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possibility.
    And almost too easy.

7. Barrows Lane
    Sarah watched Riley race ahead of Jack as he stopped at the small tollbooth and chatted with …
    Jen? Joan?
    As far as she knew, no one in the village could tell the mystery-loving twins apart, though it was said one was more feisty and prickly than the other.
    She watched Jack dig into his pocket for some coins.
    Amazingly, even a pedestrian had to pay a toll to use this twenty-yard span of the bridge, the Bucklands’ right to it dating back to the reign of King Edward.
    If she and Jack had a goat in tow it would cost 5p more, the sign informed them.
    “Joan,” Jack said, “Guess your sister told you about …”
    Brave man …
    The woman took the coins from Jack and dutifully counted them before letting them slide into the till.
    “The missing person? You know I'm the real authority on such things Jack, and I don't think the man on our CCTV matches your person at all!”
    Jack looked at Sarah; a small smile, a nod.
    “Well, good morning for a walk anyway; won't hurt to take a stroll down Barrows Lane.”
    Joan Buckland shrugged.
    “There are better places,” Joan said.
    Sarah saw Jack smile at the toll-taker, and then stand up straight after having bent over for his tollbooth pleasantries.
    She believed that Jack had become better at interacting with these two eccentrics than anyone else in the village — most of whom gave the twins a wide berth, and wouldn't dare think of not paying the toll.
    Maybe it was a brothers and sisters-in-crime thing, she thought.
    “Better catch up with Riley,” he said.
    And with Sarah giving Joan Buckland a quick smile as they crossed, which went — not unexpectedly — unreturned, they headed up the road to Barrows Lane.
    *
    The lane — a dirt road, grooved and deeply pitted by a rough winter — wound to what looked like a dead end, but a spur led down a small gorge, where Sarah spotted a little stream.
    A spur that must meet up with the Thames farther on.
    Funny. This area — not terribly far from the centre of the village — was not a place he had ever walked to.
    But today he was there — and it was quite lovely.
    Sun making the new leaves glisten, tall grass sprouting up on either side, the glistening stream just visible below.
    Riley was having a ball running down to the stream, and then racing back up to Jack as if curious why they were taking so much time.
    At one point, Jack stopped and turned to Sarah.
    “Beautiful here, hmm?” he said. “Even a bit wild, least from what I've seen of the trails and paths of Cherringham.”
    “It is unusual,” she said. “And yes — a little wild.”
    Jack nodded. Then he looked at her, keeping her abreast of what was going on in his mind.
    “Isolated.”
    She nodded back. “Definitely.”
    Below, near the stream, she saw a small cottage at the end of the lane. She didn’t know who lived there — or even if anyone live there.
    Did Patrick O’Connor walk down here?
    If he did, it would have been — judging from how he managed the steps of the coach — a difficult walk down.
    And if he did, why?
    The big question …
    Why did the bridge CCTV not show him walking back?
    Was this where he went missing?
    Past here — as far as he knew — lay nothing but woods and sprawling fields that led to farms and, eventually, a road that circled the village.
    There was nothing that way, not for an American out to see the sights.
    Just this lane. The cottage below.
    Jack smiled. “Ready to see what we can see?”
    Something about this — now off on their own, the nearby village seeming so far — seemed intimidating. As if they were miles away.
    Her answer simple, direct.
    “Sure.”
    Jack led the way down, taking care with the rocks, the pits on the bumpy path that seemed poised to send one tumbling.
    *
    On the door of the cottage hung a faded wooden sign: Barrows Cottage .
    Sarah noticed a light inside, the view hidden by net curtains covering the two front windows.
    Somebody was