CHAPTER 14
The pastel salmon coloured Austin A40 Somerset trundled along the narrow country lanes that wound through the heart of the Kent countryside, bound for Olney St. Mary. Built in nineteen fifty-three, the Somerset was intended to resemble the transatlantic designs of the U.S. automobile market, though most thought it a little too frumpy to ever hold its own against the Packards and the Chevrolets of Britain’s close wartime allies.
At the wheel of the Somerset, Doctor Guy Dearborn looked across at his passenger and smiled at the pretty girl by his side. Edith Kinnaird had proved to be a cheerful travelling companion, even if he’d struggled to understand her heavily accented brand of the English language from time to time. Originally from a village just outside Aberdeen, Edith had
