This is a very early draft and the book doesn’t have a title.

Here we have a character from Valley of Lies making another appearance.

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Excerpt from Chapter 1

Her trusty trug in the crook of her arm, Marjorie Treave let herself into the chicken run and securely fastened the door behind her. Her bantams were a feisty bunch, and there were one or two who’d make a dash for freedom given half a chance.

But today, they obediently gathered around her, gazing up expectantly.

“Here you go, my lovelies,” Marjorie cooed, dipping into the trug to dispense a generous handful of freshly pulled weeds from the garden and offcuts of vegetables from the kitchen. The chickens set to, clucking excitedly as they pecked away. A few of the dandelions were complete with roots, and the soil clinging to them harboured slugs and insects or even, if the chickens were lucky, a worm or two.

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Her flock contented, Marjorie strolled over to the hen house. The chicken wire enclosure was topped with nylon netting to keep the wild birds out—a precaution against outbreaks of bird flu and the like—but there was plenty of headroom, and she could walk across the run without stooping. The henhouse, too, was of generous proportions. The size of a small shed, she’d had it built by Jay Markham, before he’d turned his hand to painting and decorating, and he’d done a decent job. At any rate, the henhouse was a few years old but still kept her flock warm and dry, and there were extra ventilation slots that could be opened in the warmer months.

She’d insisted on the whole thing being built with good quality timber, all of it planed smooth, and though Jay had grumbled about the extra work, it had paid dividends. She’d had no problems with the mites that made their home in less well built henhouses, and while she had breath in her body, so it would remain.

Marjorie examined the wood shavings on the floor. It didn’t need changing yet, a fact helped by the drier weather, and the straw lining the nest boxes was still in good condition.

Marjorie inspected the nest boxes and murmured, “Well done, girls.” Between the four nest boxes there were five eggs, their pure white shells clean, and some were still warm when she picked them up and placed them gently in her trug. She checked the small containers of crushed oyster shells hanging on the henhouse wall, and they were fine. All that remained was to change the birds’ drinking water. Marjorie lifted the plastic drinker carefully so as not to spill a drop, but as she stepped out the henhouse, she almost let go of the thing entirely.

A young man stood in the lane, watching her over the fence. The narrow road reached her house and ended in a turning circle, so it was used only by visitors, or those who came to buy eggs or honey or homemade jam at the garden gate. This young man looked like he didn’t belong in either category.

He was tall and deeply tanned, and though he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or so, he wore a full beard. His long hair was tied back, and there was something about his brown eyes that put Marjorie in mind of a film star, though she couldn’t, for the life of her, remember the actor’s name.

“Hello,” she called out, her tone making it clear that she didn’t enjoy being spied on. “Are you lost?”

“No. Not at all.” The man smiled, and that Marjorie almost found herself grinning in return. She might be old enough to have stopped counting the years, but that didn’t stop her from recognising a good-looking man when one chanced into her path. And this chap had a smile that could turn a head or two. Sean Connery, she thought. That’s who he looks like.

Still, she was not about to go all dewy-eyed over some slip of a lad. Bustling to the chicken run door and letting herself out, Marjorie fixed the young man with a stern look. “Where are you headed?”

“Actually, I was looking for this place. I was told you have eggs for sale, the best in the county.”

Marjorie didn’t care much for flattery. She’d a good mind to send the young man on his way, but she could hardly deny she had eggs; the evidence was right there in her trug.

“There’s a wooden box by the gate,” Marjorie said. “There should be a dozen in there, and there’s an honesty box. There’s some blackberry and rose hip jelly too. I made it myself.”

“I’ve already checked, but there were no eggs. Someone must’ve beaten me to it.“

“Oh. Well, I have a few inside. I dare say I could make it up to half a dozen if you don’t mind waiting.”

The man spread his hands in an expansive gesture. “Sure. What better place to wait for a while? It certainly beats standing in a queue in the supermarket.”

“I suppose so.” Marjorie strode to the cottage door. “I won’t be long.”

From the safety of her kitchen, she peered out through the window. The young man had stayed put, turning his face to the sun, and it was then that Marjorie realised something. She’d neither seen or heard a car, so the man must’ve walked all the way from the village. He could more easily have walked to the village shop, where he could’ve found eggs and more besides. It was usually only the locals, those in the know, who trekked out to buy her produce.

His money is as good as anybody else’s, she thought, and she found a half-filled egg box and added three of the newly laid eggs to it. Looking back out the window, she paused. There was no one in sight.

“Waste of blooming time,” Marjorie muttered, but when she went outside, she found the young man standing inside the garden gate. Bloody cheek, she thought, marching toward him.

The man gestured to the gate. “I do hope you don’t mind. I thought I’d save you walking out into the road.”

“Is that right? You reckon the poor old biddie can’t make a few yards on her own, is that it?”

The man’s face fell. “Oh no. I’m sorry, I really didn’t—”

“Never mind,” Marjorie interrupted, holding out the egg box and naming a price. “I’d like the right money please. I don’t like dealing with change.”

“Of course.” The man rummaged in the pocket of his trousers and produced a handful of coins mixed with a few crumpled notes.

Marjorie eyed the man’s money as he carefully counted out the coins.

—

That’s the end of the snippet. I hope you found it interesting.

There’s another snippet at: snippet 2