Chapter 3
THREE
Quinn had been in her room less than ten minutes when Rhys knocked on her door.
“Let’s have a drink at the bar before dinner,” he suggested as he surveyed the accommodation from the doorway and nodded in approval.
She would have preferred an hour to herself.
The room was an oasis of comfort and luxury, and the en suite bathroom was like something out of House & Garden.
A fluffy white robe embroidered with the hotel crest and matching slippers had been left on the padded bench at the foot of the four-poster bed, and Quinn could hear the siren call of the deep clawfoot tub and the basket of bath gels and lotions.
But as much as she would have enjoyed a hot bath with no one yelling at her through the door or rushing her to get out, she was only there for one night, and it was always a good idea to mix with the locals. One never knew what one could learn.
“I’m just going to change. I’ll see you downstairs in ten minutes,” she told Rhys.
She could hardly go downstairs in faded jeans and the comfortable hoodie she’d worn on the drive up.
“I hope you brought something smart,” he said, his gaze raking over her outfit. Rhys was dressed in a crisp blue shirt, black skinny jeans, and trendy suede shoes. No doubt all chosen by Katya, who no longer allowed him to dress himself.
Quinn mock-scoffed and shut the door in his face.
Rhys could be so high-handed sometimes. Of course she had brought something smart.
She wasn’t a complete novice. She changed into a black cocktail dress and pushed her feet into a pair of strappy heels.
Just right for a drink at the bar followed by a fancy dinner.
By the time Quinn arrived downstairs and slid onto a stool next to Rhys, he had already ordered them drinks. Whisky on the rocks for him, and a glass of wine for her.
“Malbec OK?” he asked solicitously. He knew what she liked, and Quinn was sure he’d insisted on a fine vintage.
“Yes, thank you.”
“I got the contact information for the former owner. And the mortuary is on the way to the retirement village,” Rhys said rather loudly. Quinn knew precisely what he was up to, and his bad manners immediately paid off.
“Oh, are you here about the body in the well?” the bartender exclaimed.
He was young and good-looking, and had a friendly smile. His skin was a warm brown against the crisp collar of his white shirt, and his nametag identified him as Terry.
“We are,” Rhys said. “Were you there when it was discovered?”
“I don’t start till six, but my cousin was there. He’s on the building crew. He said it was like something straight out of a horror film. This withered brown thing floating in the well, her hair rippling like seaweed. He thought it was Amelia Goff,” Terry added in a quieter voice.
“Who’s Amelia Goff?” Quinn asked.
Terry’s gaze turned melancholy, and the corners of his mouth drooped. “Amelia disappeared almost ten years ago. We were all at school together, and I still remember the cops coming to talk to us and asking everyone to join the search party. She was never found.”
“How old was Amelia when she disappeared?” Rhys inquired.
“Sixteen. She’d been seeing this older guy, so at first everyone thought she’d gone off somewhere with him, but he had an alibi for the night she went missing. He said he was with his wife,” Terry said bitterly. “I never bought it. I think she lied for him.”
“The coroner was of the opinion that this body is much older,” Rhys said, and took a sip of his whisky. “Several decades at least.”
“Maybe it’s the Runaway Bride,” the bartender said with a chuckle.
“Who was that, then?”
“Just one of those stories you hear. An urban legend, except this place is hardly urban and it’s not much of a legend.
Some girl ran off the day before her wedding, never to be seen again.
But that was the sixties. I reckon she realized the bloke she was about to marry was a complete tosser and took off. No big mystery there.”
“Are there any other unsolved mysteries?” Rhys asked.
Terry looked around to make sure no one was waiting for service, then turned back. “It was a while back. I’m really not sure of the year. A French couple on their honeymoon was staying in the village. They went hiking one day and never came back.”
“What do you think happened to them?”
“Search me,” Terry said. “Maybe they just skipped out on the bill. And a girl who lived in this house ran off with her lover. My gran told me about it. It was quite the scandal at the time.”
“Can we speak to your gran?” Rhys asked.
“She passed two years ago. She was ninety-eight. Anyway, I must get back to work. Give me a shout if you want another round.”
The young man moved on, and Rhys gave Quinn a loaded look.
“If the girl who ran off was the daughter of this house, the former owner might know who she was,” Rhys suggested.
“Wouldn’t she have said something when the body was found?”
“Maybe she didn’t make the connection.”
“And now she will?”
“She might,” Rhys countered.
“It all depends on how old the body is and if the timeline fits.”
“Lynn said the woman is quite elderly. Maybe she knew the victim.”
“I think you’re grasping at straws,” Quinn replied.
“The deceased was wearing a wedding ring on her left hand,” Rhys said. “That’s modern.”
Quinn shook her head. “Wearing wedding bands on the left hand goes back to Ancient Egypt. And it was formalized in England during the reign of Edward VI. Besides, it was a silver ring,” she reminded him.
“So?”
Quinn looked around, her gaze sweeping over the elegant room, the polished wood bar and brass fittings that glowed in the mellow light of the Tiffany lamps, and the art deco motif that was probably original to the house.
“If the deceased did come from this house, she was most likely a maidservant. I can’t imagine that a member of the family wouldn’t be missed, and her disappearance immediately reported and thoroughly investigated.”
“A married maidservant,” Rhys reminded her. “So, what happened to the husband? And why did he not report her missing?”
Quinn sighed. “If he was the one to toss her down that well, I doubt he would have hung around for very long or gone to the police.”
“Maybe we should speak to the local police,” Rhys suggested. “Surely Amelia Goff wasn’t the only young woman to go missing. There may not be a missing persons report, but there’s word of mouth. Nothing beats local gossip, and Terry here is just the start.”
“Why don’t we let Colin date the body first,” Quinn said. “There’s no point chasing local gossip when we don’t know when this woman lived. The well looks medieval, but it might be even older than that. This area was occupied by the Romans for hundreds of years. They even had a garrison nearby.”
“You think the body could date to Roman times?” Rhys asked, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “That would be quite something.”
“The well probably hasn’t been in use since the house was fitted with a water pump, which would be in the 1800s at the earliest, but if the water in the well was brackish, it’s possible that it was abandoned long before. The woman could conceivably have been in there for centuries.”
“Surely the remains would have skeletonized by now,” Rhys argued.
“Not necessarily. The are a number of bog bodies that have been preserved for millennia, some even longer. The cold, peaty water and the lack of oxygen prevent soft tissue from decomposing. The well was sealed, and the lack of fresh air probably created ideal conditions for preservation.”
“In other words, our girl could have lived at any time during the last two thousand years,” Rhys concluded.
Quinn nodded. “Precisely.”
She pitied the poor forgotten woman, but she would be lying if she said that she wasn’t getting excited at the prospect of meeting her and learning her story.
If the body was ancient, the victim would finally receive a proper burial.
And if the woman had lived recently, then perhaps some bereaved family would finally attain closure and get to bring her home.
Either way, it was time to give the woman in the well her name back.