Oliver and Amy had been going to the theatre in Chester on that November night. Godfrey could have gone with them, but he had a sniffly cold and was going to tuck himself up with some hot milk and whisky. Quire was not open to the public in November anyway so he could lock up early, and Amy had promised to brew up her grandmother’s marvellous honey posset for him before she went out. She liked making a fuss of Godfrey; Godfrey liked it as well. He thought Amy beautiful and intelligent and good company, and he liked the way she kept Oliver from becoming too serious and too deeply absorbed in his work and made him laugh.
He had been hunting for aspirin when Oliver had come into his flat to ask if he knew where Amy was. But Godfrey had not seen her since the morning, although he had heard her car drive off before lunch. It was a Mini with a distinctive growly note because the exhaust was blowing, and Amy could not be bothered to get it fixed. She found mechanical things boring and usually forgot to get them dealt with. Oliver found mechanical things boring as well. He and Amy had almost exactly the same way of looking at life, which was probably why they had such a happy marriage.
By four o’clock Amy had still not returned which was slightly worrying. It was to be hoped she had not had a prang, although they would surely have heard. Most likely she had met a friend for lunch and her car had broken down miles from a phone. This had been before mobile phones were as common as they were today. Still, it was not like her to be out so long, and it was nearly an hour’s drive to Chester which meant they would have to leave about six.
At half past four Oliver had rather diffidently phoned the police, just to make sure no accidents had been reported. Godfrey, perched on the edge of the sofa in Oliver’s flat, worriedly sucking throat lozenges, had heard the disinterest at the other end of the phone, and Oliver had heard it as well. He had slammed down the phone, and walked out. Minutes later Godfrey heard his car roar away down Quire’s main drive. He had wasted at least ten minutes wondering whether to follow but, in the end, he had put on his quilted jacket and a woollen muffler and gone outside to his own little car. St Michael’s church clock had just been striking the hour as he set off, five o’clock it had been, he remembered hearing the chimes very clearly indeed.
At five o’clock on an early November day, it was not completely dark, but it was already the vaguely eerie half light that Godfrey disliked. You could never be quite sure what might be hiding inside that kind of blurry dusk.
Driving through the deceiving light, his cold expanding to include a pounding headache, Godfrey turned left instead of right, and the car he had thought was Oliver’s turned out to be driven by a stranger. It was not until they went past the brooding outline of Twygrist that he realized this and slowed down, thinking he had lost Oliver anyway and it might be better to head back to Quire to await events. Amy was probably long since back and wondering where everyone was.
If he had not reversed into a farm gate, he probably would not have seen the car parked off the road, under some trees at the side of the mill. But he did see it, and saw at once it was Amy Remus’s scarlet Mini.
There would be some very ordinary explanation for Amy’s car being here, Godfrey thought. Perhaps it had broken down and she had pushed it off the road and gone in search of a lift or a phonebox. Yes, but she went out shortly before twelve and it’s now well after five. How long does it take to walk into Amberwood or even back to Quire House? An hour? Certainly no more than that.