kindly eyes. “I’m Sean MacNally, the minister here. Was there”—he peered at her—“something you were looking for?”
“I thought so.” She stopped, shook her head. “But apparently it doesn’t wish to be found.”
“And are you certain you’ve looked everywhere, Miss ... ?”
“Hutchinson. Libby Hutchinson.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hutchinson.” He motioned toward the door. “Come, it’s getting dark in here. Let us have a wee walk, and perhaps you can give it one last try.”
Libby spent the next hour with the minister, telling him her story over a pot of tea and a tuna sandwich in his cozy kitchen. Like any good clergyman, he simply listened while she talked, offering a nod here, a smile of encouragement there. He was easy to talk to, asking her to call him by his first name, and Libby soon found herself talking about more than just the photograph and the odd crystal stone. For the first time, she talked about her mother’s passing, and the feelings she had fought hard to keep locked away.
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” she finished, shaking her head. “It is as if my mother never existed, but I know there must be some connection to this village. She had to have left me that photograph and that stone for a reason. I’ve come all this way and I just feel as if I’ve failed her ... again.”
Sean looked at her. “Why don’t you come back to the church in the morning? Although the Register Office should certainly have had record of your mother’s birth, there could be any number of reasons why they couldn’t locate it. Being so remote, our parish has retained many traditions of the past, particularly in continuing to keep the records for the parish as they have been kept throughout history, handwritten in register books. Every birth, marriage, and death since the church was built has been recorded and is archived there. If your mother was born anywhere in this parish, she’ll be there. And we will find her.”
The phone rang only a second before the fax machine clicked on.
Graeme grabbed the cordless, hitting the TALK button as he put it to his ear. The fax on the desk beside him began whirring a page through.
A moment later he was greeted by his mother’s cheery voice.
“Hello, darling. Just thought I’d call to see how things were going ...”
Graeme watched for the page emerging from the machine. “Shall I assume this fax is from you, then?”
“Ehm ...” She hesitated, her voice becoming decidedly less cheery. “I thought I might give you fair warning rather than having it sprung on you unexpected.”
Brilliant. He couldn’t bloody wait.
Even as he said this to himself, Graeme could see the familiar wasplike logo of
The Buzz
newspaper slowly spitting out of the bottom of the fax machine.
Immediately beneath it, he saw the headline.
NEW FEATURE! THE “WHERE’S WALTHAM?” REPORT
A grainy photograph of him, attempting unsuccessfully to hide behind a pair of dark sunglasses and a baseball cap, came into view. He remembered the day the photo had been taken. It had been early spring, barely a week after they’d buried his father. He’d been walking Murphy in Green Park, hoping for a bit of peace and quiet reflection.
It was the last time he’d ever done that.
As soon as the page was through, Graeme took up the sheet and read it.
Devoted
Buzz
readers have responded overwhelmingly, e-mailing, faxing, and otherwise sending in “Waltham Sightings” from in and around the U.K. Where is this most eligible bachelor and reclusive future heir to both the Dukedom of Gransborough and the Earldom of Abermuir hiding himself these days? More importantly, with whom is he hiding? Find him, provide us with a snapshot, and you could win the £1000 prize ... and ladies, if you should succeed in getting a date with this enigmatic aristocrat, the prize is increased to £5000!
The fax beeped, having just finished spewing through another
“I thought so.” She stopped, shook her head. “But apparently it doesn’t wish to be found.”
“And are you certain you’ve looked everywhere, Miss ... ?”
“Hutchinson. Libby Hutchinson.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hutchinson.” He motioned toward the door. “Come, it’s getting dark in here. Let us have a wee walk, and perhaps you can give it one last try.”
Libby spent the next hour with the minister, telling him her story over a pot of tea and a tuna sandwich in his cozy kitchen. Like any good clergyman, he simply listened while she talked, offering a nod here, a smile of encouragement there. He was easy to talk to, asking her to call him by his first name, and Libby soon found herself talking about more than just the photograph and the odd crystal stone. For the first time, she talked about her mother’s passing, and the feelings she had fought hard to keep locked away.
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” she finished, shaking her head. “It is as if my mother never existed, but I know there must be some connection to this village. She had to have left me that photograph and that stone for a reason. I’ve come all this way and I just feel as if I’ve failed her ... again.”
Sean looked at her. “Why don’t you come back to the church in the morning? Although the Register Office should certainly have had record of your mother’s birth, there could be any number of reasons why they couldn’t locate it. Being so remote, our parish has retained many traditions of the past, particularly in continuing to keep the records for the parish as they have been kept throughout history, handwritten in register books. Every birth, marriage, and death since the church was built has been recorded and is archived there. If your mother was born anywhere in this parish, she’ll be there. And we will find her.”
The phone rang only a second before the fax machine clicked on.
Graeme grabbed the cordless, hitting the TALK button as he put it to his ear. The fax on the desk beside him began whirring a page through.
A moment later he was greeted by his mother’s cheery voice.
“Hello, darling. Just thought I’d call to see how things were going ...”
Graeme watched for the page emerging from the machine. “Shall I assume this fax is from you, then?”
“Ehm ...” She hesitated, her voice becoming decidedly less cheery. “I thought I might give you fair warning rather than having it sprung on you unexpected.”
Brilliant. He couldn’t bloody wait.
Even as he said this to himself, Graeme could see the familiar wasplike logo of
The Buzz
newspaper slowly spitting out of the bottom of the fax machine.
Immediately beneath it, he saw the headline.
NEW FEATURE! THE “WHERE’S WALTHAM?” REPORT
A grainy photograph of him, attempting unsuccessfully to hide behind a pair of dark sunglasses and a baseball cap, came into view. He remembered the day the photo had been taken. It had been early spring, barely a week after they’d buried his father. He’d been walking Murphy in Green Park, hoping for a bit of peace and quiet reflection.
It was the last time he’d ever done that.
As soon as the page was through, Graeme took up the sheet and read it.
Devoted
Buzz
readers have responded overwhelmingly, e-mailing, faxing, and otherwise sending in “Waltham Sightings” from in and around the U.K. Where is this most eligible bachelor and reclusive future heir to both the Dukedom of Gransborough and the Earldom of Abermuir hiding himself these days? More importantly, with whom is he hiding? Find him, provide us with a snapshot, and you could win the £1000 prize ... and ladies, if you should succeed in getting a date with this enigmatic aristocrat, the prize is increased to £5000!
The fax beeped, having just finished spewing through another
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