Read THE TRYSTING TREE for Free Online Page B

studio while I’m staying with her.’
    ‘You paint too?’ he asked, following me down the stairs.
    ‘Yes, though in a very different way. I’m a textile artist.’
    ‘Obviously a talented family.’
    Turning to him at the bottom of the stairs, I said, ‘My father was a passionate gardener and my mother is an artist. I suppose my DNA dictated I’d become someone who dreamed of being a second William Morris.’
    ‘But instead you became the first Ann de Freitas. An original,’ he added, with such an engaging smile, I was thrown slightly and led him to the back door in silence.
    As I pulled on a raincoat, I said, ‘There’s only one umbrella, I’m afraid, but it’s quite large.’
    ‘Don’t worry about me, I’m used to rain,’ he said cheerfully.
    As we went round, huddled under the umbrella, Mr Grenville’s excitement was palpable, but he paid scant attention to the information I gave him, showing more interest in the ancient graffiti carved on the beech trees than the dimensions of the studio. He had a tendency to wander off, his long legs covering the ground quickly, then he’d stand still, apparently impervious to the rain, and stare into space, as if trying to orient himself or imagine something that wasn’t actually there. Several times he looked up towards Beechgrave, then back at Garden Lodge, his brow furrowed.
    When he joined me again under the umbrella, his spirits seemed as damp as his clothes and hair. ‘Thanks for waiting. I hope you aren’t getting cold.’
    Curiosity finally got the better of good manners. ‘You’re not actually interested in the house, are you?’ He opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. To his credit, he met my stern look without flinching. ‘Are you just a time-waster? Or checking to see if we’re worth burgling? We’re not, unless you deal in contemporary portraits.’
    ‘I’m very sorry. I admit I am wasting your time. Really I’m just here to see the garden. What’s left of it.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘It’s a long story.’ He pushed dripping hair back from his forehead and said, ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to hear it, would you?’
    I laughed out loud at his cheek. ‘First you admit you’re wasting my time, then you ask if I’d like to know why ?’
    ‘I thought you might. It’s a mystery, you see.’
    ‘A mystery ?’
    ‘Yes. Your mother might enjoy hearing about it. She obviously likes mysteries.’
    By now I suspected I was dealing with a patient on the run from Beechgrave’s punishing teetotal regime. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
    ‘ Murder, She Wrote. That’s what she was watching. My Gran used to love that programme.’
    I faltered, overcome by curiosity. ‘And I suppose if I allow you to tell us this story, you’ll want a cup of tea as well?’
    His grin was disarming and I suspected he knew it. ‘That would be more than I deserve.’
    ‘Dead right,’ I said, turning and heading back to the house, leaving him standing in the rain. ‘This mystery had better be good,’ I called out over my shoulder.
    ‘It is,’ he shouted back. ‘Completely baffling. Definitely a three-pipe problem.’
     
    ~
     
    I told Phoebe we were having tea with Connor Grenville. Her eyes widened and she zapped the TV with the remote. Turning to him she said, ‘Are you going to buy my house then?’
    He looked embarrassed and said, ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Flint—’
    ‘It’s not Mrs, it’s Phoebe.’
    ‘Sorry, Phoebe, but I’m here on false pretences. I am looking for a property, but to be honest, this one is a bit outside my price range.’
    ‘So why are you here?’ she asked, with a terseness he could hardly fail to notice.
    ‘I suppose I’m here in my capacity as a garden historian and archivist.’
    ‘Really? Is that what you do?’
    ‘Among other things.’
    ‘And you wanted to give our garden the once-over?’
    ‘Well, yes. But only because there’s a family connection. With my grandmother.’
    ‘Oh? Did she used to