I consulted my watch. “It’s only three o‘clock in the afternoon in Maine. Plenty of time to phone him later. Go ahead and order dinner—I won’t be long.”
“You should have something now,” Nell insisted, prying the lid off the tin. “Let’s see what Mrs. Burweed ...” Nell’s words trailed off as she caught sight of the tin’s contents.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “They’re meringues, aren’t they?”
Nell shook her head slowly, with an almost comical look of confusion in her blue eyes. “Gerald’s father must have known your mother, Lori. I think these are butterscotch brownies.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “They couldn’t possibly—”
“Try one,” Nell suggested, holding out the tin.
I picked one up and took a bite. It was moist and chewy and slightly granular, with a whisper of vanilla and a full-bodied chorus of brown sugar—Thomas Willis’s brownie was, bewilderingly, identical to the ones I’d served at brunch that morning.
“Maybe Thomas Willis was in London during the war,” I hazarded.
“We’ll have to remember to ask Gerald the next time we see him,” said Nell.
Which won’t be anytime soon if I have anything to say about it, I thought. I dropped the unfinished brownie on the table and headed out into the twilight.
Dusk is a strange time to see a new town. There are no distinct colors, and all of the straight lines are softened, the sharp edges blurred, as in a smudged pencil drawing. The rumble of traffic on the High Street had faded to the occasional whoosh of a passing car, and the few pedestrians I encountered appeared to be hurrying home to their suppers. None paused to look into the darkened shop windows.
The streetlights made it easy to follow the route Miss Coombs had outlined on the town map—I turned left out of the hotel, then left again when I reached the pedestrian footpath, a paved passage enclosed by tall redbrick walls that meandered past a series of backyards. As I walked along, I felt a curious mixture of intimacy and isolation. I could hear voices close at hand—the chatter of families enjoying the cool evening air—but I could see no one.
I’d become aware of another sound as soon as I’d left the hotel, a sound that made the map almost unnecessary. Church bells were ringing, and the closer I got to Saint Bartholomew‘s, the louder they became. As dusk deepened into darkness, the ringing started up discordantly, stopped, then started again in better order—it sounded as though the bell-ringers of Saint Bartholomew’s were having a practice session. By the time the pedestrian footpath had deposited me across from the churchyard gate, however, the bells had fallen silent. Tonight’s rehearsal, it seemed, was over.
I entered the churchyard and stood to one side, gazing upward. The church rose before me, a jumble of rough stone walls and blunt arches with a squat, square bell-tower to the rear and a tile-roofed wooden porch extending from one side. The churchyard was dotted with tombs and gravestones, and as I squatted to peer at one lichen-covered tablet, the side door opened and the bell-ringers streamed onto the tile-roofed porch in a flood of lamplight and good-natured banter. I hung back, envious of their camaraderie, until the lights inside the church went out and a stocky, middle-aged man in a clergyman’s collar came bustling onto the porch, carrying a large key ring.
“Excuse me,” I said, emerging from the shadows.
The key ring clanked loudly as it hit the porch floor. “Good heavens!” the clergyman exclaimed, bending to retrieve his keys. “What a turn you gave me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’ve been waiting for the practice to end. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You’d have been welcome,” the clergyman assured me, straightening. “I’m Steven Hawley, the rector here at Saint Bartholomew’s. From your accent I’d guess that you’re an American.”
I admitted that I was and, to avoid an involved discussion about Derek’s work on the bells, said that Miss Coombs had sent me over to see the church.
“Dear Miss Coombs,” said the rector. “What would we do without her?” The keys jangled as he turned his hand to consult his wristwatch. “She’s worth quite a dozen advertising agencies. I presume you’ve come to see the memorial windows?”
I nodded politely. I’d have asked to see the bells as well, but he didn’t give me the chance.