The Knapthorne Conspiracy Malcolm Ballard (most popular novels of all time .txt) 📖

them, dealing with them, talking to them. He loved the strangeness of people, the oddities about them and he liked to try and read people based on his vast experience. This one was not easy to read. Young and smart, yes. But not a solicitor’s clerk.

“You do not look like solicitor’s clerk, Miss Wendy.” His reaction took her by surprise but she was not about to get drawn into a discussion about it.

“Funny, a lot of people say that. Do you have any baklava? I really came in to find something sweet.” He nodded in confirmation, thinking that his suspicions had been confirmed

“Made only yesterday. Just the one piece?”

“That’ll be fine. Don’t want to spoil my lunch.”

The sticky-sweet dessert was not on display at the counter and he had to go out the back to get it for her. When he returned, she was looking thoughtful.

“Do you know if there is a family by the name of Flint around here?” His cheerful expression didn’t change.

“It is possible. I have heard the name.”

“The address I have for them is Market Street, but that was some years ago. Would you know if they’re still there?” The Greek shook his head.

“I’m sorry! The name I know but I could not tell you where they live.” As he spoke he was carefully wrapping her purchase. When he handed it across, she watched his face intently.

“There are three of them I believe, two sisters, Ruth and Cora and a brother, Alfred. Are they all living here now?” If anything, the Greek’s smile grew broader.

“I am not best person to ask these things, Miss Wendy. My wife is the one to talk to but she is away. I think you should go to Market Street. Be careful with the baklava, it is very fresh.” He took the money she was offering, rung the item up and handed her the change. “Why do you ask about these questions?”

“A business matter, that’s all. I have to speak to one of them.” There had been nothing in the exchange to arouse her suspicions. A cool customer, this Greek, she conceded. “I’ll take your advice then. How do I get to Market Street?”

Having had no intention of going anywhere near Market Street, Wendy Daniels sat in her car eating the baklava while she pondered her next move. Finding evidence of Ruth Flint’s existence had been easy. Simply a matter of flicking through the registry records a few years either side of Cora and Alfred’s birth dates. The idea had been Kyle’s, clever prat! But how to trace her now, that was the question? Licking the remaining honey from her fingers, she spotted the pub sign in the distance on the other side of the road and it seemed as good an idea as any to go and have half a bitter and get a feel for the lie of the land. Driving into the car park she was surprised to find it empty and suddenly wondered if, indeed, the pub was even open. It was still over an hour to mid-day. However, when she pushed on the door to the saloon bar it responded to her touch and she went in. Whatever she might have been expecting, the drab interior was a disappointment, the atmosphere striking her as redolent of a fusty old Dickensian school room rather than the welcoming environment of a village pub. The sight caused her to hesitate, in disbelief, still holding onto the open door. An incongruous twenty-first century clarion call invaded the silence as, like a baby crying for attention, her mobile beckoned with its shrill call. Wendy Daniels backed out as the two men sitting at the bar watched her disappear.

“Danny!” From as far back as she could remember, the assertive young woman had disliked her given name. After reading Peter Pan, she had hated it and it wasn’t too long, courtesy of her schoolfriends, before she had been rechristened. She listened now as her boss’s voice barked instructions down the phone.

“I see your mood’s improved then,” she answered, not at all fazed by his ill-humour, then grinned at his curt reply as he ended the short call.

“If that’s not friggin’ typical, I don’t know what is! Only just got here and now the bastard wants me back! Shit, oh dear, I don’t believe it!” Aggressively she pushed at the door and marched back into the bar, determined to have her half of bitter first. The pound of flesh could wait. Samuel Handysides greeted her with a smile and a nod as she approached him at the bar.

“Half a pint of your best bitter, please.”

“You seemed positively anxious to ‘ave a drink, when you came in, I must say!” Samuel quipped. She smiled at his phrasing. Positively anxious, she liked that.

“Oh,” she sighed, with gusto, “if you had a boss like mine, it’d drive you to drink too, I reckon.” Over Samuel’s shoulder she saw someone else enter the area behind the bar. A man struggling with a full crate which he lowered, with some difficulty, to the floor. His facial expression and bright sweater identified him as the man Kyle had described as Alfred Flint. Samuel placed her drink on the counter and she offered a five pound note in payment.

“Nice place you got here,” she said, looking around her, as the landlord gave her the change. Although understated, her sarcasm couldn’t be missed.

“We likes it,” one of the men drinking at the bar replied without turning to look at her. He was thirtyish, big verging on hulking, dressed in an old grey suit which showed shiny patches from age. The redness of his face was a testament to his regular drinking. “If you don’t, you don’t have to stay.”

“Now, now, Reg,” Samuel joined the fray. “I’m sure the lady’s only having her little joke. Used to drinking in somewhere a bit different, I should think.”

“Should’a stayed there, then,” Reg countered, pushing his empty glass forward. “Same again, Samuel.” By the