Sally Cook’s picnic lunch was so huge that soup and sandwiches sufficed for dinner. Story time followed bath time and by half past seven, Bess and the boys were in bed and asleep. I’d just finished loading the dishwasher when Emma Harris dropped by to return a book Will had left at the stables. I invited her to join Bill and me under the apple tree in the back garden and the three of us headed outdoors to enjoy the lingering warmth of the long summer’s day. Stanley followed us out, waited patiently for Bill to take a seat, then jumped into Bill’s lap and began to purr.
Bill placed the baby monitor on the teak table between his lawn chair and mine, and Emma sat in a third lawn chair, facing ours. Slightly built, with blue-gray eyes and graying, dishwater blond hair, Emma Harris was the sort of person who found it irksome to sit still. She preferred to be engaged in one activity or another, whether it was knitting, gardening, trying new recipes, writing computer programs, training horses, caring for horses, or teaching students of all ages to ride. She couldn’t even take an evening stroll without bringing a compass along with her to practice her map-reading skills.
As someone who cherished every moment I spent sitting still, I welcomed the sight of her lying back in her chair, with a glass of chilled rose hip tea at her elbow, doing nothing that could possibly be construed as productive.
“Emma,” I said, “did you and Derek work with Marigold Edwards when you bought Anscombe Manor?”
“No,” she said. “We dealt directly with the previous owner’s solicitor. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t understand why she hasn’t found buyers for Rose Cottage and Ivy Cottage,” I said. “I’d like to know more about her.”
“I’ve heard nothing but good things about her from the villagers,” said Emma.
“Same here,” I said. “Thanks, by the way, for returning the book. And thanks in advance for letting the boys stay with you over the weekend.”
“Will and Rob can stay with me anytime they like,” said Emma. “They’re as horse-crazy as I am. As for the book . . .” She sat up to sip her tea, then leaned back in her chair, cradling the glistening glass in her hands. “To be perfectly honest, I had an ulterior motive for coming over here tonight.”
“Out with it,” I commanded, though I was too relaxed to put much oomph into my words.
“I heard that you tackled the disused farm track I found on the old ordnance survey map,” she said.
I hadn’t yet told Emma about my adventure, but I wasn’t shocked to learn that someone had. News drifted through our small community like wisps of gossamer, though with considerably more speed.
“I might hike it myself next weekend,” she continued. “I’d like to hear your take on it.”
I looked down at my drink. Though I’d told Bess that I might allow Emma to visit our secret place, I felt a sudden, childish impulse to keep it to myself for the time being. Almost without thinking, I decided to downplay the track’s undeniable beauty by emphasizing its less attractive aspects.
“The verges are pretty,” I said indifferently, “but the track itself is a disaster—nothing but roots, rocks, and ruts.”
“And potholes,” Bill put in.
“And potholes,” I repeated with an emphatic nod. “Lots and lots of deep, dark, nasty potholes.”
“I could explore it on horseback,” Emma proposed. “Peg’s good at negotiating rough trails.”
“You’d be knocked out of the saddle,” I told her. “I had to duck under branches and I wasn’t riding a fifteen-hand chestnut mare like your Pegasus. And let’s not forget the track’s least endearing feature: According to Lilian Bunting, a drop of rain turns it into a torrent. You might want to annotate your map to that effect, to keep future ramblers from drowning in flash floods.”
“That must be why the track was abandoned,” Emma said thoughtfully. “Farmers aren’t stupid. They won’t go to the trouble and the expense of maintaining a cart track that washes out every time it rains.” She sighed. “Maybe I’ll give it a miss.”
“I would if I were you,” I said. “You wouldn’t want Peg to break a leg.”
“I wouldn’t want to break my own leg, either,” Emma said.
I should have been thoroughly ashamed of myself for misleading my friend, but I felt only a half-ashamed sense of relief. The old track would remain my secret place, I thought, until I was ready to share its secrets with others.
Bill was clearly ready to change the subject.
“Emma,” he said, “what do you know about the Finch-Tillcote feud?”
Emma and I exchanged bewildered looks, then stared at Bill questioningly.
“What brought the Finch-Tillcote feud to mind?” I inquired.
“The information I collected at the tearoom this morning,” he replied. “You don’t think I spent all of my time there watching Will and Rob throw bread rolls at each other, do you?” Turning to Emma, he explained, “Lori put the cat among the pigeons after church by uttering the name of a family associated with Tillcote.”
“The Hargreaves family,” Emma said, nodding. “I heard.” She wagged a finger at me. “It was a silly thing to do, Lori.”
“Why?” I asked, roused from my lethargy. “Do you know the Hargreaveses?”
“No,” said Emma, “but if I did, I wouldn’t admit it to anyone in Finch, not unless I wanted to get the stink-eye every time I walked into the Emporium, the pub, and the tearoom.”