CHAPTER 50
Harriet
Dorset
Harriet was lifting the last of her leeks and parsnips before the ground froze, heeling them in a trench she’d dug for the purpose next to the path, so that she could easily lift them when needed. They’d keep for a few months like this; it was a trick she’d learnt from her father.
She was a bit behind this morning, mainly because she’d had to traipse over to Bridport following her sister’s phone call yesterday afternoon. Harriet clicked her tongue, put some weight on the fork and gently eased up the next two leeks.
‘Can you do me a favour, Het?’ Joanna had asked. ‘I know you’re busy, but . . .’ Her voice had trailed off.
‘What?’ Harriet wasn’t much in the mood for doing favours.
Since her recent discovery about the prowler she hadn’t done any more typing either; she needed to think about what to do next.
Actually, she needed to talk to someone.
But who? Mother was out of the question, Linda would tell the entire village and Joanna .
. . well, Joanna would insist that they inform the police.
‘I need you to take down the bridge painting in my room,’ Joanna said.
That was probably the last thing Harriet had been expecting.
‘Then I need you to pack it – very carefully – and send it to London by courier.’
‘By courier?’ How much was that going to cost? And why on earth did Joanna want the painting in London? Wasn’t she coming back here? Was the painting the only thing she wanted from the cottage? Harriet’s mind went into overdrive.
‘I’ll pay you back in a few days,’ her sister assured her. ‘When I get back home.’
Ah. That answered at least one of her questions.
‘I want you to send it to Sotheby’s.’ Joanna rattled off the address.
Sotheby’s? ‘Is it valuable?’ If so, it probably wasn’t a great idea to send it – even by courier.
‘Probably not.’
‘Then . . . ?’ Harriet was confused.
‘I need to find out a bit more about the artist,’ Joanna said. ‘It’s a long story. And I will tell you as soon as I get back.’
‘But can’t you do it yourself when you get back?
’ Harriet had enough claims on her time already.
Not only did she want to get the vegetables lifted, but she had planned to divide the rhubarb and clear up some of the debris around the kitchen garden in order to evict some of the slugs and snails that had taken up residence there.
‘I need to be here,’ Joanna explained. ‘To go to Sotheby’s and talk to them about it. If I come back to Dorset, then I’ll have to go back to London, then—’
‘Oh, all right.’ Harriet couldn’t bear to hear any more. ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’
She sighed. ‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘Thanks, Het.’
Harriet had examined the painting when she took it down from the wall first thing.
Some bridge in Venice, a watery canal, shades of blue, grey and silver.
Nice but not remarkable. But it obviously meant a lot to Joanna, so she wrapped it with care in plenty of plastic bubbles.
Another mystery, she thought. Right now, there seemed to be a few too many of them for comfort.
Now, she gently shook the soil from the roots before laying the leeks to one side.
She stood up to stretch out her back and looked across the fields towards the sea.
Owen was a field away trudging down the track.
She waved. He waved back but made no move to change direction.
Hmm. Their relationship might have gone back to normal, but he certainly didn’t come round quite as much as he used to.
Was he fed up with them? Or was it that he stayed away when they didn’t have the attraction of Joanna to tempt him here?
Harriet considered. But she had to talk to someone. She set off to intercept him.
‘Morning, Harriet.’ Owen seemed surprised. ‘Everything all right?’
Was everything all right? She really had no idea.
‘I wonder if I could talk to you sometime,’ she said.
‘Sometime soon. Like today?’ She didn’t take her eyes off him.
This mattered. But supposing he didn’t want to talk to her?
She’d hardly bothered with him up till now unless she needed him to help her with something or to entertain her mother.
She realised once again how selfish she had been, how un-neighbourly.
But the truth was that she valued him, because who else was there to have a serious conversation with around here?
‘A cup of tea and a bacon sandwich at one o’clock?’ he suggested. ‘At my place?’
Harriet grinned with relief. That gave her time to sort out something for Mother first. ‘Okey dokey,’ she said. ‘See you there.’
*
Harriet and Owen sat in the kitchen at the pockmarked old table, ate the sandwiches and drank tea from Owen’s big white china mugs.
Everything about Owen and his farm was oversized, Harriet thought.
But also comforting. It was slightly odd that she’d never been here before; Owen had always come to them, so there’d been no reason.
Now, though, it was ideal and meant there was no chance of being overheard by Mother.
Harriet told him the story of the prowler and he listened, without speaking, which she appreciated. If he’d interrupted, even once, she might not have been able to continue.
‘What do you think I should do?’ she asked him at last. ‘I don’t want to go to the police.’
‘But you do want to find out who he is.’
‘And what he wants from us,’ she agreed.
Owen nodded. He took his time, sipping his tea, looking out through the kitchen window across the fields. ‘You could ask him,’ he said.
Blindingly simple, or blindingly stupid? Harriet was doubtful.
‘And if you think he might pose a threat . . .’ – he paused – ‘well, I could always come with you. Fact is, I should come with you anyway.’
He’d make a good bodyguard, she thought, he was beefy enough to intimidate anyone – especially her prowler who wasn’t exactly overendowed in the muscular department.
‘OK,’ she said. She didn’t think the prowler would pose a threat. But it would make her feel an awful lot safer with Owen by her side.
‘OK?’ He seemed surprised.
‘You’re on.’