She glanced at the handwritten directions and confirmed that her destination was just shy of the town.
Charity could not recall the exact formula for converting kilometers to miles. But making a rough calculation was almost easier than multiplying by 100.
A kilometer is roughly six-tenths of a mile.
That’s slightly more than half a mile.
So that means I’m a little more than half of fourteen—or seven—miles from Great Glen.
She noted the odometer reading: 42,215.
A little more than ten minutes later, as the odometer rolled to 42,220, she saw that the roadside hedgerow had ended. There now was a well-maintained, low wall constructed of fieldstone. And, as the odometer turned to 42,221, she came to a gap in the wall, an entrance, with a wooden sign that appeared somewhat new.
She braked as she read it: HIGHAM HILLS, A HOME TO ALL.
Charity felt her throat tighten as the car came to a stop.
She leaned forward in her seat, chin on the steering wheel, and peered down past the entrance.
There was a charming grassy drive with two tracks of bare soil rutted by automotive traffic. It was lined on either side by mature field maples, the canopies of the trees touching to form a tunnel. And outside of the tall trees, running along the edge of the farm fields, a simple wooden fence consisting of two parallel boards running between posts five feet high.
This trip will turn out to be a complete waste of time and effort.
Not to mention most likely emotionally draining.
But I had to try. I owe Ann that much.
And when I’m done here, and with Major Martin gone, I can double up my effort in finding her.
Charity sat back. She shifted the Chevy into first gear, turned the steering wheel as she let out on the clutch, and soon was slowly rolling past the entrance and into the tunnel of trees.
The lane wound along for almost a mile. Then the tree line and canopy ended, and the drive made a large circle in front of what appeared to be the main house of the farm.
Charity saw that the two-story residence was built of sturdy materials, with a façade of fieldstone and a roof of slate. And though nothing on the order of an estate such as Whitbey House, it was a rather large residence. It had a substantial covered porch on the front and two sides—where, perhaps, twenty or thirty people were sitting or milling about—and it looked to Charity as if each floor could have maybe ten to twelve large rooms.
She saw that there were three English automobiles and one somewhat-battered pickup truck parked together on the grass off of the circular drive, and Charity steered the Chevrolet beside the truck and shut it off.
She looked toward the porch and the people there and saw that her newly arrived vehicle was now the subject of some attention.
Here goes nothing, she thought and opened her car door.
As she made her way toward the shallow steps leading to the front porch, a man on crutches worked his way down the steps, then toward her.
He looked to be about sixty. His long face
was clean-shaven and his thinning silver hair loosely combed over a shiny scalp. He was neatly dressed in a well-worn wrinkled brown suit with a white shirt, no tie. The right leg below the knee was missing, and the man had neatly pinned up the pant cuff so it would not drag on the ground. And though the man appeared gaunt, he moved on his crutches with a determined effort and an air of authority.
As the man approached Charity, he said with a cockney accent, “How can I help you, miss?”
Charity smiled, then noticed that the man had a clipboard tucked under his left arm, between the armpit and the cushion top of the crutch. She held out her right hand.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” Charity said with a dazzling smile. “My name is Lieutenant Hoche.”
“It’s my pleasure, Lieutenant,” he said, shaking her hand. “Christopher Johnson. I’m the adjunct here.”
“I was hoping to see Grace Higham,” Charity said pleasantly.
“She’s rather busy right now. If I could ask what this pertains to? Or perhaps I could assist?”