CHAPTER ONE

“Stop him! Stop him!” The shrill cry pierced the quiet October morning.

Claire Stanhope had been waiting for a train in that small Devon station near Exeter. She turned and saw a woman running down the platform in her direction, in pursuit of a little boy.

The child darted by Claire and reached the front of the platform where he tottered on the edge then fell onto the tracks.

Each of the other travelers near Claire reacted differently. The withered elderly woman in a wheelchair gasped and her male nurse bent to calm his patient. The woman seated next to them dropped her knitting. While all three seemed to freeze into position, a train appeared around a bend in the track, racing toward the station.

Mindless of her own safety, Claire leaped from the platform onto the tracks below. She grabbed the child. Holding him tightly in her arms, she rolled away from the tracks.

Seconds later, the express train roared past them, missing Claire and the child by mere inches. With the danger past, the boy promptly burst into tears.

The stationmaster appeared out of nowhere to kneel at the platform edge. Holding out his hand, he helped Claire and the child climb back onto the platform.

The child’s mother embraced her son and Claire. “Thank you. Thank you.” She sobbed, overwhelmed with emotion.

“Mommy, you’re hurting me.” The little boy cried, pressed between the two women. His mother released his rescuer.           Claire wiped at what had been her favorite navy wool pantsuit. As she surveyed the soiled fabric and a small tear in one sleeve, she made a mental note to take the outfit to the cleaners. Then she realized how much worse her condition might have been and wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Since the Stanhopes frowned on displaying emotion in public, she contented herself with a childhood habit. She sucked in her breath and gnawed her lower lip.

While her pulse slowed toward normal, Claire shivered. Death had come too close for comfort. In an attempt to soothe the other woman, she patted her on the arm. “Please don’t thank me,” she murmured softly. “You’d have done the same.” She managed a shaky smile before stepping away.

A spontaneous burst of applause from a crowd of curious onlookers now gathering on the platform prompted Claire to search for a way to escape the unwanted attention.

The WC signs on the side of the station caught her eye. Without a moment’s hesitation, she pushed open the door marked “Ladies” and dove inside.

As luck would have it, the restroom was deserted. She conducted a quick survey of her body in the privacy of a stall and was relieved to find nothing worse than a few minor scrapes and bruises. Soaking a paper towel in cold water, she dabbed at her worst wound, a scrapped left elbow. Hopefully, the little boy had fared no worse.

By the time Claire stepped from the restroom, she was pleased to find the crowd had dispersed. The mother and child had also left. She’d hoped to see them again so she could make certain the lad was all right.

Perhaps the last person to witness what had happened, an old lady with a backpack patted Claire’s arm in passing. “Good for you, lass,” she said in a thick Scottish brogue.

Like a magical chariot, Claire’s own train chose that moment to glide to a halt at the platform. It was a most welcome sight.

No porters appeared to help so she manhandled her trunk aboard and left the heavy suitcase just inside the car marked “1” for First Class. Avoiding the seats marked “Reserved,” Claire slumped into an un-ticketed seat.

As the train pulled out of the station, she discovered she was the only passenger in the First Class car. That was fine with her. After what had happened in the Devon station, Claire needed some quiet time. She still couldn’t believe she’d acted so boldly. But she had no choice. No one else had moved a finger to rescue the child.

Claire frowned. How surprised her brother would have been if he’d stood beside her on that platform when the child’s mother screamed. Most likely Charles would have hung back, waiting for someone else to act.

In her head, Claire could hear her brother’s comment as clearly as if he’d been seated beside her. “Dear, you just can’t get involved with people. It’s really none of our business.”

Charles’s attitude had been one of indifference to most other living creatures on the earth. If he were still alive, he’d have been the first to admit his concerns were limited.

His list of priorities had been short. He put himself first followed by Claire. With a sigh, she admitted she’d been more than a priority. Her brother had been obsessed with her.

Next came their property and investments then Kings Grant, Uncle Stephen’s home. Their deceased father’s older brother had promised to leave King’s Grant to them. No one and nothing else mattered to Charles.

Looking back over the years, Claire admitted Charles’s attitude had never swerved. He had always been selfish.

A question had burned in her brain since her brother’s death. Could she have saved Charles? Needing to resolve the past, Claire counted on her aunt. It was time she moved on with her life.

The swaying motion of the train lulled Claire and she dozed while South West Trains continued on its route. Following a number of shorter stops, the train halted in Euston Station, London’s main terminal for rail travel to northern England and Scotland. Claire lugged her suitcase from the train.

The First North Western Company would transport her on the rest of her journey. As Claire approached the correct track, she found several young men and women in company uniforms boarding the train laden with supplies. The employees bantered back and forth with each other. During her journey on this railroad, two of them would most likely serve her lunch from a trolley. The meal would be edible, though she didn’t anticipate it coming close to the home cooking she already anticipated at her final destination.

Within a few minutes, the train started. Its final destination was Glasgow, several stops beyond Oxenholme where Claire would again change trains, taking the sprinter to Windermere thirty miles off the main line.

The train picked up speed until the scenery seemed to leap by her window. Raindrops from a brief passing shower splattered the glass, blurring the view while she recalled her last hours at home. It’d rained that day, also.

Her departure from Bowness would remain forever etched in her memory. To avoid a prolonged goodbye, Claire had packed her bag and crept from the hotel early that morning. If she waited until the others woke, she knew they’d insist on driving her to the station. Or worse still, her Aunt Kate would make a last-ditch effort to convince her to stay.

Kate had stood beside her during a terrible time. Claire’s throat tightened as she considered how Charles had brought danger into her aunt’s previously uneventful life.

Though she tried to relax, her nerves remained taut. It had been five years since she’d fled to Devon, a long time to be away from the people she loved. Closing her eyes, she could see their faces, Kate, Nick and Mattie.

Only Charles would not be there to greet her this time. Thoughts of him brought a dull ache in the direction of her heart until she forced herself to think of something else.  

As Claire recalled what had happened, she was still amazed that Kate didn’t hate the very sight of her. On the contrary, her aunt had been loving and kind. She’d sent Claire many letters during her stay in Devon and they all ended with the same words. “When are you coming home? I miss you.”

Soon she’d be able to gaze upon the old familiar scenes, the autumn-brown bracken on the fells, the village streets quiet without the crowds of summer tourists, and the steamboats plowing Lake Windermere, pursued by the ever hungry gulls.

The train reached a station north of London, halting a few minutes for passengers. A polite cough resounded behind Claire as they got underway again.

*   *   *

In Bowness-on-Windermere, Max Bronsky swore in exasperation at the antiquated printing press that was the heart of the Bugle. If he hadn’t wanted to sample a mug of Arubian beer, he wouldn’t be in this annoying situation.

Nine days ago he’d flown into Aruba in the Caribbean for a short vacation following the completion of his last assignment. A cable waited for him at the hotel, the message brief and to the point. Max was needed right away in the Lake District of northern England. His vacation would have to wait.

That evening he paid his first and last visit to the hotel bar for a mug of Aruba’s famous beer.

A broad-shouldered, middle-aged man in a wool tweed suit climbed onto the next stool and ordered the same beer.     

“Are you here on holiday?” He glanced in Max’s direction.

From the man’s accent, Max thought he might be from the north of England. “Yes,” he said. “And you?”  

 “I made my reservation for a week’s stay before falling in the shower and breaking this.” The Englishman gestured to the cast on his right arm. “It seemed a shame to cancel my holiday so I came anyway.”

 “It is a lovely spot,” Max agreed. “I can see why you were reluctant to change your plans.”

The other man smiled boyishly. “Oh, no. I wasn’t about to do that.” He leaned toward Max. “May I tell you a secret?”  

“Sure.” He never ceased to be amused by the way travelers confided in perfect strangers. In his line of work, it could cost him his life.

“You might say I’m playing hooky,” the other man confided. “I’ve run away from my new business.”

“I see,” Max replied, politely. “What’s the business?”

“Fiona, my third wife, thinks I’ve gone bonkers to buy a business without knowing anything about it,” the man began, pausing for a moment to motion to the bartender for seconds. “A friend cried on my shoulder until I agreed to buy him out. So now I own a daily newspaper with no idea how to run it.”

“I’m a free-lance journalist myself,” Max said. That was his cover story anyway. “I just finished an assignment in Belgium.”

“You don’t say.” The older man raised an eyebrow as if impressed. He put out a well-manicured hand. “Peter King here.”

“Max Bronsky.” He shook the other man’s hand. “Good to meet you, Peter.”

 “I suppose you’re on your way to another assignment?” King peered, curiously, at him from under shaggy eyebrows.

“No, I’m not.” Max shrugged. “I like to hang loose, take my opportunities as they come.” His employers would love hearing him say that.

“My little paper needs someone to build up circulation and report the local news, and I have no idea where to start. I’m in sheep,” King declared as if that were explanation enough. “I don’t suppose you’d consider taking on the Bugle for a few weeks? I’d make it well worth your while.”

“I’ve never published a paper.” Max hesitated, not sure how to answer. When he’d come to the bar, he hadn’t expected to get more than a beer.

“If you’re accustomed to writing for large papers all over Europe, the Bugle would be a piece of cake. And it’d be a pleasant change,” King said. “Have you been to Cumbria?”

“No, I haven’t.” He neglected to say he was flying there in the morning.

“Well, it must be the most beautiful part of England,” King said enthusiastically. His eyes sparkled as he described his favorite place. “Picture this, small mountains that we call fells, beautiful lakes left over from the glaciers of the Ice Age, lovely sheep everywhere and limestone walls around lush green meadows.”  

“It’s clear that you’re fond of the area,” Max said.

“I’m making myself homesick just talking about it. It’s so lovely, I find it difficult to leave,” King concluded, sipping his beer. “The problem is I have to make up my mind soon whether I want to stay in the newspaper business. Having someone run the Bugle on a short-term basis would give me time to decide.”

“I don’t know…”

“You’d be doing me a big favor.” King pressed him to accept.

“Where’s this paper anyway?”

“Up in the Lake District, in a village called Bowness-on-Windermere. Have you ever been there?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.” It wasn’t often that such an opportunity came along. The location was where he needed to be for his new assignment, and a cover as a newspaperman would be perfect. Also, a small paper wouldn’t be much trouble. It would give him time for the real reason he was there.  

Max could think of no excuse to refuse King’s offer. Before they parted, he let King talk him into managing the Bugle for a few weeks.

    And here he was, running the paper and trying to figure how to make it successful. Within the last week he’d toured the area, talking to local residents in an attempt to find interesting news he could publish. With the tourist season past, Bowness and Windermere were quiet and there wasn’t much going on, except sheep. There were a lot of sheep in the area. Apparently sheep were very important to the local economy.

Max was tired of hearing about sheep and writing stories like the one he had just finished. His lip curled in disgust as he scanned the article on his desk.    

The headline read Farmer Sues Tourist Over Sheep. The gist of the story was a tourist had run over a farmer’s prize sheep. The tourist swore the stupid sheep was lying in the middle of a country lane on an extremely dark night. The Windermere police officer appearing on the scene found the motorist drunk.

 Max threw a few darts at the board on the wall opposite his desk. He’d acquired a taste for English beer and darts the last few days. When one dart hit the bull’s eye, he grinned.   

Max considered the article again. One possible alternative to more sheep articles might be a human-interest story on one of the local residents.

What secrets lurked behind the surface of these bland-faced people? The prim little spinster in the florist shop or a hotel owner might each have a secret life beyond imagination. Why not select one person and see what he found?

Max smiled at his foolishness, expecting to find anything unusual in the locals. But anything would be better than staying in the small office, puttering with the press and answering the telephone when it rang, which wasn’t often.

The fact was he needed to establish his cover, so for the last two days, he’d spent most of his time at the Bugle, while his Yard counterpart kept him posted on the suspect. So far, the man appeared to be playing tourist, riding the steamboats on Windermere and visiting Beatrice Potter’s Hilltop Farm. Maybe he’d move on. If he did, Max would be right behind him.

The phone rang and he grabbed it. “The Bugle. You make the news, we report it.” He winced, hearing his own voice chortle the paper’s insipid motto. “How can I help you?”

“Charley Stanhope’s brat Clarissa comes home today,” a gravelly voice said. “If you ask me, Bowness has been a heck of a lot better without the likes of her. Too bad she had to return.”

About Nancy Madison

Nancy Madison is a former corporate librarian for an international accounting and consulting firm.

At present she’s at work on her latest romantic suspense. Her prior titles include: Clues to Love, Never Love a Stranger and What the World Needs Now. She lives in north Texas with her husband.