Page 64 of A Scottish Highland Surprise

So, was it because of the letter and its contents, that Ophelia Walker decided she didn’t want to keep it? Perhaps she knew more about the letter than she was leading Ivy to believe?

I shuffled further forward on the sofa, eager to obtain as many answers as I could. “You said Mrs Walker had wanted to look into her family tree. Did she ever tell you whether she managed to do that or if she had discovered anything interesting?”

Ivy picked up her cup and saucer again. “That’s the strange thing. She was so enthusiastic about delving into her past, she would give me a running commentary on how she was going to do it and how excited she was about it.”

“And now?”

“She hasn’t mentioned it for weeks – not the tea set, not the letter, her family tree … nothing.” Ivy frowned. “I tried to ask her about it all the last time we met for coffee a couple of weeks ago, but she was very evasive. She side-stepped my questions and changed the subject.”

Ivy gave Cooper a fond smile as he continued to bask in my attention. “I didn’t want to appear nosey or upset her, so I didn’t mention it again.”

I patted Cooper’s curly coat. It felt solid and warm under my hand. “Do you think you could give me Mrs Walker’s contact details, please? I’d really like to talk to her.”

Ivy considered my request, the early evening light spilling across the hills outside the sitting room window.

After a few more moments, she agreed. “Yes. Of course. Whatever it is that is bothering her about that tea set or the letter, Ophelia needs to confront it. I hate the thought of her troubled.”

Ivy rose out of her armchair and drifted over to a bureau by the window. She located a pen and a piece of paper and noted down her friend’s address and phone number. “Here, Sophie. Good luck. I think you are going to need it.”

Chapter Thirty

My thoughts tumbled around my head, as I thanked Ivy for all her help and returned to my car.

Even though my stomach let out a demanding growl for dinner, I decided not to set off for home straightaway. The element of surprise in this case might be the best option.

If I rang Ophelia Walker, forewarned was forearmed and there was a good chance she would refuse to speak to me over the phone. But if I just turned up at her house and attempted to talk to her face to face, she might be a little more amenable.

Surely it was her that left the tea set with me and then vanished.

I checked the address again on the piece of paper that Ivy gave me and set off for Ophelia Walker’s house.

I was getting closer to discovering the story of the tea set and Briar Forsyth’s letter. I could feel it.

Ophelia Walker lived in one of the old cottages on the outskirts of the town.

They were in their own mini community, in a cul-de-sac, facing out towards the nest of hills that cradled Briar Glen.

The evening sky was morphing into a pretty evening kaleidoscope of tangerine and violet as I pulled up in front of Ophelia’s cottage. It featured glittery sash windows with silky buttercup curtains, hanging baskets and a small, square, lush garden, powdered with flowers.

There was an engraving of the blue briar rose a stonemason from long ago had carved into the brickwork above the heavy, burgundy door. I heard a dog from another garden let out a series of half-hearted barks.

I made my way up the crazy-paving path and knocked at the door. I thought there was a flicker of movement inside and sure enough, a distinguished older man answered the door, his expression expectant. “Can I help you?”

“Good evening, sir. I wondered if I could have a quick word with Mrs Ophelia Walker, please? I’m Sophie Harkness and I own the new crockery shop in the town.”

He nodded his sweep of side-parted silver hair, but there was something about his demeanour that changed in a flicker when he discovered who I was. “Ophelia?” he called over his shoulder. “There’s a young lady here, asking to speak to you.”

“Who is it?” travelled an inquiring voice from somewhere down the hall.

Mr Walker relayed back to her who I was. She didn’t answer.

“I promise I won’t take up too much of your time,” I insisted, my voice carrying itself down her hallway. “Please. I’m trying to get some information on an unusual peacock tea set that was…”

She emerged at her husband’s shoulder.

It was her. I recognised her straightaway. It was the same woman who had arrived at The Cup That Cheers in an expensive burgundy coat, clutching the tea set. The same woman who had deposited it with me, before fleeing.

We regarded one another with questioning eyes. She scooped a stray lock of shoulder-skimming white hair back behind her ear. Her expression was tense.