Read Cherringham--Last Train to London for Free Online

the river towards Jack’s boat, moored just thirty yards away.
    “That where he lives, isn’t it?” she said, as if accusing Sarah of some kind of crime.
    Sarah nodded.
    “I suppose he’s watching me through binoculars,” said Jayne, shaking her head. “So, where was I? Yes – my good friend dies and minutes later I’m being questioned by two bloody amateur detectives trying to dig up dirt.”
    “Ms Reid, that’s not true. We’re just trying to —”
    “For God’s sake call me ‘Jayne’, will you,” she said, spinning on her heels and carrying on up the footpath. “Ms? Ms? Ridiculous form of address!”
    Sarah hurried along behind her to catch up. This wasn’t going at all the way she’d imagined – she needed to change tack and fast.
    “I’m not sure if you know, but somebody broke into Mr Brendl’s house over the weekend and stole his puppets.”
    Jayne stopped so suddenly that Sarah nearly bumped into her.
    “What? No, I didn’t,” she said, her brow furrowed in anger. “How do you know? And why wasn’t I told?”
    “We only found out this morning. Jack and I took the Punch and Judy back to his cottage and —”
    “So you’ve got his keys? I don’t believe this …”
    “The keys were actually in the little theatre, so Mrs Harper —”
    “I asked at the hospital for them; they wouldn’t give them to me —”
    “I’m sure that’s only because they didn’t have them —”
    “I thought they were just being bloody-minded, I didn’t expect the school to be in on it too.”
    Sarah realised that Jayne was still in shock at Otto Brendl’s death – somehow she was going to have to calm her down.
    “I’m sure Mrs Harper intended to pass the keys onto you,” she said.
    “Oh God, back to Mrs Harper again – I really don’t want to talk about that woman – okay?”
    “Of course.”
    “Come on,” said Jayne, striding off once more down the river path.
    Sarah watched her marching away and thought:
    I could just leave this for now. Catch her later. Take a breather. Grab a cuppa over at Jack’s boat .
    But something – some instinct – told her that there might never be a better time to question Jayne Reid.
    She hurried after her.
    Ten minutes of fast walking had passed without a word between them.
    Sarah had decided to let Jayne Reid stew for a while. In silence they’d followed the slow winding shape of the river path upstream, occasionally crossing stiles or footbridges over small brooks. Up here there were fewer pleasure boats and holidaymakers. The meadows turned to pasture and Sarah kept an eye on groups of inquisitive cows as they walked by them.
    On any other day this would be a lovely walk, she thought.
    But she was determined not to give in.
    Eventually the path curved in across the meadow and Sarah saw they were close to the old church, which stood on a raised mound just a few hundred yards from the Thames.
    Ahead of her, Jayne had reached the dry stone wall which surrounded the churchyard. She pushed the ancient wooden gate and held it open for Sarah.
    “I haven’t been here for years,” said Sarah.
    “We – I – come here every day,” said Jayne over her shoulder, striding up the stone path to the church entrance.
    Sarah paused and took in the familiar view.
    St Paul’s Church, Ingleston.
    When she was a teenager she and her friends used to come up here, drink cider in the graveyard and scare each other half to death.
    In truth, it had always been, to her, the most peaceful, romantic place. She’d even written an essay about it as a local history project.
    The church had once been at the heart of Ingleston, she remembered – but the village had been decimated during the Black Death. The fields all around were dotted with grassy mounds, under which slept the grim remains of the abandoned cottages and barns.
    “Come on,” said Jayne, holding the heavy church door open. Sarah walked up the church path, past ancient gravestones, marked with skulls and