I WAS lonely. Papa was a preacher and we lived and travelled in a painted wooden wagon, pulled by Jessie, a large and docile shire horse. We had few possessions; there was no room for what Papa called

IRIS walked slowly to the front door of her Victorian villa in Fairley, a sleepy Sussex village. It had begun, she fumed silently – the “invasion” of her home. Of course, she’d been expecting it. Her

MICHELE RUSPOLI felt a little less agitated, now that he was inside the library, but all around was evidence of the flood. Books had been laid out haphazardly on pieces of matting, all leather-bound,

Helen Harris always enjoyed her afternoon tea with Martha Evert, and as she knocked on the door carrying a treat of two chocolate muffins, she looked forward to an hour or two of catching up with her

FOR once, his sisters had not kept Michele awake. Their chattering through the thin walls of the house usually delayed his sleep at night, but last night he had got home so very late, well after midni

Maggie peered over her reading glasses and tutted. The date stone over the front door of The Rookery was covered in ivy. Another precious clue lost. Now she had only five for the treasure hunt she’d p