“Are you a local historian?” Eleanor asked politely.
Martin favoured her with a dark glower. “No.”
“Martin knows everything about the Wardlaw Valley,” Sharon said. “Or he thinks he does. Isn’t that right, Martin? You’ve been here so long you probably lived through it all,”
“I know enough.” Martin spoke without looking directly at her.
Sensing a little tension, Eleanor took the map and carefully crunched it into a hideous mess on the table. Absently, Thomas sorted it out, folded it neatly and replaced it inside his jacket.
“Thank you, Tom,” Eleanor said.
“Sharon!” The voice was sharp as Johnston stood in the doorway. “Your job is to serve the guests, not gossip to them.”
“Excuse me, please.” Sharon stood, bobbed in an old-fashioned little curtsey, and scurried away. Eleanor looked at
