Almost ten years since Orla Benjamin’s murder and the building was descending into dilapidation - not quite derelict, but well on the way. One of the locals had expressed his intention to assemble a working party to tear it down. And perhaps that would be all for the best, Keefe thought. He lit his pipe, a favourite briar, and inhaled deeply. The sweet smell filled the air and melded with the fragrance of over ripe fruit wafting from the cottage garden. She had taken pride in this place, had Jenny MacLennan. It had been the beginnings of a new life for herself and her husband. Or had it? Keefe puffed at the stem of his pipe. What did he really think? That MacLennan was a cold-blooded murderess who may even have been a spy, or merely a jealous, embittered woman whose dream had been cruelly shattered? Or that, maybe, she was telling the truth. At the very least, perhaps that she was telling a story which she believed to be true. In other words, a woman not in her right mind. The war.
