Free A Bitter Truth by Charles Todd Page B

then perhaps I should ask you why it is that you are willing to believe the worst of me as well as your wife? If you must know, your father was once friends with mine. Or so your mother has told me.”
    He shot a look at me, as if trying to decide if I was telling the truth.
    “Ask her,” I said shortly.
    And I had a feeling he would not.
    We drove on without speaking, and I looked out across the barren world of the heath, at the sheep grazing where kings once hunted, and a line of cows meandering toward a distant meadow, lined up as if in a queue. The weather seemed even grimmer and colder here. It was such a cheerless place to live. Even the deserts of Rajasthan were full of life, and the vast stretches of Egypt’s Western Desert for all its endless sand offered more to the eye than the stunted branches of gorse and heather and twisted scrub.
    We came into Hartfield, the bustling life of its main street a welcomed sight. I saw the doctor’s gate as we passed. A line of pretty cottages along the high street caught my eye. The rain was finally coming down in a fine mist. Ignoring it, women went about their marketing, pushing prams, pausing to gossip on a corner, while men, black umbrellas shielding their faces, strode purposefully toward their destinations. Roger Ellis gestured toward his right. “There’s The King’s Head. They have a telephone. I’ll leave the motorcar in the yard, shall I, and meet you here in half an hour. Will that do?”
    “Yes, thank you.” The inn stood at the far end of town, on the corner of a street that led up to a church. A tall black and white building with small-paned windows, it boasted a large sign with a crowned head that appeared to be Charles I with his narrow face, pointed beard, and long dark locks.
    As Roger Ellis brought the vehicle to a stop, I noticed the small house just across from us. It was painted a very pleasing shade of blue. There was a sign hanging on the white gate in front of the tiny garden. A painted border of flowers framed the words BLUEBELL COTTAGE . A ginger cat lay curled up in the window next to the door, asleep on a cushion the same color.
    Roger Ellis saw the direction of my gaze. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, very much so,” I replied and was on the point of turning toward the inn.
    His voice stopped me. It was flat, without emotion, but I sensed the effort he’d needed to keep it that way.
    “Her blind officer lives there. In Bluebell Cottage,” he said, and walked away, leaving me standing in the middle of the inn yard.

Chapter Four
    I spoke to my mother, who pretended that she wasn’t disappointed that I wasn’t coming home directly. I explained my situation as best I could—the telephone was in a cranny without a door, and I knew that anyone passing or standing in Reception just around the corner could hear every word—and I asked if she’d forgive me for putting Lydia first.
    “Yes, of course I will. But when were you invited? I didn’t quite understand?”
    “I ran into someone in London and came down to Sussex with her. A family member died recently, and the stone for his grave is ready to be set in place. The rest of the Ellis family is expected today for a small ceremony. They’d like me to stay.”
    “Darling, I didn’t know you were acquainted with anyone in that part of Sussex. Are you quite sure you’ve told me everything, Bess, dear?”
    “This telephone is in a very public place. Please, ask Simon. He can explain this far better than I, just now.”
    “I don’t know that he’s at the cottage just now. He and your father went off together, and the Colonel Sahib hasn’t returned.”
    “I’ll write,” I said. I had half an hour, I could find hotel stationery and send a short note. “Will that do?” Although any letter would reach Somerset after I did.
    “Darling, don’t worry about it. You’ll be home in a few more days. We can talk then, shall we? You sound tired and more than a little anxious. A party