The Secret of Kolney Hatch by Stefani Milan Read Free Book Online Page B

stopped.
            “Perhaps you can help me after all, Mrs. Pennyworth. You see, we’re trying to find friends or acquaintances of the missing woman. Agatha Bates? Have you heard that name before?”
            Petunia pretended to think about it for a moment and then slowly shook her head.
            “Can’t say that name rings a bell, Constable Wyatt.”
            “Alright. Well, thank you for your time. Have a good evening Mrs. Pennyworth.”
            And with that the constable was gone. But Petunia’s insides twisted and whirled as panic consumed her, for she had  heard that name before, too many times. That name had haunted her dreams, her thoughts, and her life for many years, for Agatha Bates had been her husband’s mistress.
    seven AN UNUSUAL MEETING
    Paul Watson’s Journal
    May 2, 1926, afternoo n .—I reached Edinburgh in the morning. The locomotive ride was nice—delicious food, and I was able to rest comfortably in the spacious sleeping car.
    Nigel, my driver, was waiting for me when I alighted from the train. He was a short and rather reserved man with an unusually round face. A large, shiny bald spot on the top of his head sat amid thinning reddish hair.
    As we drove away from Edinburgh, I took in the scenery before me. I had never seen such a beautiful landscape in all of my life.
    We passed a monumental castle standing tall in the distance, surrounded by the most attractive snow-covered mountains. Not a single cloud was in the sky, and there was a large lake that surrounded the castle. The lake was so still that for a moment I believed the site was an exquisite painting rather than a landscape. A single tree sat next to the castle. By far, the most beautiful part of the scenery was the reflection of the mountains, castle, and sky in the lake.
     
    Late r .— We continued through the Grampian Mountains, through the various clusters of pine and birch trees. Some of the trees were still barren and brown; others had buds, and still others were a deep green. The grass looked like a green blanket over the land, soft and lovely. Some roadways were very small and winding while others were more spacious.
    Beyond a long grove of pines, which then opened to the vast countryside, was a small stone cottage surrounded by considerable earthy hills, from which jagged rocks protruded. At one point, clouds rolled in, covering the blue skies slightly and making the hills appear dull.  A rippling river curved along that road. Another river traveled all the way down a small mountain; its serrated rocks stuck out as the water calmly flowed over it.
    Nigel did not ask many questions during our drive, and though I asked him a few, most of the time I spent observing the scenery around me.  What I did learn about Nigel was that his family was from Aberdeen, off the Northeastern shores of Scotland.
    “Fittie,” Nigel replied in a deep, baritone Scottish accent when I’d asked him from which village in Aberdeen he came. “It’s at the east end of the harbor. I’m part of a long line of fishermen, but after the death of my wife, I didn’t want to live there any longer.”
    By the time we reached Dalwhinnie, a small quaint town in Glen Trium where we would stay for this evening, the skies were overcast with clouds, and the temperature had dropped significantly.
    I stepped out of the car and embraced a much-needed stretch before examining the layout before me. We were in a wide, flat land surrounded by hills. London had been quite warm compared to Dalwhinnie. Nigel must have noticed me shivering.
    “It’ll be warmer inside, Doctor Watson,” he told me. “There’s enough whiskey to keep a man warm.”
    I followed Nigel into the Inn, which was comfortable and cozy from the moment I stepped inside. Nigel retired to his room early, but first he showed me where the bar was, which, when I entered, was already filled with smoke and the dull buzz of men and women immersed in