Mrs McDougall had promised to have milk and bread for me, and there might possibly be mail, brought over by the morning’s ferry. Neil had told me to try and forget about the ‘mystery’, and this proved surprisingly easy to do. On such a morning, with the sky full of larks, and the banks beside the road stiff with foxgloves and wild roses, the odd events of Wednesday night seemed remote, and indeed little more than odd. So I busied myself, as I walked, with plans for supper on Monday night, when I hoped that my brother would be here, and I had invited Neil to join us. When I drew near the village I could see two girls sitting on the parapet of the little bridge. They seemed to be watching me, and then one of them waved, and I saw that they were Megan Lloyd and Ann Tracy, from Cambridge. Ann, Megan’s constant companion, was a complete contrast to the dark, rather intense Welsh girl. She was a land agent’s daughter from somewhere in Norfolk, tall and fair, with heavy gilt hair curling down over her shoulders, and a long, slim, slightly drooping body that had a certain elegance.
