(1990) Sweet Heart by Peter James

announce he’s a hypnotist and set himself up in business.’
    ‘The Triumph in our barn,’ she said avoiding his eyes. ‘How old is it?’
    ‘The original log’s missing. I’ll have to check the chassis and engine numbers. They started making them in forty-eight.’ He struck another match. ‘Have you met Viola Letters yet, the grand old dame of the lane?’
    There was a single flash of lightning. Conversation in the pub flickered for a brief instant then resumed.
    ‘In Rose Cottage?’
    He sucked the flame into the bowl of his pipe. ‘That’s her. Keeps a hawk-eye on what goes on.’
    There were three more flashes.
    ‘Do she and her husband not get on too well?’
    He looked puzzled, then faintly amused. ‘I didn’t know they communicated.’
    Charley felt her face reddening. ‘What do you mean?’
    Thunder crashed outside.
    Hugh swirled his whisky around in his glass, then drank some. ‘She’s a widow,’ he said. ‘Her husband’s been dead for nearly forty years.’

Chapter Eleven
    The sky was clear again the next morning and the air felt fresh after the storm. Water dripped from the trees, an intermittent plat … plat … plat, and wisps of mist hung over the lake. It was just after eleven.
    As Charley walked alone up the lane she heard a rumble ahead of her, and a tractor came around the corner towing an empty trailer. She stepped into the brambles to let it pass, and smiled up at the driver, an elderly wizened man. He stared fixedly ahead and drove past without acknowledging her. She watched him rattle on down the dip, surprised.
    The Morris Minor was in the driveway and the Yorkshire terrier started yapping before Charley had pushed the gate open. She went hesitantly up the path. A ship’s bell was fixed to the wall beside the front door. She searched for a knocker but could not see one, so she jangled the bell. The yapping intensified and a voice the other side of the door quietened it.
    The door opened and Viola Letters stood there, half kneeling, holding the terrier by its collar, in the same stout shoes as yesterday, a tweed skirt too thick for the heat and an equally thick blouse. She looked up at Charley warily.
    ‘I’ve come to apologise,’ Charley said. The old woman’s eyes were peering over the top of her cheeks like a crab staring out of wet sand, and the dog’s eyeswere black marbles sparkling with rage. ‘I’m desperately sorry. I wasn’t playing a trick. I didn’t know your husband was dead.’
    She pulled the dog back. ‘Would you like to come in?’ Her voice sounded like a deeper bark.
    Charley stepped into the hall and the dog glared at her in an uneasy silence.
    ‘Close the door. He’ll relax then.’
    Charley did so and the dog yapped angrily.
    ‘Kitchen!’ Mrs Letters dragged it into a room at the back, gave it a gentle slap on the bottom and shut the door on it.
    ‘Sorry about that. He’s normally fine with visitors. Getting a bit cantankerous in his old age,’ her mouth opened and shut as she spoke like a secret door in the folds of flesh.
    ‘He can probably smell our dog.’
    The woman looked at her, suspicion returning to her face. ‘You’re Mrs Witney, you said.’
    ‘Yes.’ Charley noticed a strong waft of alcohol. ‘I’m afraid I made a terrible mistake yesterday. I don’t know how it happened, I must have misheard completely what the man said.’
    Viola Letters was silent for a moment. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ she said then.
    There was a smell of linseed oil and polish in the house. It had a cared-for feeling, the walls painted in warm colours with contrasting white woodwork. There were fine antiques and almost every inch of wall was covered in paintings, mostly seascapes and portraits, and a number of amateurish landscapes in cheap frames.
    Charley followed Mrs Letters through into the drawing room. A copy of the
Daily Telegraph
with the crossword filled in lay on a small Pembroke table. Viola Letters pointed her to a small Chesterfield.