. How did the little boy drown?”
“I’m not sure anyone ever really knew. One of those freak things that happen sometimes.” He shrugged and drank down half his Guinness. “Quite a hush-hush at the time. Nobody talked about it except in whispers, and it’s still not mentioned to the family, I suppose.”
A draft of cold air stirred Gemma’s hair and swirled around her ankles as the outer door opened. She turned and watched a foursome come in and settle at a corner table, waving a familiar greeting to Tony. “Reservations in half an hour, Tony,” one of the men called. “Same as usual, okay?”
“It’ll be picking up a bit now,” Tony remarked to Gemma as he began mixing their drinks. “Restaurant usually fills up on a Friday night—all the locals out for their weekly bit of fun, minus the kiddies.” Gemma laughed, and when the air blew cool again against her back she didn’t turn in anticipation.
