I nodded, not wanting to admit that I’d got nothing done.
“Very,” Anna said. “It’s all starting to come together.”
“Glad to hear it,” Len replied. “I’m really enjoying the peace and quiet. Never a peaceful moment when I work at home.”
Kyle and Paul walked over to the table and took their seats—Kyle between me and Len, and Paul next to Anna. Yvonne was the last one to arrive in the dining room. She appeared distracted and annoyed until her gaze fell on Len, who was watching her openly, a small smile tugging at his lips. He patted the chair next to him, and she obediently sat down, her gaze warming by about twenty degrees as she smiled back at him.
“Good morning?” Len asked her.
“Excellent,” she replied, practically beaming at him.
Lisa and Alastair came in and placed a tureen of tomato basil soup and a platter of ham sandwiches on the table. We all helped ourselves and spent the next half hour discussing our literary efforts. I had nothing to contribute, not having written a word, but I listened with interest, amazed by the childish bragging of my fellow authors. Did other writers really note exactly how many words they’d written per hour? Surely it was about content, not word count. But to each his own, I supposed. Everyone had their own process. A romance novelist I knew wrote ten pages every day, no more, no less. She would then immediately edit what she’d written so she wouldn’t have to go back and do it later. That way, she would finish a book a month, quite an accomplishment, I thought.
I waited until Kyle finished his meal, then turned to him, keeping my voice low, but not low enough, as it turned out. “Kyle, can I have a word in private?”
“You two have known each other less than twenty-four hours and already you have private things to discuss?” Paul joked. “I feel like I’m falling behind schedule. Yvonne, should we have a word in private as well?” he asked, wiggling his eyebrows at her.
Yvonne gave him a frosty look, clearly not amused. “I have work to do,” she said, and pushed her plate away. “Have a good rest of the day, everyone.”
“She must have been standing in a different line when they were giving out a sense of humor,” Paul said.
No one replied. It was too soon to start openly criticizing each other. Apparently annoyed that his joke had fallen flat, Paul stood and left the room, with Anna trailing on his heels. Len pushed away from the table, his curious gaze on me and Kyle.
Kyle smiled at me and stood. “I’m entirely at your disposal. I’ll see you later, Len.”
We retired to one of the smaller parlors and settled in the comfortable wingchairs by the hearth, sighing with pleasure as the warmth of the fire enveloped us. Despite central heating, the house was cold and drafty, especially the downstairs rooms, so Alastair lit the fires to make the rooms seem cozier.
“How can I help?” Kyle asked. I could see he was curious about what I might want to talk to him about after such a short acquaintance.
“This morning, by the reservoir, Brittany mentioned someone named Alys haunting Lockwood Hall. Do you remember?”
“Sure, of course,” he said.
“I was curious, so I asked Lisa about it when I returned to the house. She didn’t know much, other than that the woman had existed and had been hanged for witchcraft. When pressed, Lisa wouldn’t tell me more, so I decided to speak to the gardener. He’s an older man who’s lived in this area all his life and would know all the local stories. I got much the same response. He advised me to leave it alone, but not in so many words.”
“So now you can’t possibly leave it alone and will get to the bottom of this story if that’s the last thing you do,” Kyle said, grinning in understanding.
“It’s the bee in the bonnet syndrome,” I said, grinning back.
“God, I haven’t heard that expression since my grandmother passed,” Kyle said. “I do see how you’d be intrigued, though.”
“What would your detective do in this situation? How would she go about investigating this case?”
“Ah, so it’s not me you’re interested in, but my character,” he joked.
“You are your character, so please give me some pointers,” I said, hoping I hadn’t offended him.
Kyle leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “First, I would scour the internet for any references to this Alys.”
“That was the first thing I did. Nada.”
“Okay, so unfortunately it wasn’t a well-documented story,” he said. “People have long memories, especially in rural areas like this, where families have lived for generations. I would find out where the residents of Ashcombe were relocated and then hit the pub. Ask a few leading questions, and someone will jump in. I’d also ask if there’s a local historian. They might not know the story of Alys, but they could tell you what was happening in this area around the time she lived in Ashcombe.”
“Lisa said she lived here in the early part of the seventeenth century,” I said. “So, we have the death of Elizabeth I, the succession of James IV of Scotland, and the Gunpowder Plot, and that’s just within the first few years of the century.”
“Yes, but those things all happened in London. They’d hardly have bearing on the life of a woman who lived in a small village in Derbyshire,” Kyle replied.
“Maybe not directly, but it’s a backdrop to her story.”
“There is no story unless you can answer the basic questions. Who? What? When? Where? Why?”
“Alys. Hanged for witchcraft. Seventeenth century. Here,” I said, answering four of the questions. “I’ve yet to find out what exactly happened and why.”
Kyle nodded.
