Free The Lost Soldier by Costeloe Diney

looking at this through twenty-first century eyes, Rachel decided, that’s the problem.
    She started as her musings were interrupted by a voice saying, “If you’re on your own, may I join you?” and looking up found Nick Potter standing beside her, holding a pint and a plate of food. She was surprised by his approach, but gestured to the bench seat opposite.
    “Feel free,” she said, and, glancing round the room, found that the bar had filled up considerably since she had come in, and there was little space elsewhere for him to sit.
    “Thanks.” Nick set his plate and glass down on the table before saying with a nod at her half-empty glass, “Can I get you a top-up for that?”
    Rachel smiled back at him. “No thanks,” she said. “Only one at lunch time or I go to sleep.”
    She tucked her notebook back into her bag and took a pull at her shandy, thinking as she did so that this would be a good chance to do a little probing into village affairs, even if Nick were a self-confessed blow-in. “It’s getting crowded in here,” she remarked as an opening. “Is it always as full as this on a Saturday lunch-time?”
    “It has a good reputation for bar food,” Nick said. “People come out from Belcaster for a pub lunch.”
    “It is an attractive villagey sort of pub,” Rachel agreed, spreading the crusty brown bread roll with some delicious looking chutney. “This is supposed to be home-made,” she indicated the chutney with her knife and Nick said, “I believe it is. Mandy is an excellent cook, and everything is home-made.”
    “I heard today,” Rachel said conversationally as she watched him begin to eat his curry, “that there used to be another pub in the village. The Bell?”
    Nick looked interested. “Was there? I didn’t know that. Where was it?”
    “Not sure, but I understand it’s a private house now. I suppose a village this small can only support one pub.”
    “Probably,” agreed Nick, “but it’s sad don’t you think, that such places should have to close? It would certainly be the beginning of a lingering death to this village if the Post Office Stores closed. The school would probably go too.”
    “So you’re in favour of these new houses then?” Rachel asked.
    “As I said the other night, in principal I am, but it depends how things are done.”
    “What about the Ashgrove?” Rachel watched him over the rim of her glass as he considered his reply.
    “That’s a difficult one,” he conceded. “A memorial like that shouldn’t be destroyed, especially when there are still people alive who remember the men who are commemorated there.”
    “But there is already a memorial in the church,” Rachel pointed out, playing devil’s advocate. “They are all commemorated there.” She nearly said “all but one”, but something held her back. She wanted to do a lot more research on Sarah Hurst. She felt there was another human interest story there in its own right, and decided to say nothing about it until she had discovered more.
    “Is there?” Nick looked surprised. “I didn’t know, but I have to admit I’ve never been into the church. So, they wouldn’t be without any memorial.” He laughed. “That’ll please Mike Bradley.”
    “Yes,” Rachel agreed bleakly. “And he knows about it too. It was one of his blokes, Tim Cartwright, who told me it was there.”
    They both turned their attention to their food and ate in companionable silence until Rachel said casually, “Whereabouts do you live? Right in the middle of the village?”
    “More or less,” Nick replied. “I’m living in a house on the main road into the village. It’s very small, and only temporary, while I look for something else.”
    “In Charlton Ambrose?”
    “Probably. My firm has relocated to Belcaster, so I want to find something permanent in one of the outlying villages. I like it here.”
    “Perhaps you could buy one of Mike Bradley’s executive homes,” suggested Rachel, watching Nick