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the history of the Shropton Canal. Although there were contemporary aspects to the brief, it fitted her criterion of being associated with the safe, distant past of the Industrial Revolution of the eighteenth century.
    She was already familiar with a rough history of British canal construction, having spent many childhood weekends walking the towpaths with her father, who had his own fascination with the subject. But she had known little of the Shropton Canal, which was of interest to her client.
    Esme studied her notes, wondering how much information he required. She preferred it if clients explained their reasons for needing the information as it helped her compile a more relevant report, but he had not been forthcoming on that particular question. She scanned through the summary of what she had put together. The canal had been built in the middle of ‘canal mania’ when wonder of the new transport system was at its height, and was officially opened in 1797. By 1846 the arrival of the railways had begun its negative effect on the whole canal system. Shropton Canal was eventually left to deteriorate along with many smaller canals in the network. Her client was particularly keen to know about the enthusiasts’ society, which had been formed in recent years with the idea of restoring the canal. With the increasing popularity of canal-boat holidays, these societies were becoming more common. She discovered that The Shropton Canal Trust had recently won funds to conduct a feasibility study to determine the cost of carrying out a restoration project. There was every possibility that the old canal might flow once more.
    Esme took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She had been working since early morning and her brain was feeling distinctly addled. She decided to shelve the arduous task of documenting the current route of the canal, where it was still identifiable, opting instead to take advantage of the break between showers to benefit from some fresh air in the garden.
    She was on her knees weeding at the front of the cottage when Gemma arrived unannounced. Esme sat back on her heels, hand fork in midair, alarmed by Gemma’s early departure from the hospital, and fearing the worst. Had the hospital tried to telephone but she’d not heard it ring? She froze, tableau-like, on her kneeling mat, staring towards her niece, bracing herself for bad news.
    ‘Don’t panic,’ said Gemma, as she climbed out of the car. ‘Change of plan, that’s all.’
    Esme realised she had been holding her breath. She exhaled and got to her feet.
    ‘For a moment I thought…’ She shook her head. ‘Never mind.’ She dropped the fork on to the grass and peeled off her gardening gloves. ‘So what’s happened?’
    Gemma held aloft a small black leather bag, swinging it as if enticing Esme to snatch it from her. ‘Mum’s handbag.’
    ‘Where did they find it?’ Esme gestured for them to go inside and Gemma followed Esme through the side gate to the back yard and into the kitchen.
    ‘Someone had handed it in.’ She shrugged. ‘For some reason they’ve only just made the connection that it might be Mum’s. Something about the person going on holiday and not realising the bag’s significance. Anyway, here it is.’
    Esme ran the hot water tap and swilled her hands. ‘So was anything missing?’
    ‘That’s why I’m not at the hospital. I had to go and see if I could identify whether anything had been taken. Bit pointless. How am I supposed to know what Mum was carrying round in her bag?’
    Esme agreed. She’d hardly remember what was in her own bag, let alone someone else’s.
    ‘I said to the sergeant,’ continued Gemma, ‘“Would you know what was in your mother’s handbag?” He admitted it would be a long shot.’
    ‘But what about her purse, cards and so on?’
    ‘Oh that’s all there. Cash, credit cards, keys, the lot.’
    ‘So not a mugging then?’ Esme wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad.
    ‘They still