Chapter Ten
Cracks in the Facade
Eva whispered to herself, as if speaking too loudly might disturb old ghosts. “Margaret Wells … who were you really?”
The morning after the Christmas dinner had arrived grey and drizzly.
This was the kind of Yorkshire weather that seemed to seep through windows and into your bones.
Her experience so far of the British countryside now allowed her extra layers of vision on her favourite novels.
Eva sat hunched over her laptop in the inn’s small pub/ dining area, which smelled of last night’s wood fire.
The faint, yeasty ghost of centuries of spilled ale lingered.
The room was dim despite it being mid-morning—heavy clouds outside filtered the light to a pewter glow that made the dark wood panelling seem to absorb rather than reflect illumination.
Florence had taken pity on her obvious hangover, bringing tea in a pot covered with a knitted cosy shaped like a sheep, and a plate of thick-cut, steaming, buttered crumpets. “To soak up whatever damage Tom’s karaoke caused,” she’d said with a wink.
The pub wasn’t officially open yet, giving Eva the peculiar intimacy of being in a usually public space when it was private.
Chairs were still stacked on most tables, their legs pointing skyward like a wooden forest. The mirror behind the bar reflected her solitary figure, making her look like a character in a painting—isolated, contemplative, searching for something just out of reach.
Eva had noticed during her stay how quiet the inn appeared.
However, this morning she welcomed the peacefulness of it all as she wrote.
She’d spread her research across the scarred wooden table: the green book opened to Margaret’s cryptic note, her phone propped against a pewter tankard, notebook pages covered in her increasingly frantic handwriting.
But Google, it turned out, was spectacularly unhelpful when it came to Margaret Wells.
A few mentions in local history forums, a brief reference in a post-war nursing memorial, and that was it.
For someone who’d apparently touched so many lives, Margaret had left surprisingly little digital footprint.
“Come on,” Eva muttered, squinting at a blurry photograph from a 1946 Yorkshire Post article. “You can’t just disappear.”
The pub door opened with a cheerful chime that seemed too bright for the morning, bringing with it a gust of cold air that smelled of rain and diesel fumes from the tourist buses already circling the city walls.
Aidan Finchley stepped inside, somehow immaculate despite the drizzle, his coat repelling water as if it had been personally offended by Yorkshire weather.
“Eva! What a pleasant surprise.” His smile was warm and immediate as he spotted her in the corner. “I was just coming to see if Florence was around, but this is even better.”
“Oh, um, hi,” Eva said, suddenly conscious of her messy bun, held together by a pencil she’d forgotten was there, and the fact that she was wearing the same sweater from last night because everything else was in various stages of laundry.
The pub’s unforgiving morning light wasn’t doing her any favours either, she was sure.
“Working on something?” Aidan asked, sliding uninvited into the seat across from her. The old chair creaked in protest, and Eva caught a whiff of his cologne—something expensive and vaguely Mediterranean that seemed at odds with the pub’s earthy atmosphere.
“Just some research,” Eva said, instinctively closing the green book.
“Let me guess,” Aidan leaned back, the chair groaning again. “You’ve been asking about Margaret Wells around town again.”
Eva’s surprise must have shown on her face because his smile widened, his teeth flashing like fangs.
“Small city,” he explained. “Word travels. Jean at the tea room mentioned you were interested in her. Then Trinkett was going on about it at the Conservative Club.” He paused, studying her with those sharp blue eyes that seemed to catalogue everything.
“I might have some information that interests you.”
“I thought you knew nothing about Margaret Wells?” Eva couldn’t hide her suspicion but she was eager to hear what he had to tell her nonetheless.
“I’ve been researching the inn’s history,” Aidan said smoothly. “For my work. Property development requires understanding the heritage of buildings, their stories. Margaret Wells’ name comes up quite a bit in the old documents.”
“What kind of documents? Wait, for this inn?”
“Deeds, letters, council record,” he waved his hand dismissively.
“She was quite involved with the inn, apparently. Regular visitor, helped Florence’s …
predecessor during difficult times.” He glanced at his expensive watch—the kind that probably cost more than Eva’s car.
“Actually, I have copies at my office. Remember you still owe me for drinks we talked about the other night at the Horse and Hound. The Vaults has an excellent wine list, and I can show you what I’ve found. ”
Eva hesitated. Something about Aidan set off small alarm bells in her head—not danger exactly, but a kind of calculated charm that reminded her too much of Richard. But if he had information about Margaret …
“Just drinks,” she said finally. “Wait. I thought it was supposed to be with your investor people, how are we going to look at the documents?”
“Don’t worry about that,” Aidan dismissed her concerns easily. “Shall we say seven tonight? I’ll meet you here.”
Before Eva could grill him further, he had already got up and exited the pub.
After he left, trailing expensive cologne and confidence, Eva tried to return to her research.
But concentration eluded her. She gathered her papers, the sound of shuffling documents echoing in the empty room, and headed upstairs.
“Oh!” Eva said, grabbing the banister to steady herself. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
There was Charlie. He was crouched over an old wooden window frame, carefully working putty into the gaps where December draughts had been sneaking through. The hallway smelled of linseed oil and sawdust, with that particular mustiness that came from carpets that had absorbed decades of footsteps.
“My fault,” Charlie muttered, not looking up. His fingers worked the putty with practiced precision. “These windows have been letting in rain. Florence asked me to seal them up before winter really sets in.”
“You’re very handy,” Eva observed, then immediately wanted to crawl under the floorboards. “I mean, with fixing things. Around the inn.”
Charlie’s mouth twitched slightly as he looked up at her. “Someone has to be. These old buildings need constant attention.”
Eva shifted her weight, papers crinkling in her arms. The silence stretched, filled only by the radiator’s occasional gurgle and the rain pattering against the window at the end of the hall. Just long enough to become uncomfortable before she blurted out, “I’ve been researching Margaret Wells!”
Charlie’s hands stilled on the radiator valve. The wrench slipped, clanging loudly on the floor.
“I know we talked about her a little before,” Eva continued, excitement overcoming awkwardness.
“But I’ve been piecing together her story.
She was extraordinary, Charlie. The things she did for people, the hope she spread during such a dark time.
And the notes she left—they weren’t just random acts of kindness.
There was purpose to them, patterns. I think she was trying to—”
“Stop.” Charlie’s voice was rough. He stood slowly, wiping his hands on his jeans, leaving dark smudges. When he finally looked at her, his expression cycled through something like pain, recognition, and then fear before settling into careful blankness. “You’re romanticising her whole story.”
“What?”
“Margaret Wells.” He said the name like it hurt, like each syllable was glass in his throat. “You’re turning her into some tragic heroine from one of your books. She wasn’t that. She was just … a broken woman in the end.”
Eva felt like she’d been slapped. The papers in her arms suddenly felt heavier. “How can you say that? She helped so many people—”
“She helped everyone but herself,” Charlie cut her off. The words came faster now, like a dam breaking. “Spent her whole life writing other people’s love stories while her own life fell apart. That’s not romantic, Eva. That’s not brave. It’s just sad.”
“Or maybe she was brave in the only way she knew how,” Eva shot back, clutching her papers tighter. “Maybe writing those stories for others was her way of—”
“Of what?” Charlie’s laugh was bitter, echoing harshly in the narrow hallway.
“Torturing herself? Living through other people because she couldn’t face her own choices?
She died alone, Eva. In that house on Micklegate, surrounded by unfinished manuscripts and letters she never sent.
That’s not brave. That’s just … tragic.”
The vehemence in his voice made Eva step back. The wall was cold against her shoulders. “How do you know where she lived? How do you know any of this?”
Charlie’s jaw worked for a moment. The rain outside intensified, drumming against the window like impatient fingers. Then, the words escaped him so quietly she almost missed them: “Because she was my grandmother.”
The words hung in the air between them like a physical presence. Eva felt her mouth drop open, the papers in her arms threatening to spill across the worn carpet. She’d suspected it, just for a moment, but hearing Charlie confirm her suspicions almost knocked the wind out of her.
“Your … what?”