11. Tea with Mrs Bell

Mrs Bell brought a second plate of cakes from the kitchen. These were small, round things dusted with sugar, with a little almond in the centre.

"Apple cakes," she explained. "The fruit comes from the old tree."

"They're delicious," I said.

"Thank you. It was my mother's recipe."

She sat down opposite us.

"Now, what exactly has that man at the White Heron been telling you?"

We recounted our conversation with the innkeeper, including his account of finding the red-door house and receiving the brass key.

Mrs Bell listened without interrupting.

When we finished, she laughed.

"He always was a cautious man."

"Do you think he should try the key?"

"Good heavens, no."

She took a sip of tea.

"Not until he knows what he's asking it to open."

"Does the key belong to the red-door house?"

She looked towards the clock in the corner.

"Does a key belong to a door, or does a door belong to a key?"

I decided not to pursue that particular question.

Mrs Bell seemed amused.

"You've been to the orchard, I hear."

"Yes. We met Elian and Rowan."

"Ah, Rowan. He still makes those baskets?"

"He does."

"Very good baskets. A little too fond of his own opinions, perhaps, but very good baskets."

"And Merrick?"

"Still planting things that shouldn't grow."

She looked quite pleased.

"That's a useful talent."

We asked about the garden beyond the orchard, and the house reflected in the pond.

Mrs Bell became quiet.

"That house has been in the valley a long time," she said. "Longer than the inn, certainly. Longer than the village, perhaps."

"Have you been there?"

"Oh, yes."

"What is it like?"

She smiled.

"Rather like this one, actually. A little untidy. Very comfortable. The garden could do with some attention."

"Who lives there?"

She looked at us.

"Someone who has been expecting you."

I nearly dropped my teacup.

"Us?"

"Well, not necessarily you two. People come and go. The house is rather particular about its visitors."

She rose and went to a small writing desk beside the window. From a drawer she took an old photograph.

It showed a group of people standing outside the White Heron. The building looked much as it did now, though the sign above the door was different.

The innkeeper stood beside a woman in a dark green coat.

Elian.

Rowan was there too, holding a wicker basket.

And beside them stood a young woman with white hair tied back with a ribbon.

Mrs Bell placed the photograph on the table.

"That was taken some years ago," she said.

I looked at the woman in the photograph.

She looked remarkably like our hostess.

"How many years ago?"

Mrs Bell considered.

"Oh, I couldn't say. The photographer never brought me the prints."

She picked up the photograph again.

"Now, I think you should take a walk down to the river before you return to the inn. There's something I want you to see."

"What is it?"

"An old boat."

She put the photograph away.

"Though it may not be there today."

We thanked her, finished our tea, and stepped out through the green gate.