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When Nora left, I pressed my face up against the window of the potting shed to see what had intrigued her. There were rows of plastic pots and tools piled on the shelves. Unable to see anything unusual through the window, I took Bronte for a walk to the village and promised to search for the key later. Pint of milk in one hand and sausages in the other, I now meandered home along the lane, allowing Bronte to stop and investigate the usual places. Walkers returning from their hikes greeted me and locals addressed me by my name and patted Bronte.

When I reached Tanglewood Cottage, I noticed the yellow roses were starting to frame the door. As usual, there was someone viewing the contents of the wheelbarrow in my garden.

Danny rushed out of my gate with a couple of books from my barrow. ‘Morning, Maisie and Bronte.’ He beamed at me and ogled the pack of sausages. ‘You’re welcome to make me a sausage sandwich at any time.’ The sunlight teased the single strands of hair that escaped from his mass of curls. A fresh scent of pine followed him as he walked past.

‘I’d rather you made the breakfast,’ I said, remaining straight-faced when I realised it sounded as if I’d invited him to stay over. ‘Anyway, if I make you a sandwich, you’ll probably put up a sign and I’ll have a queue of campers as well as the bibliophiles.’

He laughed at me, and there was a softness in his eyes. ‘Sorry, if I upset you. I was trying to help because I knew they would be happy to pay for books. Everyone loves a bargain. To make up for it, I’ll barbecue sausage and bacon for you sometime with white breadcakes from the bakers. It’s a taste sensation,’ he said, pushing the curls away from his eyes.

Genuine concern melted any sign of anger still bubbling. ‘Would you like coffee, Danny? I was just about to fill up the cafetiere. I don’t have a fancy coffee machine with all the bells and whistles like …’ I was going to say Matt.

‘Sorry, must dash, I need to run to wake up. I worked until late last night.’ He stacked the books on his doorstep. ‘I do have a fancy coffee machine and will invite you over.’

I nodded, thinking of how coffee had woken up the last romance. Aware of the silence now, I said, ‘Oh yes, I heard the bells and whistles yesterday and didn’t realise it was you.’

Now his entire face shone with a lovely smile. ‘See you later.’

I watched as he jogged down the lane with his arm raised up to wave goodbye and noticed the muscles on his legs. I wondered what he did for a living and guessed it would be something related to fitness. He seemed like the kind of guy I could talk to. It would be great to have a friend here in the village.

In the hall, I left the milk and sausages on the floor while I collected the book money and dropped it into the jar. Bronte sniffed the sausages, so I grabbed them and said, ‘Hang on a minute, lass. I’ll share them with you this evening.’ Patting the full jar of money, I smiled at my aunt’s photo on the window ledge in the hall. Then I realised I needed to sort through the pile of letters someone had left in a neat pile beside the photo. The impressionist painting of a little Paris bistro caught my eye. I took a sharp intake of breath and sat on one of the stairs to read the card. The card was addressed to me.

Dear Maisie,

Congratulations on gaining your teaching qualification. You’ll inspire and make a difference to lots of children. Don’t forget about your writing. All your stories are filed under ‘M’ for Maisie in my filing cabinet. Paris is wonderful this time of year if you need to take a break before you start teaching.

Aunt Ada.

I recognised the distinctive loops in her handwriting and remembered how I loved to copy her style when younger. Oh, my goodness, I was right. My aunt must be alive and well in Paris. And if I wasn’t mistaken this was the bistro she described. Hands shaking, I examined the postcard again. My heartbeat drowned out the sound of the clock ticking in the hall. I visualised the joy of being reunited with my aunt and her excitement when I showed her changes to the cottage; changes that were far advanced from the piles of books, and my heaps of clothes. A wave of panic hit me again because I had been giving her books away. Felix had warned me about the Bella mysteries.

Pushing the worry to one side, I knew I needed to do something. I phoned the police and waited an hour in a line of calls and told them I received a postcard from my aunt who was presumed dead. The officer tapped the information on a keyboard as I spoke, but then he softened his tone, asking if I had ever received bereavement counselling. There was a long pause on the line when I was forced to admit the postcard had not been stamped, and I had found it on a pile of papers on the window ledge so yes it could have been written before she passed away. My voice cracked when I spoke.

The officer started to ask questions about how I was feeling since my aunt’s death and whether I had contacted my GP. Sensing he used a prepared script; I told him I was fine and asked if they could contact the police in Paris. He asked me more questions, including how long it was since I had seen her. When I explained the last time I saw her it made me sob again. He suggested it was not good to be alone in the cottage. Even if Matt had been with me, he would not have listened. He never once asked me about my day but loved to tell me about software he was designing at work. ‘Officer, I appreciate your concern, but I do have some evidence.’

‘Miss Bloom, what evidence do you have?’

Thankfully, he could not see how red and flustered my face was. I realised my inkling that something was amiss was not sufficient evidence. ‘Erm, it’s OK. On second thoughts, I won’t bother at this stage.’

‘OK. If you give me your email address, I will send links to bereavement support.’

To end the call, I gave him my email address. Maybe the officer was right, and I needed to talk about my concerns. Was I losing the plot, spending too much time turning over the ideas? Danny’s warm smile returned to me and I considered chatting to him.

My pink laptop was open on the desk in front of the window, tempting me to do some investigation into the missing author. Bella Caron prompted a long list of possible websites on Google, including another newspaper article saying, ‘Author Feared Dead’. The author’s sudden disappearance had also increased the value of her first editions, and they were now worth a whopping three thousand pounds each. I clicked on a photo of the author. The photo of Bella presented a woman with a classic pixie cut wearing a colourful scarf with her black polo neck. Empty bistro chairs were evident in the background. If my aunt had gone in search of adventure, then who could blame her?

The day bustled on in a haze of heat and questions as I searched for answers about my aunt’s whereabouts in Paris. I returned to the Mystery Unsolved page on my aunt’s website where I discovered a gallery of destinations in Paris, but when I clicked on the photos there were no links to other articles. When I enlarged the photos, I noticed certain items had been annotated with yellow markings. I peered at a cobbled square, shining with rain. Artists stood beneath parasols with easels and paints, faces were indistinguishable but there was a yellow arrow pointing at an artist behind the easel. I scanned for details and noted a black handbag, circled with a yellow highlighter pen. In another photo a vintage black bicycle rested against a black wrought iron fence that stood in front of an old white apartment block. A blue folder sat in the wicker basket attached to the handlebars, and manuscript was scribbled on the folder. My eyes explored the images for connection. I stood there on the wet pavement, feeling the cold seep into my bones, and pedalled along the narrow streets. But where was I? The white stone of the building would be the focus of my research. Which area of Paris was this?

I wanted to contact my parents and present the clues. I reread: All your stories are filed under ‘M’ for Maisie in my filing cabinet. Was she trying to tell me something? I headed towards the filing cabinet, but it was locked. Remembering a row of keys in the kitchen cupboard, I checked the keys hanging there. I padded around the house and searched cupboards, wardrobes and bookshelves for information. My face flushed as I searched through my aunt’s possessions, hoping to find some information.

A crash in the dining room forced me to run in there. A pile of Bella Mysteries rested in a heap on the floor with Bronte sitting beside them and wagging her tail. Dust breathed on me as soon as I picked up the books. I opened the patio doors and wandered through the garden. Breathing in the humid air, I sat down at the garden table. I considered photographs on the blog and my aunt’s postcard but the tingle in my stomach returned. During my childhood summers we had sat at this table. Aunt had read mountains of books, and I had written endless stories of my imaginary adventures in the village and had entered the Writing Challenge in my local library at home. She had suggested changes in the narrative.

Since I moved into Tanglewood Cottage there was a little niggle in my throat as if undigested stories were waiting to come to life. I had always wanted to be a writer, but I had seen many friends disheartened after submitting their novels. My aunt always encouraged me to write when I visited. We agreed teaching would be a rewarding way to earn money and pass on my love of literature. But she always suggested I enter a story into the Heatherbridge Literary Festival. I never managed it, but maybe this year I could take a chance.

Vivid memories of childhood scattered in the night air like seeds waiting to take root in my mind. Pausing, I looked up and whispered, ‘Are you alive, Aunt Ada?’ I clenched my fists so tight my fingernails dug into my hands.