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prospective killer know where she was, or which side of the road she’d be on? Personally, I can’t see anyone crawling along in that weather on the off chance of finding someone to run over.’
    ‘ Perhaps they’d had a row, she stormed off and he went after her?’
    Ledbetter was unconvinced. ‘Anyway, it’s a start, and about bloody time.’ He picked up a mug and walked over to the easel, surveying the picture propped up on it. ‘This the latest masterpiece? You’re a clever devil, aren’t you? I couldn’t paint to save my life.’
    ‘ I’m glad my life’s not dependent on that,’ Webb retorted. ‘There’s still a lot of work to be done on it.’
    They chatted for several minutes while they drank their tea , then Ledbetter put down his mug. ‘I’d better get back for what remains of this day of rest. Good to see you, Dave; I’ll keep you informed of any developments.’
    As Webb closed the door behind him , he realised that he still did not know how Hannah’s evening with Charles Frobisher had gone. Which, he reflected morosely, might be the way she wanted it.
    *
    When Helen came down for dinner just before seven, it was to find a crowd of people gathered round the bar. In addition to her four hosts and Michael Saxton, there were two she hadn’t seen before, a small girl in her twenties with a tangle of blonde, highlighted curls, and a tall, loose-limbed man. He had dark, curly hair and deep-set grey eyes, which regarded her with open curiosity as she approached.
    Gordon Cain was behind the bar , and smiled as he caught sight of her. ‘Ah, Mrs Campbell — welcome back! Can I offer you a drink on the house? We have friends in for dinner this evening. Let me introduce Caroline Budd and Dominic Hardy.’
    They nodded to her and she smiled in response , then turned to Gordon. ‘That’s kind of you. I’d like a sherry, please.’
    The blonde girl pushed her own glass across the bar top. ‘And fill mine up too, sweetie, while you’re at it.’
    ‘ I hear you’re taking a course at Melbray, Mrs Campbell?’ Kate Warren commented in her husky voice.
    ‘ Yes, that’s right. On antiques.’
    Dominic Hardy raised an eyebrow. ‘Are they a hobby of yours?’
    Resenting his patronising manner, Helen answered levelly, ‘Rather more than that; I worked in a London auction house before I was married, and then at a local antique shop till the recession caught up with it. Now both my children have left home, I’m hoping to take it up again.’
    ‘ Good for you,’ he said lazily, looking her up and down. Again she felt herself bridle, but almost immediately he smiled, and any hint of superciliousness was lost in undoubted charm. He raised his glass to her, his eyes holding hers. ‘Here’s to success. May you and your antiques flourish!’
    ‘ Thank you,’ she stammered, and was grateful when someone made a comment and she was no longer the focus of attention.
    ‘ I didn’t expect to see you again,’ said a voice behind her, and she turned to find Michael Saxton.
    ‘ Nor I you,’ she replied. ‘I saw the course advertised when I was here last week, but I hadn’t seriously considered taking it.’ She glanced round. ‘Is Mr Pike not joining us?’
    ‘ No, he goes home to Blackpool at weekends.’
    ‘ A long way to commute, isn’t it? Why doesn’t he move down here?’
    ‘ Not worth it; he’s only on a short-term project, then he’ll be off north again.’
    ‘ And you don’t go home at weekends?’
    ‘ No home to go to,’ Saxton replied, and smiled at her embarrassment. ‘Oh, it’s not as bad as it sounds. I’ve bought a small watermill not far from here and am having it converted into a house. In the meantime, this is my base.’
    ‘ How long have you been here?’
    ‘ Three months now. I’ll miss the standard of cooking when I have to do for myself. Perhaps I should also take a course, on how to vary my diet of baked beans and fry-ups.’
    ‘ It sounds a bit limited.’
    ‘ It