around to the kitchen window and peered in. Everything seemed normal. Walking further around, she peered through the dining room window. Like John's house, it looked bare of furniture, a house without possessions, like a body without organs, devoid of life and character.
She wasn’t going to get any answers here when he wouldn’t even answer the door.
Her only lead was the name of a village on a crumpled piece of burnt paper. Although not much, it was better than nothing.
CHAPTER 11
Verity stepped out of the taxi and looked up and down Trinity’s windswept high street. If ever there was a one-horse town, this was it, she thought.
Rocky outcrops in the distance looked like gravestones and she shivered and tried to shake off the morbid thought, but she couldn't because it made her realise she didn't know if anyone had arranged a headstone for her father. She felt a twinge of guilt that she tried hard to dampen.
Made out of huge granite blocks, the houses looked like giant Lego pieces. Grey, slate tiles adorned the roofs. Lichen covered walls on some of the buildings making it appear nature was trying to assert herself. None of the buildings looked newer than two hundred years old; each of them appeared nondescript with nothing to differentiate from the one next to it. From where she stood, Verity spotted a public house, a bakery, a convenience store and an undertaker’s. It wasn't exactly Oxford Street.
She took her bag out of the car and paid the taxi driver. She watched as the vehicle sped away along the street, and felt very foolish. What was she doing here? Good God, she must be going senile.
She shook her head and walked to the Salvation public house, opened the door and stepped inside.
A fire blazed in the hearth, the heat from which hit her like that from an open oven door. After only a few steps, sweat prickled on her forehead and she wiped her brow.
She approached the bar, above which hung brass plaques and a black-barrelled blunderbuss. The few patrons in the bar sat at round wooden tables. Mostly tourists, she thought, identifiable by their hiking boots, thick jumpers, and the cagoules and wet weather clothing hanging on the backs of the chairs to dry in the heat from the fire.
The barman rose from his seat, smiled warmly and rolled his sleeves up.
“Rum weather out there. What can I get you?” he asked.
Verity dropped her bag on the ground. “I was wondering if you had a room available.”
The man nodded his head and pointed to a sign on the wall that read: Rooms available. His ruddy cheeks glowed in the firelight, almost the same shade as his curly ginger hair. “How long do you want to stay for?”
“I'm not really sure. Can I say a couple of nights and then see how it goes?”
“No problem.”
He told her the price, then took a few details and a deposit before she signed the register. Then he showed her to a small room on the first floor with a single bed (a double bed would have nearly filled the room), small dressing table, a cupboard and an on-suite bathroom. It wasn't the Ritz, but it would suffice as somewhere to begin her search.
Despite the slight mould on the bathroom tiles, she took a quick shower and then dressed in a pair of black Lycra leggings beneath a red tie-dyed dress. Finally, she pulled on a baggy purple cardigan and then wandered down to the bar.
A few of the people in residence scrutinised her before returning their attention to their drinks.
Verity sat on a barstool and ordered half a pint of cider.
“Is the room okay?” the barman asked as he poured the drink.
“It's fine thank you.” After a moment, she said, “I don't suppose you could help me?”
“That depends on what you want.”
“Well, I'm looking for someone that might be in this village.”
The barman cocked his head.
“It's a woman called Melantha.”
“We’re only a small village, and I don’t know anyone of that name. Sorry love.” He put the drink in front of her and took the
She wasn’t going to get any answers here when he wouldn’t even answer the door.
Her only lead was the name of a village on a crumpled piece of burnt paper. Although not much, it was better than nothing.
CHAPTER 11
Verity stepped out of the taxi and looked up and down Trinity’s windswept high street. If ever there was a one-horse town, this was it, she thought.
Rocky outcrops in the distance looked like gravestones and she shivered and tried to shake off the morbid thought, but she couldn't because it made her realise she didn't know if anyone had arranged a headstone for her father. She felt a twinge of guilt that she tried hard to dampen.
Made out of huge granite blocks, the houses looked like giant Lego pieces. Grey, slate tiles adorned the roofs. Lichen covered walls on some of the buildings making it appear nature was trying to assert herself. None of the buildings looked newer than two hundred years old; each of them appeared nondescript with nothing to differentiate from the one next to it. From where she stood, Verity spotted a public house, a bakery, a convenience store and an undertaker’s. It wasn't exactly Oxford Street.
She took her bag out of the car and paid the taxi driver. She watched as the vehicle sped away along the street, and felt very foolish. What was she doing here? Good God, she must be going senile.
She shook her head and walked to the Salvation public house, opened the door and stepped inside.
A fire blazed in the hearth, the heat from which hit her like that from an open oven door. After only a few steps, sweat prickled on her forehead and she wiped her brow.
She approached the bar, above which hung brass plaques and a black-barrelled blunderbuss. The few patrons in the bar sat at round wooden tables. Mostly tourists, she thought, identifiable by their hiking boots, thick jumpers, and the cagoules and wet weather clothing hanging on the backs of the chairs to dry in the heat from the fire.
The barman rose from his seat, smiled warmly and rolled his sleeves up.
“Rum weather out there. What can I get you?” he asked.
Verity dropped her bag on the ground. “I was wondering if you had a room available.”
The man nodded his head and pointed to a sign on the wall that read: Rooms available. His ruddy cheeks glowed in the firelight, almost the same shade as his curly ginger hair. “How long do you want to stay for?”
“I'm not really sure. Can I say a couple of nights and then see how it goes?”
“No problem.”
He told her the price, then took a few details and a deposit before she signed the register. Then he showed her to a small room on the first floor with a single bed (a double bed would have nearly filled the room), small dressing table, a cupboard and an on-suite bathroom. It wasn't the Ritz, but it would suffice as somewhere to begin her search.
Despite the slight mould on the bathroom tiles, she took a quick shower and then dressed in a pair of black Lycra leggings beneath a red tie-dyed dress. Finally, she pulled on a baggy purple cardigan and then wandered down to the bar.
A few of the people in residence scrutinised her before returning their attention to their drinks.
Verity sat on a barstool and ordered half a pint of cider.
“Is the room okay?” the barman asked as he poured the drink.
“It's fine thank you.” After a moment, she said, “I don't suppose you could help me?”
“That depends on what you want.”
“Well, I'm looking for someone that might be in this village.”
The barman cocked his head.
“It's a woman called Melantha.”
“We’re only a small village, and I don’t know anyone of that name. Sorry love.” He put the drink in front of her and took the
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