“This is Ellie, Nan,” Daniel said loudly, his face reddening further. “Carolyn’s daughter. From next door. You remember her? Carolyn’s daughter.”
“Oh, yes. Her.” She shook her head in the direction of the connecting wall. “Forgot she had one.”
She continued shuffling towards the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and made her way back upstairs without another word.
“Sorry about her,” Daniel said, running a hand through his hair.
“Not at all,” Ellie replied, suppressing a laugh. “That’s exactly how I’d react too, hearing Carolyn Swan had a daughter.”
“You’re nothing like your mother.”
“Oh?” Ellie raised an eyebrow. “What am I like, then?”
He shrugged, his eyes meeting hers. “Ellie. I can see in your eyes you’ve been through a lot since we last spoke when we were… eleven? Must be. But I still see that same girl in there.”
Ellie felt a sudden warmth bloom in her chest, her heart skipping a beat. She found herself unable to look away from Daniel’s gentle gaze, surprised by the unexpected flutter of emotion his words had stirred within her.
“So, where are you off to next?” he asked.
“I should get home to my gran. I left her fast asleep in front of the telly.”
“It’s gone midnight. I’ll walk you home.”
A part of Ellie wanted to refuse, to assert her independence. But the memory of the falling headstone in the graveyard sent a shiver down her spine. The thought that someone might have tried to harm her following the riddles was too chilling to ignore. She realised she hadn’t even mentioned it to Daniel, the fear was still too raw.
“That would be nice,” she found herself saying.
As they walked through the quiet streets, Ellie felt a sense of comfort in Daniel’s presence. When they reached her door, she turned to him. “Be careful on your way back,” she said, surprised by the concern in her voice.
Daniel grinned. “If anyone tries anything, I’ll scare them off by being cute.”
Ellie laughed, the tension easing from her shoulders. Before he could leave, she pulled out her phone. “Give me your number,” she said. “It was about a four-minute walk here. In four minutes, I want a text message from you.”
“Promise,” Daniel said, typing his number into her phone. He sent himself a message before she needed to. “Four minutes.”
Inside, Ellie found Maggie asleep on the sofa, her favourite film still playing softly in the background. She gently woke her grandmother and helped her to bed before retreating to her own room.
Lying across her bed, Ellie stared at her phone, counting the minutes. Just as four minutes ticked by, a message appeared: “Home. See you tomorrow.”
Ellie hoped so. Glad he’d made it home, she tossed her phone onto the nearby armchair, watching it bounce softly against the cushion and onto the floor. She almost rolled out of bed to retrieve it, but her body refused. The day had been a long one, and she needed to focus on more important things.
She pulled the new notepad and the ‘I Love Meadowfield’ pen from the bag she’d bought earlier at Wiltshire Whimsy. The crisp pages crackled as she opened it, the smell of fresh paper filling her nostrils.
As she began to write, jotting down the events of the day and the clues she’d gathered, Ellie felt her eyelids growing heavy. The exhaustion of the past few days was catching up with her, but she was determined to get her thoughts down on paper before sleep claimed her.
Her pen moved across the page, recording details about the Blackwood family, from her conversations with James and Anne, the riddle in the graveyard, and her conversation with Daniel about Edmund’s books. She fought against the drowsiness, her handwriting becoming increasingly messy as she struggled to keep her eyes open. When the pen drifted off the page, she snapped the book shut and placed it on her nightstand. Rolling over, still clothed, she felt the Roman coin wriggle from her pocket. She’d promised herself she’d hand it over to the police after giving herself the day to find out more about it, and she’d done everything but focus on the coin.
Tomorrow, the museum…
Chapter 16And Then There Were Tourists
Sweat dribbled from underneath Ellie’s bun and between her shoulder blades. She fanned herself with a laminated card detailing the history of the Meadow Company’s name, grateful for the occasional breeze from nearby handheld electric fans clutched in the hands of tourists. The small local museum felt even more cramped than usual, packed with about twenty American tourists eager to learn about the village where the Meadow Company had stayed during World War II. The museum would have felt busy with half that number.
She hadn’t expected the humidity, but she knew the museum would be busy today; Maggie had mentioned over breakfast that a coach of American tourists was expected. Now, surrounded by enthusiastic visitors, Ellie could barely move without bumping into someone’s bulky backpack or camera slung around their neck.
Charles stood at the back of the small museum, fielding questions about the Meadow Company. Ellie watched as he did his best to answer, his forehead glistening with sweat in the humid air.
“Did the soldiers really stay in people’s homes?” an elderly woman asked, her accent thick with a Southern drawl.
Charles nodded, wiping his brow. “Yes, many villagers opened their homes to the soldiers. It created quite a bond between the locals and the Americans.”
“501st Infantry Regiment,” another man announced, folding his arms as his chest puffed out. “Our boys before the Normandy invasion.”
“And they left a lasting imprint of bravery and kinship on the village,” Charles said.
Ellie inched closer, curious about Charles’s knowledge of local history. She noticed how he seemed to relax slightly when talking about the past, his usual nervous demeanour fading as he delved into the details of Meadowfield’s wartime experiences.
She waited patiently as the tour guide herded the group towards their next destination, The Old Bell. She could overhear the tourists repeating the familiar story about the famous evening when the company decided to change their name sitting outside that very pub. As the crowd thinned, Ellie stopped pretending to read the displays, which had bloomed since her childhood visits.
Moving past the WWII section, she found Charles engaged in conversation with a lingering tourist. Their voices carried in the now quieter museum.
“Now, I’m from Texas, you see, but my great-grandfather was from England, and he was a bell maker. I’m so drawn to this Blackwood Foundry story, like I can feel it, in my blood, you know?” the American was saying, his enthusiasm palpable. “The craftsmanship is just awesome.”
Charles looked more nervous with the one-on-one interaction, but he nodded, fiddling with his glasses. “I do know, as it happens,” he replied. “I’m a direct Blackwood descendant.”
“Huh?” The American laughed, patting Charles on the arm. “No kidding?”
Ellie watched as Charles continued, his voice a mix of pride and something else she couldn’t quite place. “The family lost the business when trade moved abroad and techniques changed, but I’m still proud of it. The bell at St. Mary’s still rings with our family crest, and that’s important to me.”
