Okay, she texted back reluctantly. But what is it about?

It’s about Charlie’s research. The message came back immediately. There’s something I need to show you. Meet me at the White Hart in Hinton in fifteen minutes? Please. It’s urgent.

The chills along Lucy’s skin increased. I’ll be there, she texted back and got a thumbs-up in reply.

Hinton was a couple of villages along the Ridgeway toward Wantage. Lucy knew she would need to borrow Verity’s car, but perhaps Persis had deliberately chosen somewhere away from Knightstone so that no one would see them. She wondered if this was to do with Persis’s trip to Chastleton with Charlie, or something else he had uncovered before his death. Dashing off a quick text to Finn to tell him where she was in case he arrived back whilst she was out, she took the spare set of car keys from the drawer and walked up the track.

There were no lights on at Gunpowder Cottage. Johnny must be out that evening too. Lucy eased the car out of the garage, set off down the drive and turned onto the road to Wantage. The car felt unfamiliar, lots of power under the bonnet and rather skittish, she thought, and she took it very steadily. Although they were into August now and the nights were lengthening, the daylight still lingered at this time of the evening. Only when the road dipped beneath the trees did it suddenly seem much darker. She drove through the next village, Compton, where there was a shop with a painted sign board outside that was clearly one of Marilynne’s creations. A woman in a Swiss-style dirndl was carrying a wicker basket full of fresh bread and dairy items whilst a procession of children skipped along behind her. It all looked very wholesome, if rather old-fashioned. Compton Village Stores, it read.

Lucy wondered idly whether most of Marilynne’s income came from signs and illustrations rather than the big landscapes she clearly preferred. Still she shouldn’t be snooty about it. She knew how difficult it was to make a living from a creative career. The car plunged into another of the tree tunnels along the road. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the blackness. A bird scuttled away into the shadows with a harsh cry. This, she remembered, was the stretch of road that Charlie had been driving along when he crashed. Had he seen a bird or small animal and swerved to avoid it? Had he been peering through the twilight just as she was now? Had he been thinking, as she was, about the strange myths of the Roman road and Odin and his ravens appearing from the dark? She shivered although it wasn’t cold in the car, and turned on the radio to try to ward off the sense of isolation. A car passed her in the other direction, its headlights temporarily blinding her. She was driving very carefully, aware of anxiety in the pit of her stomach and a rather horrible sense of watching Charlie’s final drive unroll before her eyes. Another bend in the tree-lined road, a signpost approaching...