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Authors: Kate Mosse
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nowhere, saying that she needed help. So here I am.’
‘Are you staying in the village, Mr Woolston?’
‘Just passing through.’
Catching the hesitancy in his voice, Connie waited for him to say something further, but he did not. He had the most extraordinary colour eyes, she noticed. Almost violet.
‘Did Mary explain what has happened?’ she asked.
‘No. Only that she had been sent to fetch the doctor. Since I was on hand, I thought I might offer myself in his place.’
‘You are a friend of Dr and Mrs Evershed?’
His eyes widened. ‘Arthur Evershed?’
‘Well, yes, but if—’
‘I’d heard he lived near Chichester,’ Harry said. ‘He’s the most remarkable artist, all while working as a doctor, too.’ He stopped, seeing the expression on her face. ‘Forgive me,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m apt to let my enthusiasm run away with me.’
Connie stared at him. The habits of caution bred into her by watching over her father for years ran deep. On the other hand, she couldn’t cope on her own and it would be an ugly business. Drownings always were. She’d witnessed that at first hand in January when the mill pond flooded and the body of an itinerant had been found in the reeds.
‘It is rather unpleasant, I’m afraid,’ she said.
He gave a brief smile. ‘I’m sure I am equal to it.’
‘Can I go inside, miss?’ Mary asked.
Connie hesitated. It would be easier with three of them. But though she forced herself to rise above the rumours and gossip that circulated about her father, she didn’t want to be accused of causing distress to a young girl. Besides, she was genuinely fond of her.
‘Yes. Mr Woolston and I can manage.’
Connie walked a few steps back towards the house with the girl.
‘I don’t suppose you saw Mr Gifford, did you? On the path or in Fishbourne?’
Mary shook her head. ‘No, miss.’
Connie held her gaze. ‘Thank you. I will call you when we’re finished. Perhaps you could make some tea and take it out to the terrace for when . . . for later.’
She took a deep breath, then turned back.
‘So, how can I be of service?’ Harry asked.
‘I regret to say . . .’ She paused, hating how stiff she sounded. ‘There’s been a drowning. A young woman. Mary saw her in the stream and, of course, it gave her a fright.’
He blanched. ‘A drowning?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Is it common—’ He stopped. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean common as such. Rather, is this something that happens at this part of the creek? Here, I mean. This spot. You’re so close to the water.’
Connie shook her head. ‘Not often. You see—’
‘I’m sorry.’ Woolston jumped in, misunderstanding her hesitation. ‘Thoughtless of me to fire questions at you. I’m sure I can manage alone. If you’d rather. Not the sort of thing a lady should . . .’
‘It will take two to bring her out, Mr Woolston,’ she said quietly.
‘Harry.’ He was awfully pale. ‘Harry is fine.’
For a moment, the intimacy of his Christian name hung between them.
‘Right,’ he said, his voice falsely bright. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Chapter 10
Connie pointed to the far bank of the river.
‘There,’ she said. ‘It – she – is on the far side.’
Woolston removed his shoes and socks, then rolled his trousers up to just below his knees. He handed her his jacket, then folded back the sleeves of his shirt too.
It wasn’t unusual for objects to be washed up into the creek and the little rills and streams. Flotsam, a torn coal sack or a child’s fishing rod, seaweed when the spring tides coincided with a strong sou’westerly. But not a body.
Down on the coast, in the fishing creels of Selsey and Pagham and Littlehampton, drownings were a fact of life. This far up the estuary, accidents were more likely to occur on the marshes than in the sea itself. Men missing their footing in the dark, stumbling into the sinking black mud and unable to free
‘Are you staying in the village, Mr Woolston?’
‘Just passing through.’
Catching the hesitancy in his voice, Connie waited for him to say something further, but he did not. He had the most extraordinary colour eyes, she noticed. Almost violet.
‘Did Mary explain what has happened?’ she asked.
‘No. Only that she had been sent to fetch the doctor. Since I was on hand, I thought I might offer myself in his place.’
‘You are a friend of Dr and Mrs Evershed?’
His eyes widened. ‘Arthur Evershed?’
‘Well, yes, but if—’
‘I’d heard he lived near Chichester,’ Harry said. ‘He’s the most remarkable artist, all while working as a doctor, too.’ He stopped, seeing the expression on her face. ‘Forgive me,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m apt to let my enthusiasm run away with me.’
Connie stared at him. The habits of caution bred into her by watching over her father for years ran deep. On the other hand, she couldn’t cope on her own and it would be an ugly business. Drownings always were. She’d witnessed that at first hand in January when the mill pond flooded and the body of an itinerant had been found in the reeds.
‘It is rather unpleasant, I’m afraid,’ she said.
He gave a brief smile. ‘I’m sure I am equal to it.’
‘Can I go inside, miss?’ Mary asked.
Connie hesitated. It would be easier with three of them. But though she forced herself to rise above the rumours and gossip that circulated about her father, she didn’t want to be accused of causing distress to a young girl. Besides, she was genuinely fond of her.
‘Yes. Mr Woolston and I can manage.’
Connie walked a few steps back towards the house with the girl.
‘I don’t suppose you saw Mr Gifford, did you? On the path or in Fishbourne?’
Mary shook her head. ‘No, miss.’
Connie held her gaze. ‘Thank you. I will call you when we’re finished. Perhaps you could make some tea and take it out to the terrace for when . . . for later.’
She took a deep breath, then turned back.
‘So, how can I be of service?’ Harry asked.
‘I regret to say . . .’ She paused, hating how stiff she sounded. ‘There’s been a drowning. A young woman. Mary saw her in the stream and, of course, it gave her a fright.’
He blanched. ‘A drowning?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Is it common—’ He stopped. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean common as such. Rather, is this something that happens at this part of the creek? Here, I mean. This spot. You’re so close to the water.’
Connie shook her head. ‘Not often. You see—’
‘I’m sorry.’ Woolston jumped in, misunderstanding her hesitation. ‘Thoughtless of me to fire questions at you. I’m sure I can manage alone. If you’d rather. Not the sort of thing a lady should . . .’
‘It will take two to bring her out, Mr Woolston,’ she said quietly.
‘Harry.’ He was awfully pale. ‘Harry is fine.’
For a moment, the intimacy of his Christian name hung between them.
‘Right,’ he said, his voice falsely bright. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Chapter 10
Connie pointed to the far bank of the river.
‘There,’ she said. ‘It – she – is on the far side.’
Woolston removed his shoes and socks, then rolled his trousers up to just below his knees. He handed her his jacket, then folded back the sleeves of his shirt too.
It wasn’t unusual for objects to be washed up into the creek and the little rills and streams. Flotsam, a torn coal sack or a child’s fishing rod, seaweed when the spring tides coincided with a strong sou’westerly. But not a body.
Down on the coast, in the fishing creels of Selsey and Pagham and Littlehampton, drownings were a fact of life. This far up the estuary, accidents were more likely to occur on the marshes than in the sea itself. Men missing their footing in the dark, stumbling into the sinking black mud and unable to free
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