I drove out to Pebble Deeping the following lunchtime, the comfort of my bed proving too much for my new early morning regime.

I wound down all the windows in my Beetle and turned my tape deck up high, blasting Guns N' Roses out across the country lanes, enjoying both the music and the gust of air ruffling my hair.

As I passed through the village, I saw Dr. Martha Wimple coming out of the Post Office-cum-general store with some groceries in her arms. Taking advantage of this fortuitous happening, I slowed to a crawl and pulled up next to her on the pavement.

"Can I give you a lift home?" I bellowed, trying in vain to out-do Axel Rose. She ducked and peered through the window, beaming when she saw me.

"Sure, Satchmo," she said. I opened the door for her and turned the music down. "Cool car," she giggled at me bopping along to the rhythm in the driver's seat.

"All the chicks dig a classic," I made the Beetle drivers' recognition hand signal, and she laughed.

Having checked out the first of the possible avenues with my research on Michaels, here was a chance to pursue the other outstanding line of enquiry.

"I have been meaning to ask you something..." I tapped out the beat to Paradise City as I drove through the village.

"Of course, Satchmo," Martha replied.

"Who knew about your father's work? More specifically; who could have known that he might have found the gold?" I asked.

I took a quick glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She had one arm out of the window and the breeze was blowing a stray strand of her hair about like a pennant. She blinked rapidly with the wind in her eyes and I had to swallow hard and remind myself to look at the road.

Take me down to the Paradise City, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty...

"Well," she answered. "Everyone who knew my father's work also knew his theory. He made sure of that! Let's see; his colleagues at the university, his students, anyone who read his articles in the journals," she counted the groups off on her fingers.

"He didn't have any enemies? No cases of academic jealousy?" I probed a little.

"Enemies!" she laughed. "No, my father had no enemies and his colleagues saw him as a laughing-stock. He was an eccentric to be humoured, not envied." She said bitterly, tucking the errant strand of hair behind her ear.

"You want to know who had the knowledge and motive to kill my father for the gold?" she said. I could see her chewing her bottom lip in my peripheral vision. It could be concentration in thought, could be a nervous tic.

"Yup," I nodded.

"Then you seriously believe he might have been murdered for some archaeological relics?" she sounded incredulous.

"It exists as a possibility," I said, continuing to tap the steering wheel.

Oh, won't you please take me home?

"Why haven't the police raised this, then?" Martha demanded.

"Come off it, do you want the authorities involved? There is no real evidence, no suspect and now no motive. There was nothing obviously suspicious about the death of your father. If they took an interest, and the artefacts were found before you turned up your father's papers, who would get the glory? The academic kudos? Not you or your father," I said, stepping through the logic without thinking about how it sounded.

"Are you suggesting that I did not contact the police to ensure I could save professional face?" Martha snapped indignantly. Colour had risen to her cheeks and there was a bolt of lightning in her vivid green eyes.

I thought carefully for a moment. That was precisely what I was suggesting, but I didn't really want to say so. What would she think of me?

"Yes. That's what I am suggesting," I said. It just kind of slipped out.

Martha was silent, she looked at me briefly. I steadfastly watched the road.

I wanna go, I wanna go, oh won't you please take me home?

As we neared her cottage, she broke the silence with a sigh. "You are right to a degree. I don't believe my father was murdered. If I had even had the faintest inkling that he had been, I would have gone straight to the police. But I didn't report the break in. I do want to find my father's papers, and the votives," she said with a note of resignation in her voice. The flush in her cheekbones remained but the anger in her eyes had gone.

"To prove he was right?" I suggested gently.

"Yes, it's an academic conceit. I was the child in the playground who does something she shouldn't because the other children are so convinced it can't be done," she explained.

I wasn't sure I followed, but then she was the one with the PhD.

I stopped outside her cottage, put the bug in neutral and turned in my seat to face her.

"I didn't mean to be rude," I apologized. It was a little late for back-peddling.

"Not at all, Satchmo. I like a person who speaks their mind." As she said this, I grinned like the Cheshire cat, then another thought struck me.

"Have you ever heard of a man called Martin Michaels Jnr.?" I asked.

She was silent a while.

"No," she finally replied. Yes, I thought.

"Were you aware of anyone offering to buy Holly Cottage from your father?" I pressed.

"No, my father would never have sold it. Not when it was so close to the site for which he had been searching for decades," Martha responded adamantly.

Again, there was a brief and involuntary nibble on her lower lip.

"If you are visited by two men who blot out the sun, or anyone threatens you in any way, call us immediately," I said, handing her my card which had my mobile number printed along the bottom. She looked at me as if I was mad.

"Who is this Michaels? Is he dangerous?" she whispered, locking my eyes with her gaze.

"Maybe. He is a property developer. He's trying to get his hands on land in Pebble Deeping, including Ty's farm and your cottage," I replied.

Martha looked at my card, then tucked it into her purse.

"Would you like to come up to the farm for lunch sometime? I catch a tasty fish," I offered. Nothing ventured.

She gave me a quizzical look before gathering her groceries and climbing out of the car.

"Maybe I will, Satchmo," she said, swinging the door closed with a clunk.

With that, she was gone.

*

I put the shopping on the kitchen table.

"Tea bags, three loaves of bread, apples, oranges, pork chops, onions..." I rummaged a bit further "... Grapefruit cordial (low sugar), four tins of tuna, a bulb of garlic..."

"Did you get what I asked you to?" Edge interrupted.

"Yes. Here you go; three packets of red flavour jelly, not the powdered kind, fuse wire and a packet of six-inch nails."