by Ted Tayler
“We’ll need to stay for two weeks to fit everything in,” laughed Eleanor. “You’ve got it worked out, haven’t you?”
“I try,” said Lydia.
The afternoon tea took its toll. Alex glanced at his watch as Eleanor wheeled the empty trolley towards the kitchen.
“We can forget the open-top bus ride,” he said. “I’d better ring around to book a table. By the time we get our gear upstairs, shower, and get ready, it will be time to leave.”
“How far away is the Castle, Eleanor?” Lydia called out.
“Half a mile, dear. It’s worth a visit if you want to take a walk later.”
“I’ve found a restaurant a mile from the Castle,” said Alex. “I’ll ring and check if we can get a table.”
Lydia joined Eleanor in the kitchen.
“It’s a beautiful evening,” said Eleanor. “People think we don’t get warm sunshine here in Scotland. We do, not as often as we would like, but you learn to enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Once we learn what time we’re eating, we’ll plan our night,” said Lydia. “Alex was hoping you could point us towards the best places to visit. He’s never been this far north before, and he wants to see the sights.”
“You don’t need me to tell you it will take more than a couple of hours tomorrow morning to do that, dear,” said Eleanor. “I’ll come with you if you wish. We can whet his appetite. Maybe you’ll both come back again soon.”
Alex was standing in the doorway.
“We’d love to, Eleanor. I’ve booked a table for eight o’clock at the Condita. It’s less than a mile from the Castle. I hope that’s okay?”
“That’s fine,” said Eleanor, “it’s one of the top ten restaurants in the city. I’d better hunt for something to wear now.”
Alex and Lydia carried their bags upstairs to the bedroom.
“Eleanor only has one bathroom,” said Lydia. “Perhaps it would be best if we caught the bus into the city and get off as close to the restaurant as possible.”
“She said the Castle was only half a mile from here,” said Alex. “The restaurant claims to be a mile from the Castle. Surely, we can walk it?”
“This is Scotland, Alex,” said Lydia. “They have castles everywhere. Craigmillar Castle is half a mile south of this house. Edinburgh Castle is probably two-and-a-half miles away to the west. Either we walk to Craigmillar Castle, have a look around, and then get a taxi, or we skip that trip for this evening and take a stroll towards Edinburgh.”
Ninety minutes later, everyone was washed, dressed, and ready to leave. Eleanor laughed when Lydia explained Alex’s confusion.
“I know a shortcut through Prestonfield that will get us to the restaurant inside in forty minutes. As long as you promise we’ll get a taxi home, I’m game.”
“If we leave now, we’ll make it in time,” said Alex.
It was almost half-past eleven when Alex paid the taxi fare and tottered up the path behind Eleanor and Lydia. The restaurant meal had been excellent, and Eleanor surprised them by knowing a great bar just around the corner. So much for her being early to bed every night. Perhaps she was on her best behaviour when Lydia came here before.
Any thoughts of a long lie-in disappeared when Eleanor knocked on their bedroom door at seven o’clock.
“Two cups of tea on a tray outside the door,” she trilled. “Breakfast will be on the table in twenty minutes.”
Alex groaned. Lydia fetched the tray, and the two coffee-lovers started the day with a strong cuppa.
“We need to shower and get dressed,” said Lydia. “We’re not at home now.”
The smells of a fried breakfast that wafted from the kitchen drew them downstairs well within the twenty minutes allowed by their host. Sausage, fried egg, streaky bacon, baked beans, tattie scones, fried tomatoes, and toast adorned their plates.
“That looks terrific,” said Lydia.
“How can you face a cooked breakfast after the glasses of single malt we drank last night?” asked Alex.
“This is the best cure I’ve come across,” said Eleanor. “If you want to see the sights of the city and endure a seven-hour train journey later today, you’ll need to line your stomach, Alex. Get stuck in. There’s more tea in the pot when you’re ready.”
“I’d prefer a black coffee,” said Alex, “if there’s one going.”
“There might be a small jar in the cupboard,” said Eleanor. “I bought it for Lydia, in case she’d lost her taste for tea since she moved south.”
“I’ll get us a cup in a minute, Alex,” said Lydia. “This breakfast tastes as terrific as it looks. It takes me back to Sunday mornings in Dundee with my parents. We drank tea there too. Coffee became my drink of choice when I left home and moved to Glasgow to study.”
“That explains it; heathens,” said Eleanor with a grin.
Alex swallowed hard and forked pieces of bacon, sausage, and tomato into his mouth.
“You’re feeling human already, aren’t you?” asked Eleanor.
Lydia came back to the table with two black coffees.
“The kettle was just off the boil,” she said. “You should be able to drink it straight away.”
Alex took a healthy swig.
“I am now, Eleanor,” he said. “My appetite has just woken up.”
After breakfast, Alex and Lydia packed their bags and prepared to leave Craigmillar. Eleanor joined them as they took the bus into the city. She showed them Edinburgh Castle, the Royal Mile and Holyrood Palace Park.
“It’s a few minutes before one,” she said as they sat in the Palace garden. “They don’t fire the cannon at the Castle on Sunday, so you won’t wonder what’s going on. Many tourists on Princes Street have almost had a heart attack on their first visit. What time’s your train?”
“There’s one leaving at half-past two that shaves an hour off the journey home,” said Alex. “We planned to take you to lunch, but after that scrumptious breakfast, I don’t think either of us could manage more than a sandwich.”
“Don’t worry, dear,” said Eleanor. “I can get myself a bite to eat later. Catch the two-thirty train. You’ll get back to Chippenham at a reasonable time then. You both need to be wide awake in the morning.”
“Gus Freeman will bring back another cold case from London Road,” said Lydia.
“I won’t come with you to Waverley,” said Eleanor. “I can get the bus back to Craigmillar. You can walk it from here in fifteen minutes. Go down Canongate and turn right into Market Street. Ring me when you get home, and promise me you’ll come again.”
“We will,” said Alex.
“Don’t forget Dubai,” said Lydia.
Eleanor hugged Lydia and Alex before striding towards the nearest bus stop.
“We’ve got an hour to kill before the train leaves,” said Lydia as she and Alex turned towards Canongate.
Alex was scrolling through his phone.
“Caffe Nero and Pret A Manger have outlets on the station,” he said. “I could murder a coffee.”
“Would you share a toasted sandwich with me?” asked Lydia. Alex nodded.
As they boarded the train at twenty-five past two, they reflected on a grand weekend.
“We didn’t get to spend that long with Eleanor,” said Alex, “but it was fun.”
“Tomorrow is another day,” said Lydia, as she nestled her head on Alex’s shoulder. “I wonder whose death we’ll investigate this time?”
CHAPTER 2
Friday, 13th February 2015
“It promises to be a quiet night tonight, Alf,” said Rosie as she peered through the curtained window at the stormy night outside.
“My Joan often asks me why I thought it a good idea to take on a pub on Salisbury Plain,” muttered Alf Collett. “There’s been a pub here for over three hundred years, I told her. Where else will people go for a drink?”
“Has this place always been called the Traveller’s Rest?” asked Rosie.
“As far as I can make out, la
ss,” said Alf. “In the old days, they had stables where the car park is today. Most of the passing trade was on horseback or in coaches dragged by a team of four. The land surrounding this inn was full of farms and smallholdings, with farmers and labourers who welcomed a few pints at the end of the day. Even if it took them a while to get here on foot.”
“I take twenty minutes to drive here from home,” said Rosie. “I wondered whether I’d even find the place the first evening I worked here. It’s so remote.”
“Every class of road, bridle-path and byway has always crisscrossed the Plain, Rosie. If you knew the quickest route to where you wanted to go, it was no problem, but it’s harder since the wide-open spaces attracted the interest of the Ministry of Defence.”
“When was that, do you remember?” asked the twenty-year-old barmaid.
Alf Collett heard the outside door creak. Joan constantly moaned at him to get a drop of oil on its hinges, but Alf preferred the advanced warning of when a customer arrived. Alf checked the large clock behind the bar. Twenty past eight. The first of their regulars had arrived, despite the wind, rain, and occasional sleet that would keep most people indoors tonight.
“Ask Jim,” said Alf. He took a pint glass from the shelf and drew a pint of bitter.
Rosie recognised the elderly figure that shuffled through the door from the small square hallway. Jim Thornton was a retired sheep farm labourer and someone who the Traveller’s Rest could rely on to turn out in all winds and weathers. The brewery wouldn’t get rich on the two pints that Jim allowed himself every night, but he wouldn’t give up his nightly visit until they closed the lid on his coffin.
“Not many on the roads tonight,” said Jim Thornton as he came further into the warm and inviting room. “It’s a darn sight warmer in here than outside. A pint of my usual, please, Rosie.”
“On its way, Mr Thornton,” said Rosie. “Do you remember when the army started using the Plain?”
“How old do you think I am?” scoffed Jim. “I’ve lived two miles up the road all my life, and I was born during the Second World War, but Queen Victoria was still on the throne the first time they used the Plain for exercises.”
“Sorry, Mr Thornton,” said Rosie. “Alf just thought you might remember reading about when it started. I didn’t mean to suggest you were there.”
Alf Collett placed the foaming pint on a beer mat on the bar next to their only customer. Jim Thornton handed over a crumpled five-pound note and took a healthy sip of his drink.
“I passed Dave Vickers on his bicycle half a mile back,” said Jim. “He’s got a better memory than me for facts and figures, young Rosie. I’ll tell you what I know, and maybe Dave can fill in the gaps. He’ll be here, directly.”
Alf listened out for the creaking door. Sure enough, Dave Vickers strode through the inner door, cycle helmet under his arm one minute later. A manager of a building society branch in Amesbury, Vickers was in his early fifties, single, overweight, and rosy-cheeked after his cycle ride.
“Golly, it’s perishing out there tonight. Evening all,” said Dave. “A pint of the usual, please, Rosie.”
“I don’t understand how you drink cold beer on nights like this,” said Rosie with a shiver. “That will be three pounds, please, Mr Vickers.”
Dave Vickers moved away from the roaring fire to use the contactless payment machine next to the old-fashioned till on the bar. Jim Thornton tutted and nodded at the two one-pound coins next to his pint glass.
“I can remember when decimalisation came in,” Jim moaned. “Forty-odd years ago, and a pint of bitter became eight new pence overnight instead of one shilling and sixpence. That’s when prices started climbing. By rights, it should have been seven pence ha’penny, but the brewery screwed us with a crafty price rise.”
“Just over six-and-a-half percent,” said Dave.
“If you say so,” said Jim. “I know I’ve got a one-pound coin in my jacket pocket to place alongside these two on the bar when I want my second pint.”
Alf Collett could tell where this conversation was heading. Jim Thornton needed to watch every penny as a pensioner. Sheep farming was an honest living, but it didn’t give its labourers an inflation-proof company pension when they retired. Jim’s state pension and a few savings were everything he had. Jim’s wife had worked at a local nursery throughout her married life and wasn’t in the best of health either these days, which didn’t help matters.
“You’re a different generation to me, Dave,” said Jim. “I thought you had more sense. How will anyone in the future learn the value of money if they tap their way through life without counting the pennies to check they can afford what they’re buying?”
Dave Vickers had heard Jim on his high-horse about contactless payments before. Jim was old-school, and Dave hoped cash didn’t disappear while people of Jim’s generation were still around. Change was painful at any age, but to change the habits of a lifetime was nigh on impossible.
“We’ll agree to differ, Jim,” said Dave. “I know what I can spend when I’m here enjoying a beer on a Friday evening. It’s as easy for me to control my expenditure with my phone app as for you to ask your wife for six quid before you leave the house.”
Rosie laughed.
“Cheeky young beggar,” said Jim. “I don’t have to ask permission to pop out for a couple of beers.”
Dave took his pint and sat closer to the fire. Alf eyed Jim’s glass and prepared to pour his second and final pint for the evening. As Jim took a long swig, almost draining the glass, the outside door heralded another customer.
“Oscar,” said Alf. “We haven’t seen you in here for a few weeks. Everything alright up at the house?”
Oscar Wallington was the estate manager at the nearby manor house. Alf wasn’t sure which regiment Oscar served in, but Oscar left his quarters at Bulford Camp and settled in the area with his family when he'd done his duty. The job at the manor house suited a man well-versed in a disciplined life.
The locals who used the Traveller’s Rest reckoned the estate was on the verge of bankruptcy when Oscar took over from the previous manager four years ago. Today, it was in a far healthier financial position, and it wasn’t only Oscar’s highly polished shoes where the sun shone.
“Best laid plans, Alf,” said Oscar. “You know how it is. My wife kept telling me she sticks religiously to this dry January caper. I thought I’d enjoy the extra Scotch we got in for Christmas and New Year and then take a break from the booze in February. After the day I’ve had up at the manor house, I thought, blow it, I’m dropping by the Traveller’s Rest tonight for a wee dram.”
“A double?” asked Alf.
“I wasn’t aware there was another measure, old chap,” said Oscar. “A splash of soda, if you please.”
Alf prepared Oscar’s drink, and Rosie escaped from behind the bar to warm herself by the fire.
“It could do with another log,” said Dave.
“I’m not made of money,” said Alf. “It’ll be quiet tonight. When that fire dies, you can get off home, and I’ll close early. Rosie has a tricky drive ahead of her if this weather closes in any further. You appreciate what the Plain can be like this time of year.”
“Give that fire a stir with the poker, Rosie,” said Dave. “There might be enough life in it to keep us warm until eleven o’clock.”
Jim Thornton finished his first pint and handed his glass to Alf.
“Did you ever wonder what those copper and brass items were hanging in the fireplace, Dave?” he asked, winking at the landlord.
“They look old,” said Dave, “but they’re for decorative purposes these days, aren’t they?”
“Rosie asked why we suffer cold beer in the winter months,” said Jim. “One of those Victorian utensils was for warming your beer. Sticking a red-hot poker into a glass of dark, malty beer is an English winter tradition stretching back a thousand years. My grandfather used to drink in this bar, and he enjoyed sitting where you are now supping his mulled beer
every winter. He told my father he was often troubled with headache, stomach ache, toothache, coughs, colds, and other rheumatic diseases when he drank cold beer. As soon as he started drinking his beer as hot as blood, he stayed in good health throughout the winter.”
“It doesn’t sound very hygienic,” said Rosie, making a face.
“I imagine that was what they used the conical warming vessel on the right-hand side for,” said Oscar, sitting on a stool at the bar nursing his double whisky. “Alf’s predecessors would fill the vessel, stick it deep in the fire and watch for the foam to form. Then use a tool from the fireside set to help lift it out and pour the warmed beer into a customer’s glass. I can’t see it making a comeback. Health and Safety would have a field day.”
“You still haven’t got your answer yet, Rosie,” said Jim. “Ask Mr Wallington when the MoD became so interested in the Plain.”
“I was going to ask Mr Vickers,” said Rosie.
“I don’t know too much about those days, Rosie,” said Dave. “What I learned at school was that Salisbury was a prosperous place several centuries ago. Why build a cathedral there if it wasn’t? The wealth came from the wool and cloth trade. Those industries declined in the mid-nineteenth century, and Wiltshire had become one of the poorest counties in England by the turn of the century. There were extensive areas of Salisbury Plain where few profitable businesses had survived, so the Ministry of Defence thought they could put the area to better use.”
“The training area covers roughly half of the Plain,” said Oscar. “The army conducted its first exercises in 1898. From then on, the MoD bought large areas of land until WWII. The one hundred and fifty square miles of land they now own makes it the UK's largest military training area. Much of that land is rented to farmers or licenced for grazing. The army keeps fifty square miles for live firing. Public access is greatly restricted or permanently closed in those areas, as you know, Rosie. I’m sure the route you took to drive here tonight was anything but as the crow flies.”
