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funeral.’
    â€˜They have? That’s good of them.’
    â€˜He lived in the village nearly sixteen years. The first thing everyone said when they heard out what had happened was how much his fruit and veg will be missed.’
    â€˜Not him?’
    â€˜It’s hard to miss someone who went out of his way to avoid people. I’ve got a small business researching people’s ancestry, so I’ve been asked to try and find his family. That’s why I’ve phoned, to ask you some questions if that’s all right?’
    â€˜You can ask. I can’t promise to answer.’
    â€˜Fair enough. If he registered with a doctor he might have named his next of kin and because he’s dead maybe the Data Protection Act no longer applies. He might have written a will and lodged it with a solicitor. Did he have a bank account, a National Insurance number, or a criminal record? You – the police, I mean – have access to all kinds of databases and the authority to ask for searches.’
    He was quiet for a moment. ‘All right, I’ll see what I can find out. It seemed strange when I looked around the cottage that there wasn’t any of the paperwork most people have. I didn’t even find a tin or a folder he might have kept them in. Why would someone cut themselves off like that?’
    The same question had occurred to Jess. John Preece had avoided all but the briefest human contact. Had he come to Polvellan to escape something – or someone – in his past?
    Unable to go any further until she had more information, she turned to a fresh page in her notebook and listed the points she had raised with PC Davey. That made her think of other questions needing answers.
    At three she made tea and took a mug and a slice of cake outside. Colin Terrell was on the scaffold tower hammering the strip of felt onto a batten.
    â€˜Cuppa,’ she called.
    As he glanced down she placed them on the path, went back inside and closed the door.
    She had just drained her own cup when the door opened.
    â€˜Brought my cup back. All right if I use your loo?’
    She could hardly say no. ‘Of course. On the right at the top of the stairs.’
    He put the mug and plate on the table, kicked off his shoes and ran upstairs.
    She resumed her search in the newspaper archives. A few minutes later she heard the toilet flush and he came down.
    â€˜How’s it going then?’ He nodded towards her laptop. ‘I heard you found Morwenna Crocker’s great-grandfather and he was some kind of hero.’
    â€˜I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t talk about my research because it’s personal to whoever has hired me. Once I hand over the information people can do what they like with it. Most people love to share what they’ve learned about their families. But it’s their choice.’
    He winked. ‘You’re good at keeping secrets then.’
    Not answering, Jess closed her laptop, picked up his dishes and took them to the sink. ‘Thanks for bringing these in. I expect you want to get on.’
    After the door closed behind him, she returned to the newspaper archives. After an hour she found a follow-up article dated a month later. ‘Yes!’ she whispered. The article applauded the success of Miss Marigold Mitchell’s soup kitchen. It praised her generosity and her promise that no matter how long the queue no one would ever be turned away. However, Miss Mitchell refused to accept sole credit, claiming the venture would not have been possible without the support of her mother, Sarah, and other loyal hard-working helpers.
    Readers were reminded of Mrs Sarah Mitchell’s work making costumes for the operatic society, and assisting her daughter to put on concert parties during the dark days of 1940-43 to raise funds for the families of much-loved members of the society who had been wounded or killed.
    Jess rubbed her forehead and blinked dry eyes. She