“I’m going to trace the coat of arms on this ring.” Eleanor displayed the knight’s ring. “Or try to, anyway.”
“You do that.” Thomas was suddenly enthusiastic. “We’ll meet up back here at the hotel.”
“Give Sharon my best,” Eleanor said and was relieved when Thomas laughed.
“I won’t be seeing Sharon,” he said.
Elliot’s, the local shop, was what Eleanor knew as a Johnny A’things. It stocked everything from a needle to a ploughshare with a window display that looked as if nobody had altered it since Queen Victoria planted her plump posterior on the British throne. Overweight, bald and efficient, Archie Elliot showed no surprise when Eleanor asked him for sealing wax, matches, writing paper and the name of a local historian.
“That’s a shilling for the sealing wax,” he said, “and old Martin
