the table. “Oleg and Llewellyn will be sitting there, when they’ve served our meal. And Edgar?”
Juliet leaned forward to greet that keen researcher of religious experience. He still looked as if he should be wearing a habit, and leading a Gregorian chant. The candlelight heightened the effect. Edgar’s lips curled. His glance was edged with steel. “Juliet and I chatted this afternoon, too. I have her questionnaire ready to fill in, just as soon as she has a few moments to spare.”
“But…” began Juliet.
Craig interrupted her in a low tone. “Probably best to humour him.”
She gazed at him, astonished. He made no further explanation.
Then Craig lifted his voice again. “Juliet wants to draw up a schedule of interviews. See her afterwards in the library to make an appointment. I’ll shift any other commitments you have to make way for this.”
“I’ll be first,” said Edgar. “And you can start by filling in my questionnaire.” A light wave of chuckles ran up and down the table.
There was a small pause. Oh dear. Juliet was about to speak, then thought better of it. Turning back to face down the table, she met Don’s eye. It held a strangely knowing expression. But he resisted any urge to comment. For the moment, so did Edgar.
Juliet exchanged a wave of acknowledgement with Laura, seated opposite the American, before turning her attention to the next diner, beside Laura.
This was a sharp-faced young woman with dark hair pulled tightly back in a French plait, which emphasised the severity of her expression. She gave Juliet a frosty stare. “I’m Beth. Beth Owen,” she snapped. “I prefer not to say anything else about myself.”
Well, thought Juliet, Beth wasn’t very friendly. How had Juliet managed to earn her hostility so soon? Beth continued to look tense and suspicious. Perhaps she misunderstood what Juliet was trying to do. But if she didn’t say anything, Juliet couldn’t put her mind at rest.
Then Juliet’s glance was drawn on to the next diner. He for his part gave her a watery smile. His pink shirt was teamed with a blue-and-white polka-dot bow tie. Even though seated, he was head and shoulders above his neighbours. How, she wondered, did he manage with all the low ceilings in this farmhouse? She tried to recall the date she’d seen engraved above the front door. Ah yes – 1532. Certainly they must have been shorter in those days.
“Rory. Anstruther-Jones,” he said.
Ah-ha. The one she had to handle with caution. “Good to meet you, Rory,” she replied.
Tall as he was, Rory presumably managed somehow. She observed too that he’d blow-dried his blond hair. He leaned forward, across Don, extending long, slender fingers to clasp her hand. She registered the slippery quality of his touch. She was also struck by the curious unreality of his porcelain complexion.
He drew back into his seat. “I suffer from a thorn in the flesh . Won’t tell you what it is right now. You can guess as you get to know me a bit better. Do I suffer from migraines? Am I epileptic? Or gay, perhaps? I don’t have one leg shorter than the other. You can see I’m not a dwarf. So, each time we meet, you might get a little closer to guessing my problem.”
“Well, Rory, what can I say to that?” murmured Juliet. She was unsure how she felt about his remarks; certainly, she didn’t trust him. But there again, neither did she trust anyone else. With the sole exception, she realised, of Don, the terse Yorkshireman. Meanwhile it was important to listen carefully and miss nothing. There was much to learn, not least everyone’s names and personal quirks.
Before Juliet could speculate further, Craig broke in. “Read much of the brochure yet, Juliet?”
“Yes, I have. A lot to take on board. I shall go through it again very carefully a few times, I expect.”
“And your feelings so far?”
“Mixed. You make big promises.”
Before he could respond, the door swung open behind Patrick and two
Juliet leaned forward to greet that keen researcher of religious experience. He still looked as if he should be wearing a habit, and leading a Gregorian chant. The candlelight heightened the effect. Edgar’s lips curled. His glance was edged with steel. “Juliet and I chatted this afternoon, too. I have her questionnaire ready to fill in, just as soon as she has a few moments to spare.”
“But…” began Juliet.
Craig interrupted her in a low tone. “Probably best to humour him.”
She gazed at him, astonished. He made no further explanation.
Then Craig lifted his voice again. “Juliet wants to draw up a schedule of interviews. See her afterwards in the library to make an appointment. I’ll shift any other commitments you have to make way for this.”
“I’ll be first,” said Edgar. “And you can start by filling in my questionnaire.” A light wave of chuckles ran up and down the table.
There was a small pause. Oh dear. Juliet was about to speak, then thought better of it. Turning back to face down the table, she met Don’s eye. It held a strangely knowing expression. But he resisted any urge to comment. For the moment, so did Edgar.
Juliet exchanged a wave of acknowledgement with Laura, seated opposite the American, before turning her attention to the next diner, beside Laura.
This was a sharp-faced young woman with dark hair pulled tightly back in a French plait, which emphasised the severity of her expression. She gave Juliet a frosty stare. “I’m Beth. Beth Owen,” she snapped. “I prefer not to say anything else about myself.”
Well, thought Juliet, Beth wasn’t very friendly. How had Juliet managed to earn her hostility so soon? Beth continued to look tense and suspicious. Perhaps she misunderstood what Juliet was trying to do. But if she didn’t say anything, Juliet couldn’t put her mind at rest.
Then Juliet’s glance was drawn on to the next diner. He for his part gave her a watery smile. His pink shirt was teamed with a blue-and-white polka-dot bow tie. Even though seated, he was head and shoulders above his neighbours. How, she wondered, did he manage with all the low ceilings in this farmhouse? She tried to recall the date she’d seen engraved above the front door. Ah yes – 1532. Certainly they must have been shorter in those days.
“Rory. Anstruther-Jones,” he said.
Ah-ha. The one she had to handle with caution. “Good to meet you, Rory,” she replied.
Tall as he was, Rory presumably managed somehow. She observed too that he’d blow-dried his blond hair. He leaned forward, across Don, extending long, slender fingers to clasp her hand. She registered the slippery quality of his touch. She was also struck by the curious unreality of his porcelain complexion.
He drew back into his seat. “I suffer from a thorn in the flesh . Won’t tell you what it is right now. You can guess as you get to know me a bit better. Do I suffer from migraines? Am I epileptic? Or gay, perhaps? I don’t have one leg shorter than the other. You can see I’m not a dwarf. So, each time we meet, you might get a little closer to guessing my problem.”
“Well, Rory, what can I say to that?” murmured Juliet. She was unsure how she felt about his remarks; certainly, she didn’t trust him. But there again, neither did she trust anyone else. With the sole exception, she realised, of Don, the terse Yorkshireman. Meanwhile it was important to listen carefully and miss nothing. There was much to learn, not least everyone’s names and personal quirks.
Before Juliet could speculate further, Craig broke in. “Read much of the brochure yet, Juliet?”
“Yes, I have. A lot to take on board. I shall go through it again very carefully a few times, I expect.”
“And your feelings so far?”
“Mixed. You make big promises.”
Before he could respond, the door swung open behind Patrick and two
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