A Grave Inheritance by Anne Renshaw

knowing its warmth wouldn’t penetrate.
    Lanceley stood beside John Farrell’s grave, in a trance. For a moment he forgot why he had come. He clasped and unclasped his fist and the piece of paper fell to the ground. His eyes followed its journey to where it settled. It was then he noticed a jam jar half buried in the soil, full of fresh water and holding freshly picked buttercups.

Chapter 8
     
    The sandstone walls and towers surrounding Chester’s inner city gave Grace the impression she was being transported back in time, albeit by bus. Black and white Jacobean houses once belonging to merchants and noble men all retained their original façades, and each age had left proof of its existence by its own particular design and architecture. Roman and Gothic arches appeared in the most unlikely places, and had sheltered legionnaires, cavaliers, roundheads, royalty and peasants alike. Whether by accident or design the buildings sustained the quirkiness of the city and added to its appeal. Grace had heard of Chester’s Roman amphitheatre plus the preserved ruins of a Roman bathhouse, and she promised herself a visit.
    Grace spent her first hour wandering the main pedestrianized streets ending her tour at the library. Her initial enquiry regarding the history of Woodbury and in particular Marsh Lane was met with a blank. A library assistant suggested Grace try the Centurion newspaper office, and unenthusiastically Grace made a note of the directions. She wasn’t in the mood now, so decided to go the following day.
    As soon as she was home, Grace telephoned the Centurion office and made an appointment for the following day. She decided not to mention the intended visit to Amelia, thus delaying her sister’s look of disapproval.
     
    ***
     
    Grace arrived at the office early. The street-level door opened to the sound of a loud buzzer which continued to make a racket until she shut the door. Inside the long narrow room was a high counter and at the far end, three metal chairs stood in a row, one piled high with old magazines. Old newspaper cuttings and sepia photographs in dull black plastic frames lined the walls and were in need of dusting. Grey vertical blinds angled for privacy blocked any natural daylight, adding to the dinginess. With no one on hand to register Grace’s arrival she drummed a short tattoo on the counter. After a few minutes she began to lose patience and tried a tentative ‘Hello’ in the direction of the inner door and considered whether or not to give the outer door’s buzzer another go.
    ‘Hello, anyone there?’ Grace called, louder this time. Almost immediately the door on the opposite side of the counter opened and a girl aged about twenty stepped through. The girl had the darkest brown eyes Grace had ever seen, and the black surprised eyebrows perched above them were at odds with the girl’s blonde Afro styled hair that hovered like a halo around her pretty face.
    The girl apologised and introduced herself. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Pamela. I’m on my own here most of the time and I just had to have a comfort break, if you know what I mean.’ Pamela’s smile was open and friendly. She went onto explain that the classified sections were dealt with there, Bridge Street being so convenient for people to drop in and advertise their items. The main offices and printing rooms had relocated to bigger and better facilities, but they had left the old archive files down in the cellar.
    Grace told Pamela what she wanted and without further delay Pamela escorted her through the inner door and down a long passage. Pamela rattled keys like a gaoler, and at the end of the passage unlocked another door and descended a narrow wooden staircase. Grace followed. Below were two more doors. Pamela arrived at the bottom of the stairs and turned, just in time to see Grace shiver.
    ‘Did someone just walk over a grave?’ Pamela asked jokingly. Grace smiled weakly and followed Pamela through the door on