The Will Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 1) Read Free Page B

in
New York at the moment – hence me.” Anderson realised he was close
to babbling and having assumed Devereau’s name would instantly
strike a chord, he wasn’t sure that anything he was saying was
actually correct.
    Charlotte
persisted, “Well, it’s kind of you to give up your time to come
here. What is it you do, Mr Anderson?”
    Her tone was a
warning to be careful and Anderson tried to hedge, “A writer of
sorts; articles and such like.”
    “You mean a
journalist?”
    “On a good
day... a hack for the most part.”
    Anderson’s
attempt to make it light-hearted failed miserably, the admission
merely opening the floodgates of the woman’s anger: not only was
Anderson rude and a chauvinist, he was quite likely an interloper
as well.
    “My father was
a generous man, Mr Anderson,” said Charlotte, her tone ice-cold.
“He would always go out of his way to make everyone welcome, even
insensitive journalists who choose to invade a family’s private
grief. Stay if you must, but please leave my mother alone. And to
save you the need to bother anyone else, I’m thirty-three,
unmarried, live in Boston and work at an estate agent’s.” Charlotte
paused, brown eyes smouldering. “Was there anything else you wanted
to know?”
    Anderson
slowly shook his head, then with nothing to lose, he pushed his
luck as far as he dared. “Is that Charlie for short, or
Lottie?”
    Charlotte glared at him in confusion, struggling for the
right response. When the reply came, it was both abrupt and
dismissive, “Goodbye, Mr Anderson.”
    * * *
    As well as being the village’s sole pub, The Farriers Arms also doubled up as
Marshwick’s only hotel. Dating from the early-1800’s, with beamed
ceilings and a wood-burning fire, it offered just three en-suite
rooms for the occasional guest like Anderson; yet while his room
might be small and spartan, the food more than made up for such
minor grievances. The lounge and public bars had long since merged
into one, with chairs and tables for some two dozen patrons, plus
up to ten more on stools alongside the U-shaped counter. The
atmosphere was friendly and relaxed, and without the distraction of
irritating music or even a TV; two-thirds full, the bar area was
still cosy rather than crowded, the two staff coping with
professional ease without ever looking rushed.
    A well-fed
Anderson sat on an end stool with drink in hand, reflecting on a
very confused set of messages from the Commander’s wife and
daughter. Having been roundly put in his place by Charlotte, he had
struggled to know how best to satisfy his obligations to Devereau,
the problem solved within minutes by Jessica herself. Whether she
had noticed Charlotte’s reaction to Anderson wasn’t clear but she
at least well knew Adam Devereau, or more specifically his wife,
Christmas cards shared but no real contact for a good twenty years.
Jessica certainly hadn’t been put out by Anderson’s admission that
he was a journalist, keen in fact to promote the Commander’s story
beyond just one five-minute conversation.
    It had been an intriguing proposition, the worsening weather
another good reason for Anderson to delay his return home. So far,
the Farriers had
proved a welcoming refuge, Anderson’s continuing failure with
members of the fairer sex not something to brood over. Despite
being close to the wrong side of forty and of unsteady income, he
could still be considered a reasonable catch, the hindrance of a
failed marriage a relatively minor inconvenience. Their friends had
always regarded it as the ideal match, then after five years of
marriage, Anderson had suddenly packed his bags and walked out;
four years on and he still couldn’t explain – even to himself –
exactly why he had left.
    Anderson
gulped down the last of his drink, thought about having an early
night, then took the easy option and asked for a refill.
    “You here for the Commander’s funeral?” The barman was in his
forties, solidly built, always