stretches of pasturage and a few fields of corn for livestock that were flat enough for aircraft to take off and land. Ideal, then, for a small squadron of night fighters and Zeppelin patrols. What’s more, it was right on the North Sea, with excellent visibility when the sea mists weren’t rolling in.
Frances was saying, “Did you notice? There’s no church to be seen in the village. And no churchyard. How odd! Where do they bury their dead? And there’s no real hotel, is there? Only that tiny inn. It can’t have more than six rooms, and most likely only four. And the way people stared at us, they aren’t used to strangers, are they? I doubt we’ll be dining here after all.”
She was right, he thought. There was no welcome in Furnham. He turned the motorcar and drove back to the village. A few weathered sheds stood back above the tide line, beyond where the boats were drawn up, and a track led out to them.
He pulled up the brake and got out. Frances came to join him and quickly put her hand on her hat. Here the sweep of the wind was fierce.
She hurried back to the motorcar, saying, “You aren’t walking down to the water, are you? It’s about to rain.”
“No.” He could see all he needed to see from where he stood. The wind-whipped water was frothy, as if seething just below the surface. Looking over his shoulder, he could see that rain was imminent, and with it would come colder air. He stayed for a moment longer, watching the boats rock as the tide toyed with them. Beyond was the narrow estuary, and a line of mild turbulence where the river met the sea. Returning to the motorcar, he drove on.
Behind the pub, he glimpsed a seawall where larger craft were tied up, bobbing at anchor, their masts swaying. Slowing again, he watched as a man in a heavy fisherman’s sweater and wool cap came up between two houses, moving briskly along what must be a path. Without looking in their direction, he turned toward the shops and disappeared into one of them.
“I feel overwhelmed by the warmth of our reception,” Frances commented wryly. “Are we leaving, do you think?”
“Not just yet,” Rutledge answered. He wasn’t sure what he’d hoped to find here in Furnham. Whatever it was, he was still unsatisfied.
There were others on the street now, and the feeling that the village must be as deserted as River’s Edge lessened. But the air of friendliness often encountered in summer was still missing. Frances was a very attractive young woman, and yet none of the men had even glanced her way. It was almost as if they wished to discourage any excuse for personal contact.
He’d no more than thought that when a short, heavyset man coming their way stopped and said brusquely, “Looking for someone?”
Not “Can I help you?” or “New to Furnham, are you?”
“Actually,” Rutledge answered, pulling up, “we were wondering where we might have lunch.”
The man considered them. “We don’t run to restaurants,” he replied. “Not here. You might find something more to your liking back the way you’ve come.”
But there was nothing back the way they’d come. Not for miles. While over the man’s shoulder, Rutledge could see what appeared to be a small shop of no particular distinction perhaps, but most certainly catering to the local people. He thanked the man, who walked on without another word.
Rutledge pulled to the far side of the street, indicating the shop.
“We might try our luck here,” he suggested. “Not precisely the Michelin Guide, but we could do with a cup of tea, don’t you think?”
“Ian,” Frances said quietly, “I really feel we ought to take the none-too-subtle hint and be on our way. In fact, I’ve rather lost any appetite I might have had.”
“Quite,” he answered but nodded toward the shop as two women stepped out and turned up the street, not looking at them. “All the same, it could be two hours or more before we find a suitable restaurant. Let’s take our courage in our hands and go inside. Those women seem to have survived the experience.”
Frances laughed. “You are impossibly optimistic.”
Coming around to open her door for her, he added, “Surely not everyone in Furnham is churlish. There could even be a friendly smile inside that door.”
But as they stepped into what turned out to be a small tearoom-cum-bakery, he caught the quick look the woman behind the counter gave them and watched her mouth turn down, as if she resented their intrusion.
It was cozy enough, inside out of the wind. Pretty blue checkered linen covered the tables, and the chairs were painted white. A large mural along the back wall showed the sea on a sunny day, the water as blue as the sky, and white puffs of cloud sailing along the horizon. A man and a woman sat on the strand, a picnic basket between them, while three children splashed in the water or built sand castles with the aid of a small green bucket and a white shovel. It was unexpectedly good workmanship. A local artist, or someone from the flying field?
The woman was saying, “Sorry, love, we’re just closing.” In spite of the friendly words, her voice was cold.
The three elderly women sitting in the far corner turned to look in Rutledge’s direction, taking in what his sister was wearing, and then turning away, as if they’d lost interest.
“I expect,” he said pleasantly, “that you could provide a cup of tea for two travelers who have lost their way.” He ushered Frances to a table and stood waiting for the woman to answer.
With poor grace, she said, “A cup of tea then.”
Frances was about to protest, saw her brother’s expression, and sat down in the chair he was holding for her.
As he joined her at the table to await their tea, Frances said quietly, “This is Yard business, isn’t it?”
Without denying it, Rutledge looked out the window at the buildings straggling along the riverfront across the way. One, he thought, was indeed a small schoolhouse, and another appeared to be a shoemaker’s shop, a third a chandler’s. Furnham gave him the impression that it hadn’t changed since Queen Victoria’s day. And its inhabitants seemed to be intent on keeping it that way.
And yet the airfield must have provided the decent if overgrown road that he had followed out here, keeping to the river most of the way and turning only when it opened into the sea beyond. There would have been officers to house, and the pilots. Had there also been an antiaircraft battery? The crews who kept the aircraft flying, the men who fed all of them, saw to their needs, maintained the fields they used for runways, and kept up the buildings they lived in must, at a guess, have doubled the population of Furnham. They must also have brought with them the breath of an outside world the local people were so intent on shutting out. Yet there was no sign as far as he could tell that the airfield had ever existed. As if on the day the war ended, those who had lived and worked there were as eager to make their escape from this isolation as their neighbors were to be rid of them, and like the Arabs, folded their tents and quietly melted away. He could almost envisage Furnham mustering to a man to tear down and obliterate this thorn in their side.
Their tea was brought on a tray painted with wildflowers tied in a bunch by a pretty ribbon. The woman set down a pot and two cups, spoons, a bowl of sugar and a small jug of milk without a word. As she went back to her counter, Rutledge saw a young couple start to enter the shop, notice the strangers by the window, and turn away.
Frances drank her tea with an air of enjoying it, and Rutledge was amused. He rather thought she was determined to make the shop owner, if that was who she was, suffer their presence for as long as possible. He caught the glint in her eyes as she leisurely accepted a second cup and made light conversation as she drank it. Finally, with no tea left in pot or cup, she smiled at him and thanked him.
“That was lovely, Ian. Not quite the luncheon I was promised, but a very nice interlude indeed,” she added sweetly, just loud enough for the woman behind the counter to hear.
He paid for the tea, then escorted his sister from the shop. Outside, she said in a low voice, “I swear there must be at least a dozen daggers in my back. Will you pull them out? If looks could kill, I ought to be dead by now. And you as well.”
Laughing, he said, “Thanks for being a good sport.”
They were walking back to their car when another man, dressed in corduroy trousers and an old shirt, stopped them and asked, “Looking to find property hereabouts, are you?”
Surprised, Rutledge said, “Why do you think we’re interested in property?”
