The old woman sat at her window, her usual position, and watched, waiting. It was noon in Langford, and if there was to be any activity on the high street (described as “one of the most beautiful streets in England” by DK Eyewitness, “picture-postcard perfect” in the Rough Guide, and “chintzy” in Lonely Planet), it would be at this time.

There might be a couple of ladies walking to lunch at the tea shop. Or some weekenders emerging from Knick-Knacks, one of the many gift shops that sold Medici Society note cards, chintz cushions, and “vintage” mirrors. Or perhaps a group of American tourists, rarer at this time of year, distressingly loud, having visited the house where Jane Austen spent several months staying with an old friend. (The house, formerly known as 12 St. Catherine's Street, was now the Jane Austen Centre, a museum which contained a glove of the great author's, a letter from her describing Langford as “neither incommodious nor invidious, yet I cannot like it,” and a first edition of Emma, inscribed, “To Lord Mortmain, in respect of his great knowledge, this little offering.” But since the author was anonymous until she died, it was generally agreed it wasn't her inscription, anyway.)

Perhaps she might spot a bus trip taking people to Langford Regis, the famous Roman villa nearby (home to some of the best mosaics of Roman Britain and a new heritage trail promising a fun day out for all the family). Perhaps even a film crew: they were increasingly common in Langford these days. But whatever it was, Leonora Mortmain would have seen it before, in some form or another. For, as she was fond of telling her housekeeper, Jean, she h