of its daily life as anywhere else. Not everyone agreed with Jethroe’s lifestyle but no one disliked him either. He was generous, protective of the village and his neighbours, a friendly outgoing man. In a community as small as Sefton Under Edge the residents knew everything that went on in the village and lived comfortably with one another, a kindly extended family, yet kept themselves to themselves once their front doors were closed. The community was always close and yet not indissolubly so; polite, charming, careful never to offend. There was not a soul in the village who did not appreciate Jethroe’s determination to run his pub very nearly like a private country club, and never to commercialise it to the point of offending the village.
It was mostly men who reserved his rooms, fishermen to whom he rented a rod, or guns joining the Buchanan shoot. The odd famous writer had been nourished by his beer and his excellent food in between tapping the keys. There was no doubt about it: Jethroe, a sometime detective, with a passion for the flute, Shakespeare and the pursuits of a country gentleman, was an asset to his community, and he had not the least intention of allowing the New Scotland Yard men to ride roughshod over his village or upset anyone.
As it happened he need not have worried about the intrusion of the detectives. They were more keen than the publican that they should make themselves evident but at the same time keep a low profile.
It was a glorious Oxfordshire morning when Joe Sixsmith drove over the little stone hump-backed bridge on the way into the village of Sefton Under Edge. The woods to either side of the narrow road were enchanting, the whole place anything but what he’d expected. He felt like an intruder into a privileged rural idyll that seemed a million light years away from sex,murder, and a woman on the run.
Sixsmith had mixed emotions about setting up a temporary office here. He already missed his London colleagues, the constant faxes, blinking computers, cacophony of telephones, even the endless paperwork and display boards listing sightings of Lady Olivia. It was a huge investigation and he’d wound up in this pretty but undeniably quiet backwater. It was hard to believe they’d make any breakthrough here.
The team arrived in two cars. The second, a four-seater cream-coloured Borgward Izabella with navy blue leather seats, usually driven by Detective Chief Inspector Harry Graves-Jones, pulled up behind Sixsmith. He watched Jenny and the chief step out of it and he had to smile. There was no doubt about it: his boss had real style. The subtlety of that vintage car, its smooth curved lines. No, there was nothing flashy about Harry Graves-Jones. Sixsmith often drove the Borgward Izabella for him, had been a bit miffed that Harry had allowed Jenny to drive it to Oxfordshire this time, but then you couldn’t stay out of sorts with the chief for long. Often Sixsmith had wondered what made the Chief Inspector tick. It was an enigma he knew he would never crack. Not long after Jenny had joined their team, Sixsmith had told her: ‘Don’t try and work him out, he’s just one of those special human beings you measure yourself by. I’ll tell you one thing, though: every day you’ll learn to raise yourself a little higher.’
‘You check us in, Jenny, and book a table for lunch at one o’clock. Select your rooms and set us up. We want our computers, fax and the direct line to the Yard up and running as soon as possible, with no fuss. Keep a low profile. I’m off for a walk. Any problems or if you need anything, call Fred Pike. But I don’t want him roaring round here. In fact, I don’t want him here at all until we need extra man power. You need anything, like electrics or a telephone engineer, ask the publican. Keep our presence more cosy than official.’
Jethroe liked Joe Sixsmith from the moment he entered the pub, sighting him at once as one of the New Scotland Yard people. About
It was mostly men who reserved his rooms, fishermen to whom he rented a rod, or guns joining the Buchanan shoot. The odd famous writer had been nourished by his beer and his excellent food in between tapping the keys. There was no doubt about it: Jethroe, a sometime detective, with a passion for the flute, Shakespeare and the pursuits of a country gentleman, was an asset to his community, and he had not the least intention of allowing the New Scotland Yard men to ride roughshod over his village or upset anyone.
As it happened he need not have worried about the intrusion of the detectives. They were more keen than the publican that they should make themselves evident but at the same time keep a low profile.
It was a glorious Oxfordshire morning when Joe Sixsmith drove over the little stone hump-backed bridge on the way into the village of Sefton Under Edge. The woods to either side of the narrow road were enchanting, the whole place anything but what he’d expected. He felt like an intruder into a privileged rural idyll that seemed a million light years away from sex,murder, and a woman on the run.
Sixsmith had mixed emotions about setting up a temporary office here. He already missed his London colleagues, the constant faxes, blinking computers, cacophony of telephones, even the endless paperwork and display boards listing sightings of Lady Olivia. It was a huge investigation and he’d wound up in this pretty but undeniably quiet backwater. It was hard to believe they’d make any breakthrough here.
The team arrived in two cars. The second, a four-seater cream-coloured Borgward Izabella with navy blue leather seats, usually driven by Detective Chief Inspector Harry Graves-Jones, pulled up behind Sixsmith. He watched Jenny and the chief step out of it and he had to smile. There was no doubt about it: his boss had real style. The subtlety of that vintage car, its smooth curved lines. No, there was nothing flashy about Harry Graves-Jones. Sixsmith often drove the Borgward Izabella for him, had been a bit miffed that Harry had allowed Jenny to drive it to Oxfordshire this time, but then you couldn’t stay out of sorts with the chief for long. Often Sixsmith had wondered what made the Chief Inspector tick. It was an enigma he knew he would never crack. Not long after Jenny had joined their team, Sixsmith had told her: ‘Don’t try and work him out, he’s just one of those special human beings you measure yourself by. I’ll tell you one thing, though: every day you’ll learn to raise yourself a little higher.’
‘You check us in, Jenny, and book a table for lunch at one o’clock. Select your rooms and set us up. We want our computers, fax and the direct line to the Yard up and running as soon as possible, with no fuss. Keep a low profile. I’m off for a walk. Any problems or if you need anything, call Fred Pike. But I don’t want him roaring round here. In fact, I don’t want him here at all until we need extra man power. You need anything, like electrics or a telephone engineer, ask the publican. Keep our presence more cosy than official.’
Jethroe liked Joe Sixsmith from the moment he entered the pub, sighting him at once as one of the New Scotland Yard people. About
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