of Mexico, before asking a passer-by for directions, then walking as he’d been directed through the colonial backstreets with their verandahs
and pastel-painted galleries and taverns, weaving through slow-moving traffic, climbing steps, until he had found the B&B he’d booked on the Internet. By the time he’d registered,
been shown his room and thrown his shoulder bag on the bed, he was ready for a drink.
It was still early evening but he was five hours ahead; he retraced his footsteps and found himself in the bar of the Pickled Onion on Fore Street. He had beaten even the early crowd and sat at
the long frost-coloured bar. He ordered a local beer, then almost gagged on its lack of conviction but stuck with it as he ran through his options. He’d rushed, hadn’t made much of a
plan, which was unlike him, but then he didn’t normally have heated rows that included a cracked mug of coffee and tears with Jemma. She’d thought Bermuda was a bad idea, had got
passionate about it, couldn’t go with him, not in the middle of the school term, said that anyway he couldn’t afford it and that maybe, just maybe, he had other priorities. Like?
he’d asked, very stupidly. Making a few plans, she’d suggested, very tartly. And maybe even finding her an engagement ring, although she’d been too proud to make any direct
reference to that. It hadn’t been a great farewell. So Harry sat, swallowed the last of the insipid beer and ordered a bourbon on the rocks; in a hot climate he preferred it to malt
whisky.
He had come in search of one woman, knew nothing except for her name. Jemma had reckoned the whole idea was like looking for nuts in a nunnery – that was when she’d smacked the mug
of coffee down so hard she’d been left holding nothing but the handle – but to Harry it seemed a reasonable bet. The island contained barely sixty thousand people. Only a third of them
were white and many fewer would be female and elderly. And probably only one would be named Susannah Ranelagh. An hour in the National Library should be enough; he’d passed its canopy-covered
door on the stroll to the bar and it would be open at ten in the morning. Anyway, as he’d reminded Jemma, nuts stood out in a nunnery. That was when the tears had started.
He didn’t need to wait for the National Library to open. ‘Miss Ranelagh?’ the bartender said as he splashed the dark spirit over a mountain of ice. He was young, mixed-race,
subtle earring, late twenties, full of cheer and named Vince. ‘Sure I know her. Everybody knows everybody here – and everything,’ he chuckled. ‘That’s why it’s
so quiet. You wanna misbehave you spend the weekend in New York and hope you’re not gonna meet your neighbour at the check-in.’ Vince laughed again. ‘But somehow I don’t
think you’ll be finding Miss Ranelagh playing away. No, sir, not she.’
‘Tell me about her.’
A thread of suspicion rippled though the bartender’s eyes.
‘Don’t worry. She’s an old friend of my father but I’ve never met her. Thought I might go and say hello.’
Vince began polishing a glass as he considered. Harry had paid for the bourbon with a twenty and left the change on the counter. Vince cast the towel aside and leaned over the bar.
‘It’s not like I get invited to dinner, you understand. She’s one of the Stay-Ons. Most of them only come to visit for a while, count their money and make sure it’s hidden
somewhere safe, but she seems to genuinely like it here. Does a lot. Arts and stuff. A patron of the governor’s favourite charity.’
Harry finished his drink and ordered another. He paid for it with a fresh twenty, once again leaving the change on the bar, smiling at the young man. ‘This is a spur-of-the-moment thing
for me, Vince. I’m not even entirely sure where she lives.’
Vince polished the bar with a fresh towel, carefully, not rushing, sweeping up the change as he did so. ‘Oh, Miss Ranelagh, she lives out in
and pastel-painted galleries and taverns, weaving through slow-moving traffic, climbing steps, until he had found the B&B he’d booked on the Internet. By the time he’d registered,
been shown his room and thrown his shoulder bag on the bed, he was ready for a drink.
It was still early evening but he was five hours ahead; he retraced his footsteps and found himself in the bar of the Pickled Onion on Fore Street. He had beaten even the early crowd and sat at
the long frost-coloured bar. He ordered a local beer, then almost gagged on its lack of conviction but stuck with it as he ran through his options. He’d rushed, hadn’t made much of a
plan, which was unlike him, but then he didn’t normally have heated rows that included a cracked mug of coffee and tears with Jemma. She’d thought Bermuda was a bad idea, had got
passionate about it, couldn’t go with him, not in the middle of the school term, said that anyway he couldn’t afford it and that maybe, just maybe, he had other priorities. Like?
he’d asked, very stupidly. Making a few plans, she’d suggested, very tartly. And maybe even finding her an engagement ring, although she’d been too proud to make any direct
reference to that. It hadn’t been a great farewell. So Harry sat, swallowed the last of the insipid beer and ordered a bourbon on the rocks; in a hot climate he preferred it to malt
whisky.
He had come in search of one woman, knew nothing except for her name. Jemma had reckoned the whole idea was like looking for nuts in a nunnery – that was when she’d smacked the mug
of coffee down so hard she’d been left holding nothing but the handle – but to Harry it seemed a reasonable bet. The island contained barely sixty thousand people. Only a third of them
were white and many fewer would be female and elderly. And probably only one would be named Susannah Ranelagh. An hour in the National Library should be enough; he’d passed its canopy-covered
door on the stroll to the bar and it would be open at ten in the morning. Anyway, as he’d reminded Jemma, nuts stood out in a nunnery. That was when the tears had started.
He didn’t need to wait for the National Library to open. ‘Miss Ranelagh?’ the bartender said as he splashed the dark spirit over a mountain of ice. He was young, mixed-race,
subtle earring, late twenties, full of cheer and named Vince. ‘Sure I know her. Everybody knows everybody here – and everything,’ he chuckled. ‘That’s why it’s
so quiet. You wanna misbehave you spend the weekend in New York and hope you’re not gonna meet your neighbour at the check-in.’ Vince laughed again. ‘But somehow I don’t
think you’ll be finding Miss Ranelagh playing away. No, sir, not she.’
‘Tell me about her.’
A thread of suspicion rippled though the bartender’s eyes.
‘Don’t worry. She’s an old friend of my father but I’ve never met her. Thought I might go and say hello.’
Vince began polishing a glass as he considered. Harry had paid for the bourbon with a twenty and left the change on the counter. Vince cast the towel aside and leaned over the bar.
‘It’s not like I get invited to dinner, you understand. She’s one of the Stay-Ons. Most of them only come to visit for a while, count their money and make sure it’s hidden
somewhere safe, but she seems to genuinely like it here. Does a lot. Arts and stuff. A patron of the governor’s favourite charity.’
Harry finished his drink and ordered another. He paid for it with a fresh twenty, once again leaving the change on the bar, smiling at the young man. ‘This is a spur-of-the-moment thing
for me, Vince. I’m not even entirely sure where she lives.’
Vince polished the bar with a fresh towel, carefully, not rushing, sweeping up the change as he did so. ‘Oh, Miss Ranelagh, she lives out in
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