JACQUI did her best to conceal her astonishment at the woman’s astuteness, but for a moment she was lost for words. She stammered but was unable to answer the question. Noticing this, the old lady continued:

“Are you all right, my dear? My goodness, I’d say you look as if you’ve had a bit of a ‘turn’. Do come indoors: I’ll put on a nice cup of tea; that’ll help calm you down and you look like you could do with it.” Jacqui couldn’t argue with that, so she followed the lady into the cottage. Once she was inside, she insisted she was all right, but accepted the tea thankfully.

“My name’s Phyllis, by the way,” the old lady began, as she poured out the tea. She spoke with a slight local accent: not as strong as that of the men in the pub. Her grey eyes were studying Jacqui intently, with some curiosity. “Phyllis Howells,” she continued. “Yes, as a child I lived nearby, in Wistbourne—something which I think you’ve already guessed.” She sighed. “Wistbourne: no-one’s allowed to go there now; the whole place has been sealed off.”

“I’d gathered that. Pleased to meet you, Mrs Howells,” replied Jacqui, who had by now recovered herself.

“Oh, it’s ‘Miss’, not ‘Mrs’. Never been married. And please call me Phyll.”

“ ‘Phyll’, sorry. My name’s Jacqueline Hartmead.” Jacqui decided her maiden name would be appropriate, here. “But most people call me ‘Jacqui’. And yes, I am interested in Wistbourne.”

“ ‘Hartmead’. ‘Hartmead’? Yes, I remember the name. Gavin and June, wasn’t it? Used to live there too—in Wistbourne. Inquisitive chap, Gavin was, if you’ll forgive my saying so, Jacqui. And June—I remember her, she was the local nurse, was she?” Jacqui nodded. “So you’re related to them? And are they still alive?”

“I am a relative, yes: I’m their granddaughter—and I’m also one of the ‘inquisitive’ types! And no, I’m sorry, they’ve both died since: my Grandad only a couple of weeks ago—at a ripe old age, nearly ninety-four. Which is part of the reason I’m here.”

“Ninety-four, eh? Well, that was a good innings. I’m a mere spring chicken myself, only eighty-two—so I’ve a while to go to catch up! I think most of the Wistbourne residents your grandfather might have known are dead now. I’m one of the last. And times are rather lonely for me now—I don’t have many friends—it’s lovely to have a visitor.”

“Have you not got any relatives?” asked Jacqui. As she said this, her eyes fell upon a photograph on the mantelpiece. A faded black-and-white family portrait, featuring a youngish couple with two children: a pretty girl with dark hair, aged about twelve or thirteen, and a much younger boy, not more than four years old, with blond hair and an attractive-looking though rather thin and pale face with a small mouth, and rather curious-looking light-coloured eyes. Jacqui looked around the room: there were several other photographs in colour: this was the only black-and-white one, and also the only one in which the small boy appeared.

Phyllis caught her gaze.

“Is that your family, there?” Jacqui ventured.

“Yes. That’s me with my parents and my—my brother—Theodore. Taken in 1953, I think it must have been: I’d have been about thirteen.”

Jacqui noted Phyllis’s hesitation, but tactfully ignored it. “Lovely picture,” she remarked. “You look very pretty. Your parents…I guess they’re no longer alive.”

“No: they both died when I was in my forties. I’ve never been married myself, and I have no close relatives. And … and …”

Jacqui took the plunge. “And what? You were about to say some­thing about your brother. About—Theodore, if I got the name right?”

“Yes.” There was a long pause. Jacqui took a closer look at the photo, wondering why it was the only one in black-and-white. After a minute or two she broke the silence.

“You don’t have to talk about him—Theodore—if you don’t want to,” she said, soothingly. “I understand. Has he also died since then?”

“Yes. He was taken when he was still only a small child. He was—he was—different.”

“Different? What do you mean?”

“He wasn’t my natural brother, I should explain. He was adopted. There were fifteen children adopted as infants in Wistbourne, all at the same time. Mid 1950. Theo was taken in by my parents. The others went to different families around the village.”

“Fifteen? Fifteen adoptions all at once? How could that come about? Was there some sort of accident?”

“You could call it that,” replied Phyllis. “And also we had the Curse. I’m not supposed to say much about it. It’s all to do with this ‘Official Secrets Act’ thing that I was made to sign—would you believe it? Indeed I’ve probably said too much already, but—well, I’m getting old, and I don’t suppose the police will come for me now. Still, I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

‘Official Secrets’! That fitted in with the barbed-wire fence, which presumably surrounded the site, thought Jacqui—but it complicated things. And ‘Curse’? Intriguing! Phyllis had been quite open with her: should she open up in return? She paused before saying any­thing, while Phyllis looked at her a bit anxiously.

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“I suppose I should tell you, but you’ve probably guessed already,” said Jacqui, eventually. “I’m a journalist: work for a local paper in London. But I’m here on a completely private mission, nothing to do with my employers: a task set me by my late grandfather—to find something out about Wistbourne. Not at all clear what I’m supposed to discover. But you’ve told me some interesting—strange—things. I don’t want to make you break the law, but is there anything else you think you’re allowed to say?”

Phyllis did not reply. She drank off her tea, and so did Jacqui: the tea was cooling somewhat. Jacqui helped herself to a biscuit. Eventually she prompted Phyllis:

“You said your brother was ‘different’. Do you just mean, different in that he was adopted? Or different in some other way?”

“I’m really not supposed to tell you. Yes the adopted children were different from the others. They were known as the ‘Foundlings’ but some in the village preferred to refer to them as the ‘Changelings’.”

“Foundlings? You mean, their biological parents were unknown?”

Phyllis nodded. “They always looked a bit poorly, although they were perfectly healthy, so the doctor said.”

“But you said your brother died young. Did the others die young, too?”

“As far as I know, yes. But by then I’d lost contact with them, and with Wistbourne. I was sent off to boarding school near Worcester, and meanwhile my parents moved here to Gomhurst: into this house in fact—without Theo.” Phyllis paused for a few seconds. “Theo had been taken from their care. He was put into a sort of Children’s home, along with the others. And later on, I was told that he’d died. I never learnt the details and I never saw him again.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Phyll. You must have been terribly upset. And your parents too: they must have been devastated at losing Theodore.”

“Not really. He’d become a bit of a handful by then. I knew that too, even before I left—although I was still only a girl.”

“A handful? In what way?”

“I’m sorry, Jacqui. I think I’ve said too much already. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not supposed to talk about these things anyway—and I’d rather not. Sorry.”

Jacqui was suddenly reminded of something else Phyllis had let out. “I suppose you can’t tell me what you mean by the ‘Curse’, either.”

“No. Sorry.”

They fell silent for a while. Clearly it was time to change the subject. Jacqui had another thought. “Phyll, does the name ‘Hector Beeley’ mean anything to you?”

“ ‘Beeley’?” Phyllis paused in thought for a while. “Yes, the name does ring a bell. Sort of Army chap, was he?”

“Yes, he would have been, back then.”

“I think he was around the village quite a lot, while Theo and the others were still alive. I think he was still there when I was sent off to school. He might have had something to do with that Children’s home that they set up. But I don’t recall him ever living in Wist­bourne. Certainly he wasn’t a neighbour to us.”

That was encouraging. Perhaps Hector was the next line of enquiry, if she could track him down. Jacqui felt she had absorbed as much as she could take in. Besides, the tea had gone cold. She stood up and thanked Phyllis profusely for her hospitality.

“Don’t even mention it, Jacqui dear. You’re welcome to drop in, any time you’re passing this way. It’s been lovely talking to you, and I get so little company nowadays. And good luck with your search! I’m only sorry I can’t help you more. But do please give me your phone number, and I’ll give you mine. You’re welcome to call in any time you’re down this way.”

With that, Jacqui took her leave of Phyllis and returned to her car. She was determined to investigate this perimeter fence further. So she drove west out of Gomhurst, parked as close as she could to where the muddy track began, and put on her boots.

*

Jacqui had walked about a mile along the track, always following the fence, without discovering anything. The fence continued as it was, uniform without a break, and with security cameras dotted along it at intervals. She assumed she was being watched and maybe recorded—but she wasn’t doing anything wrong—yet. It was late summer and in places she had to push her way through long grass, nettles, and patches of willowherb. Clearly the path was little used. It did seem to be curving slightly to the north, and Jacqui figured that it probably formed a complete circle, surrounding the spot where Wistbourne ought to be.

All at once she spotted a man running across the field towards her, from the other side of the fence. A man in uniform, wearing an Army cap. Oh dear, she thought, now I’m for it! She stopped.

“Excuse me, Madam,” said the man as he drew up. “May I ask what you are doing here?”

“Just going for a walk. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“You know that this is a prohibited area, do you not?”

“On the other side of the fence, yes. I saw the sign. I assumed that where I’m walking is not part of the ‘prohibited area’.”

“You are correct. But we’ve been watching you for a while, and your actions looked a bit suspicious to us, so I was sent to investigate. Can I ask you for some ID?”

With a sigh, Jacqui produced her driving licence and passed it through the fence. The man copied down some details.

Jacqui was minded to ask a few questions. “Is that where Wist­bourne lies, beyond the fence?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Coombes, I’m not allowed to answer any quest­ions. Now could I ask you to please retrace your steps towards the road and leave the area. I shan’t report you this time, but if you’re seen here again it will be a matter for the Police.”

That seemed a pretty unarguable dismissal, Jacqui thought, and it would be best to comply. As a journalist, she was already accustomed to being ‘asked to leave’ just when things were getting ‘interesting’. Too bad—but she had learned enough from Phyllis to keep her perplexed for days. Anyway, it would be poor form to have to phone Paul to announce that she was in police custody: she could only imagine his glee as he chortled ‘I told you so!’.