Undine -

Chapter 19

SOPHIE popped the brown paper package on the post office scales, smiling across the counter at the post master and his wife.

'That's a hefty package. Parcel post, is it?'

'First Class.'

'You working up at Fern Deane, Miss?'

'Yes.'

'This'll be Mrs St Clair's package then. 'New novel, is it?'

Sophie nodded, tucking the change into her purse. 'I've tried to persuade her to use electronic mail but she'll have none of it.'

'How are they all down there?'

'Oh, fine. Mr St Clair is away on business a lot.'

'Strange buggers, them St Clair's,' the post master interjected sourly. 'Give me the creeps, they do.'

'They're gentry, Geraint,' the man's wife said. 'And the St Clair's are notorious for keeping themselves to themselves. This young lady's an employee.'

'Queer buggers,' Geraint repeated, stumping to the back of the shop to sort through a mountain of mail piled on the floor.

The post mistress shook her head, tapping one temple with her finger. 'Take no notice. I don't. Been working up there long then?'

'About eight weeks.'

'Enjoying it, are you?'

'Very much.'

The post mistress nodded, her blue eyes twinkling. 'We rarely see anyone from Fern Deane these days. Mrs St Clair used to drop by a lot, but not since she began writing her novels and that was thirty odd years ago. The St Clair's are something of a mystery to us villagers, and that house a legend round these parts.'

'There's nothing mysterious about Elizabeth and Michael, I can assure you,' Sophie said loyally. 'They just ordinary people, like you and I.'

'Ordinary as snow in hell,' mumbled Geraint.

The post mistress rolled her eyes. 'Ignore him.'

'S'true! They've had more staff at that house than I've had hot dinners.' The postmaster rolled a jaundiced eye at Sophie. 'And you'll be next.'

'Geraint!'

Sophie smiled weakly, wishing she'd driven into the main town ten miles away to post Elizabeth's manuscript. 'Mrs St Clair is very particular about who she employs. Besides, Mrs and Mrs Benchley have been with the family for nearly twenty years.'

'How is Irma?' the post mistress asked.

'She's fine. Thomas too.'

'Still whistling them tuneless tunes, is he, and smelling of horse shit?'

'Geraint!'

'The post master shrugged. 'S'true.

'The St Clair's have always stayed aloof from the villagers,' the post mistress said. 'But gentry do, don't they?'

Tynan Village consisted of a butcher and greengrocers, a bakery; doctor's surgery, dentist, pharmacy and coffee bar, and the sub post office. The main thoroughfare was a curving tree lined road with tarmac so old and thin that the cobbles showed through. Sheep grazed on the grass verges and wandered in and out of people's gardens, and what little traffic passed through the village slowed to accommodate these perambulating lawn mowers.

Sophie walked down the high street, passed into Smithy Lane which meandered past the farrier's forge before snaking west. Despite the lateness of the hour, it was still hot, and mingled with the scent of mown hay and woodbine was the pungent musk of baking pitch. Her soft suede pumps picked up a patina of dust as the hem of her dress created eddies of cool air around her knees. Half a mile down the lane she came to a stile set into the dry stone walling. There was no indication of a public footpath, but the trail seemed to lead in the right direction.