(1990) Sweet Heart by Peter James Page A

‘Gin andtonic?’ she barked. ‘Whisky and dry? Sherry?’ She said everything in a raised voice, as if she was trying to make herself heard above an imaginary din.
    There were Persian rugs on the floor and the tables were covered with lace tablecloths weighted down with silver snuff boxes, ivory animals and photograph frames. On the mantelpiece was a sepia photograph of a bearded Edwardian in naval uniform, his chest adorned with decorations, and on the floor, by the brass coal scuttle, was a small military drum.
    ‘Actually, I’d love a soft drink, some mineral water or tap, please.’ She had a strange metallic taste in her mouth, which she had noticed before.
    ‘Water?’ Viola Letters said the word as if it was a disease. ‘Nonsense! Sun’s almost over the yardarm. Pinkers? Scotch? What’s your poison?’
    ‘Perhaps just a small sherry?’ Charley said, not wanting to offend her. She sat down.
    ‘Expect we could rustle one up from ship’s stores,’ Viola Letters said, going over to a mahogany cabinet.
    Something brushed against Charley’s leg and miaowed. She lowered her hand to stroke it. She tickled between its ears and the back of its neck, then looked down. An eyeless socket in the side of the cat’s face was pointing at her.
    ‘We’re a tight ship here, our little community. If I can be of any help just give me a call or pop over any time. There aren’t many of us down here. I try to keep watch. We don’t get too many strangers, but it’s going to be a bit worse from now on: some fool journalist has written this up in a book of country walks. It’s a public footpath down over the lake. Did you know?’
    ‘It doesn’t look as if it’s used much.’
    ‘It will be. We’ll have hordes of bloody ramblers all over the place, I expect.’
    There was something about the old woman thatseemed vaguely familiar, but Charley was not sure what. ‘How long have you lived here?’ she asked.
    ‘Since nineteen fifty, but I’m not classed as a local. They’re odd, the farming community. They don’t trust anyone who moves here. You have to be born here. There are two farmers who won’t even nod good morning to me, and I’ve seen them most days for the past forty years.’
    ‘I saw one on my way today.’
    ‘Most peculiar.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Interbreeding — a lot of that sort of thing round here.’ She raised her voice again. ‘You’re Londoners?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Well, you’ll find country life a bit different. If there’s anything you need to know — doctor, vet, what have you — just shout.’
    ‘Thanks. I wondered if it’s possible to get newspapers and milk delivered.’
    ‘I’ll give you the number of the dairy. There’s a jolly good newsagent in Elmwood who delivers — darkies, of course, but one can’t help that.’
    The cat rubbed its eyeless socket against Charley’s leg. She tried not to look at it.
    ‘Nelson! Buzz off!’ Viola Letters marched across the room clutching a massive schooner filled to the brim. ‘There you go.’ She went back to the cabinet, poured herself a tumbler of neat gin, splashed in some angostura and sat down opposite Charley. ‘Cheers.’
    ‘Cheers.’ Charley sipped her sherry.
    ‘Your husband’s not a naval man, I suppose?’
    ‘He’s a lawyer. He specialises in divorce.’
    There was a silence. In the kitchen the terrier began yapping.
    Mrs Letters looked at her carefully. ‘Sorry if I seemed rude yesterday, but you did give me the deuce of a shock.’
    Charley sipped some sherry for courage. ‘I must have misheard — got the wrong address — name —’ Her voice tailed off.
    The crab eyes slid up above the cheeks. ‘No. I think you did see him, the old love.’ She leaned forward, her face lighting up. ‘Are you very psychic, dear?’
    ‘No, I don’t think so.’
    Viola Letters fetched a photograph in a silver frame from another room and showed it to Charley. It was black and white, a tall, serious man, standing to