Generally speaking, very little disturbs the tranquillity of Gringleton Ford. It is a timeless village, known by few and visited by even fewer. The ideal place, in fact, for a young prospective writer to live, or so you might think so.
Here, at the end of the village street, in a little cottage dating back to the 17th Century, sits JOHN FOTHERINGAY at his writing desk. He cannot concentrate on his writing, for his mind is elsewhere. He is sifting through his memories of his Uncle Peter.
Now his uncle, Peter Fotheringay, was a very curious man. Full of vitality and enthusiasm, and gifted in so many ways, he yet had a very mysterious aspect to his character which he shared with no one.
Living mostly in virtual seclusion somewhere in Somerset on a small inherited income, he spent his time engaged in various obscure research projects whose nature was kept secret, even from his nephew John. Questions on the subject were always evaded, and indeed John had never been invited to Somerset. Visits between them had only ever been one-way.
Despite these idiosyncrasies, John had a warm affection for his uncle, built up over many years of happy, if sporadic, companionship. And so the sudden news, received some weeks ago, that his uncle was 'Missing, presumed dead' came as a severe shock from which John is still attempting to recover.
Picture him then at his desk, lost amongst his thoughts, as the sun sets over sleepy Gringleton Ford. Another day gone, with nothing achieved. He lays down his pen, tired and depressed, and retires to bed. Tomorrow, perhaps, something will that happen that will change this dreary routine.
But that, of course, is for you to discover...
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