The Honey Trap. Vivien Armstrong

handicap, my beautiful parent sensibly dumped me in a Swiss school where I learned to cook.’ After that, mother and daughter had crossed paths rarely, it seemed. Rowan had taken jobs from time to time. ‘Mostly Cordon Bleu gigs, directors’ lunches and such,’ she admitted, ‘but sometimes with a family, skiing chalets, that sort of thing …’

      She went off to add water to the pot and Frederick lit his pipe.

      Aran waved a packet of cigarettes, ‘You don’t mind?’

      ‘With all this woodsmoke,’ Frederick laughed, ‘the walls are addicted to fug.’

      ‘What a relief.’ Aran’s confinement in the Darwin had taken its toll and he enthusiastically puffed at the first cigarette in days. ‘Tell me more about the Edens,’ he prompted.

      ‘A paternalistic lot. Not landed gentry,’ Frederick assured him, ‘but rich enough to be dictatorial. Cressy has made bitter enemies in this village because of her attitude. George Camelford for a start.’

      ‘Who’s he?’ Rowan refilled the cups and added a log to the fire.

      ‘He bought Eden Court. You may have heard of him: Aden, a big noise in the transport industry, container lorries, you know. See them all over Europe. A camel logo. Quite eyecatching.’

      ‘Go on,’ Aran persisted. ‘Don’t tell me there’s a dark side to this idyllic spot: a blood feud with the new robber baron turning the peasants out in the snow.’

      Frederick looked puzzled, never entirely at ease with Aran’s jokes.

      ‘Well, George Camelford’s been here a number of years, bought the place from some jack-in-the-box who tried to run it on a shoestring when Cressy and Blanche had to sell up. Uses Eden Court as his country seat, one might say. Good chap, absolutely no side to him, no side at all. Often in the Boar’s Head at weekends. Done a lot for this village one way and another.’

      ‘Talking of the Boar’s Head, how about a round or two after supper?’

      ‘Supper!’ Rowan echoed incredulously.

      ‘Well, a sandwich then,’ Aran conceded. ‘I need to keep my strength up.’

      ‘Sounds an excellent idea to me,’ Frederick agreed. ‘You’ll enjoy the pub—we could get a snack there. They do a good plate of sausage and mash.’

      Rowan gaped. ‘After that wonderful lunch? Sacrilege! By the way, where’s the doings, Frederick? I need to freshen up.’ She stepped back, catching her head a glancing blow on the low beam of the inglenook. ‘Whoops! I’d forgotten that.’ She grinned, leaning against the wall, rubbing her head.

      Frederick beckoned her into the passage and proudly gave a mini-tour. All the rooms seemed to connect: the front door went straight into the sitting-room and, opening a latched door, he led the way up a precipitous and curving stairway to the double bedroom above. It had its own bathroom, presumably fashioned from the communicating second bedroom. He went back downstairs. Rowan glanced round Frederick’s bedroom, cosy and inviting, warmed by the flue from the fireside below. Upstairs the windows were small, fringed by the overhanging thatch and, bending to look outside, Rowan could still make out the blurred outlines of flowers in a walled garden.

      Downstairs Frederick explained to her that the kitchen had been the original smithy and out of this he had also contrived a small guest room with its own modern French hip bath in the bathroom. Rowan chortled over the shot-off tub, deep and relaxing, the first she had seen apart from Parisian hotel rooms.

      ‘It was the only sort of bath to fit in this small space,’ Frederick explained, ‘and because the cottage is listed I couldn’t extend.’

      ‘It’s beautiful.’ Rowan loved Melrose Cottage. Thick walls which had absorbed centuries of rain and sunshine stood squarely on the Green, its dignity underlying the importance of the village blacksmith. Rowan ruefully compared the slick stylishness of Aran’s London flat and wondered how he would endure convalescence in this rural backwater. He had discovered the TV and the doom-laden toll of the nine o’clock news announced itself in the next room.

      Unself-consciously she checked the contents of Frederick’s larder and faced him with a wicked eye. ‘Well, Freddie dear, you’re not going to starve, either of you. Shall we go over to the pub for a quick noggin before I get the train?’

      ‘The train?’

      He followed her back into the sitting-room. Aran looked up from the screen.

      ‘Yes, of course. The train. If you ring for a taxi I can pick up something from Oxford at a pinch. It’s been a long day but all good things come to an end.’

      ‘I’ll check the timetable.’ The old man hurried out of the room. Aran, reclining on the huge sofa, was absorbed in the news, his kilt spread about him.

      Perched on the arm of the sofa, Rowan became caught up in a news flash of a rabies scare at a kennels near Dover. She tensed, stung by the dire warning of the man from the veterinary association. Frederick stepped in front of the set, unaware of her intense concentration and launched into a welter of train times and connections.