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

the other way round, she wondered, with a guilty grin. Already it was Wednesday, and late morning at that. There was no time to be lost if she wanted Cora to turn up in the morning. She ran indoors to make sure everything was locked, which reminded her to contact the security company again. They had promised to come out and inspect the cottage in order to give her a quote and that had been over a week ago. Satisfied everything was in order, she shut the door firmly behind her and walked to the car. The battery seemed loathe to turn the engine over at first but finally it fired into life and she made a mental note to give the car a good run, as soon as possible.

Less than ten minutes later Bella arrived outside Cora’s home, a terraced house on the end of a row of six. Market Street, a turning off of the high street and on the same side as The Lamb, was surprisingly wide and the front door of the house opened directly onto the pavement. The brickwork on the front of the houses in the terrace had been painted a uniform grey, beneath each slate roof, but the woodwork around the doors and windows was brightly painted, a different colour for each home. One or two had window boxes on the ground floor windows adding another splash of colour. From the outside the houses looked neat, tidy and well maintained. Giving herself no time to reflect on what she was about to do, Bella got out of the car which she had parked outside number six. Locking the car, a habit imported from London, she approached Cora’s front door and lifted the gleaming brass knocker. After giving it two smart raps she stood back and waited. As the seconds ticked by Bella felt the tension building up as she was possibly about to come face-to-face with Cora Flint. The longer it took for the door to be answered, the more unsettled she became. When the door opened in front of her, at last, not a sound had preceded it from inside the house and, suddenly, there stood Cora, a cold, dispassionate glare on her face.

“What you’m a-wantin’ then, Miss Foxton?” It wasn’t said in a pleasant way but rather like there couldn’t possibly be anything the two of them had to talk about.

“I’d like to talk to you, Cora, if you don’t mind.”

“What’s there to say?” The big woman folded her arms in front of her. The action was a statement in itself. Bella was determined not to find herself apologising for what had taken place and decided that telling the truth was the best policy. Well, very nearly the truth.

“Mrs. Flint, I’ve just found out that Patrick, my father, died here in Knapthorne many years ago…” The words had a startling effect on the woman which was vividly reflected in the look on her face. A mixture of shock and confusion transformed her features, totally taking Bella by surprise. So much so, in fact, that when Cora began to shut the door on her she was almost caught out but threw her weight against it just in time.

“Mrs. Flint. Please! Don’t do this. We have to talk!” Bella put her foot into the gap making it impossible for Cora to close the door and, all of a sudden, it gave way and she almost fell into the cottage. Bella found herself in a neat, orderly lounge, the room of a woman who took pride in her home. In front of her and to the right was a fireplace and grate with a decorative mirror hanging over the tiled mantelpiece. A settee and two matching armchairs, in a flowery print, took up most of the floor space, each having lace antimacassars draped over them. A long, narrow table sat under the window but she noticed there was no sign of a television. Cora Flint stood in the doorway leading from the lounge, her back to Bella.

“Mrs. Flint…Cora!” Bella pleaded.

“Leave me alone. Go away!” There was no harshness in her small voice. She was obviously weeping. Unable to help herself, Bella moved towards her and put an arm around the broad shoulders. Cora was obviously in considerable distress. The two of them stood there, unspeaking, as though their separate worlds had collided and come to a complete standstill. Through the coarse material of Cora’s black dress she could feel the woman’s shoulders moving as she wept, alternately gulping and sniffing as she tried to stem the flow of tears.

“Why don’t you come and sit down, Cora? It’s better than standing here. I’ll go and make us a cup of tea, hm?” Her housekeeper allowed herself to be turned and led to the settee, her head bowed, the reddened, anguished face hidden in a handkerchief. Swiftly, Bella left the room in search of the kitchen and the requisites to concoct one of the most reliable palliatives.

“There you are!” Bella returned with a china cup and saucer in each hand. Cora looked to have recovered her composure as Bella held out her tea and the older woman looked up at her questioningly.

“Like I said, Miss Foxton. What is it you’m a-wantin?” There was no antagonism in the voice this time, no aggression. Just a simple question. The ghost of an uneasy smile crossed her face as she took the tea then Bella seated herself opposite Cora, in one of the armchairs. There was no question Bella was going to blurt out what she wanted. This was going to be her only chance to see if she could get some answers from Cora and perhaps find out if she knew anything about her father’s death. It was not a time for haste.

“I’m sorry if I upset you with the mention of Ruth’s name, last week,” she began. The thought that she wasn’t going to apologise ran through her mind. No matter. She had