Ashleigh awoke to a ringing phone beside her bed.

      "Hallo," said a woman's voice.  "Miss Ferguson?  My name's Sheila Bushnall.  We met over in Shipley Green, remember?  I'm still trying to locate my ex-husband, and I'm told you and he have - how shall we say - some connection?"

      "Connection?"

      "That's what I said.  No doubt you're aware Peter and I were divorced two years ago.  It's a small world, don't you find that sometimes?"

      "Same size as yesterday, I imagine."

      "Someone told me last night he happened to overhear you express an interest in acquiring an oast-house.  This struck him as odd since we both thought it was YOUR oast-house where we met the other day.  Who actually DOES own that place, Miss Ferguson?"

      "I told you - the mortgage company."

      "Ah, yes - I remember.  You think yourself so clever, don't you, neatly evading my every question, but I'm going to keep on asking - is it your oast-house, Miss Ferguson, or someone else's?"

      "I can tell you this much, Mrs. Bushnall - the man who used to live there was forced to put it on the market in order to pay off increasing debts."

      "Evasion, evasion!  According to my sources, Miss Ferguson, that oast-house is currently owned by Peter Bushnall, a man with whom I say you have this connection.  And I'll tell you something else.  I understand you went to visit someone in Ashford yesterday, concerning your late aunt's will?  Weren't you rather disillusioned to hear of the paltry sum she left you?"

      "Mrs. Bushnall, not having a TV set in my bedroom, I didn't realise my personal affairs had been featured on this morning's news.  But since you seem aware of every detail, let me assure you I am seldom disillusioned about anything where my aunt is concerned."

      "Nevertheless, you must have been disappointed - I know I would be.  A mere hundred pounds?  Dear me!  However, Miss Ferguson - or may I call you Ashleigh since we have mutual friends - I know of someone who's well placed to influence your position with regard to this legacy.  It's something you'd do well to consider, my dear.  After all, when your aunt's house is sold, where will you live - unless of course you move into a certain oast-house?  Get my drift?  As I say - it's proving to be a small world."

      "Forgive me, Mrs. Bushnall - or may I call you Sheila, since we both know Julie - I don't quite see how this concerns you?"

      "Not very smart, are you!  Let me explain.  Your aunt left a substantial legacy in support of what she calls Local Heritage - and an oast-house is a prime example of Local Heritage.  My contact suggested setting up a trust-fund under the provisions of your aunt's will, to help you acquire this particular oast-house - assuming we can reach agreement with its present owner of course, which brings me again to Mr. Bushnall.  He's not at your oast-house this morning, Miss Ferguson - we checked.  In fact, knowing Peter as I do - and believe me, he is an expert at sponging off friends - I'd hazard a guess he's probably staying with you."

      "I'm sorry to disappoint you," replied Ashleigh.   "I'm afraid my aunt had strict rules about not allowing male visitors into her house."

      "More evasion?  I'm told you're far more charitable than Miss Elsie Challon.  Yes, I reckon you've got Peter lurking somewhere under your roof right now."

      "Really?  And what makes you think that?"

      "Your reluctance to deny it.  You keep trotting out clever answers, just as you did at the oast-house.  Will you be seeing Mr. Bushnall this morning?"

      "Not if I can avoid it."

      "There you go again!"  The voice became menacing.  "Ashleigh, you're beginning to irritate me.  Answer the damned question.  Do you know where Peter Bushnall is?"

      Ashleigh remained supremely calm.  "At this precise moment, no, and I've got more urgent matters on my mind than finding your missing husband.  For instance, I'm going to be late for work if I don't leave right now, so if you wish to pursue the matter further I suggest you ask your so-called contact to start contacting my aunt's solicitor."

      Ashleigh slammed down the phone, and turned to see Peter standing silently in the doorway, looking most concerned.

      "I gather that was Sheila?" he said softly.  "A horribly persistent creature.  What did she want?"

      "In a word - you.  But then she started rambling on about someone setting up a kind of trust-fund to buy the oast-house.  It's weird, Peter.  I feel I'm being spied on, and I don't like it."

      "Then phone Mr. Caplin, if you trust him.  Do you trust him?"

      "Absolutely.  I've known him for years."

      "Then tell him about Sheila's call, and ask his advice."

      "Ah, but isn't that precisely what Sheila would expect me to do.  And I bet Mr. Caplin's not there.  Let's leave it till lunch-time, and I'll give him a call when it's quiet.  What are you planning to do today?"

      "Aha!" Peter grinned mysteriously.  "If I might borrow your mini for a while, I'd like to pursue a discreet line of enquiry.  Call it research.  I'm intrigued by something that doesn't quite add up, but I want to get my facts straight before I make too many wrong assumptions.  Okay?"

      "Fine by me.  The car's yours, if you'll be a lamb and make me some coffee while I get dressed.  That was no lie I told Sheila; I really am going to be late this morning."

      After gulping down a quick breakfast, Ashleigh took the Volvo and drove off to do a full day's work.  At lunch-time she phoned Mr. Caplin's office and learned, not surprisingly, that he was out for the day.

      "Would you care to speak to someone else?" a girl suggested.

      Ashleigh declined but left a message asking Mr. Caplin to contact her in person as soon as he was available.

      That evening she arrived home to find the house deserted and her brown mini still missing.  In the kitchen she spotted a short note left on top of the cooker:

      "Sweetheart.  I think I'm on to something.  Don't know when I'll be back, but thanks for the nostalgia - love, Daddy."

      Ashleigh smiled and prepared supper for one.  There was something refreshingly cheeky about this man, something that warmed her very soul.  She thought back to the confidences they'd shared in the middle of the night, and realised she must have fallen asleep in his arms.  How embarrassing!  And what happened after that?  She could remember nothing except waking up in bed when the phone rang.  Peter must have put her there, which would have provided a golden opportunity for any man - yet Ashleigh felt certain she'd been shown the same consideration and courtesy he would have given his own daughter.

      Shortly after eight she heard a knock at the door.  Expecting it to be Peter, Ashleigh ran to welcome him, but instead found Clive Caplin standing outside.

      "Is this a convenient moment?" he asked with a cordial smile.  "I got your message and happened to be passing, so I thought I'd drop in."

      Ashleigh invited him into the front room where he sniffed the air and grinned.

      "Been painting?  Excellent.  I never did like that gloomy brown.  And I see you've taken down the famous picture - understandable.  Someone once described your aunt as having the kind of face that could saw through oak trestles.  Yet she obviously felt her looks worth preserving in oils - a rare display of vanity.  We often hang pictures of revered ancestors above our fireplaces, but seldom a large self-portrait."

      Ashleigh was astounded.  "Self-portrait?  Are you saying she painted that herself?"

      "Oh yes," he nodded.  "She was thirty years younger then, and by all accounts engaged to be married.  Poor lady, even in those days you could hardly describe her as an oil-painting.  Apparently the portrait was meant as a gift for her intended, though the course of true love never did come her way.  A sad lady, our Miss Challon.  You never realised it was her own work?"

      "I'm afraid Aunt Elsie and I rarely discussed such personal matters," said Ashleigh.  "We never confided in one another.  Mr. Caplin, can I trust you?"

      "Ashleigh, what a question!  Of course.  Why?  Having problems?"

      "In a way.  After I left your office yesterday, did you discuss my private affairs with anyone else?"

      "No, of course not.  I made a few notes as usual, then had them filed away - that's all.  Why?"

      "This morning I had a phone call from a Mrs. Bushnall asking if I felt disillusioned because Aunt Elsie left the bulk of her money to charity instead of me.  She specifically mentioned the hundred pounds.  Do all wills have to be made public?"

      "No, certainly not.  How curious.  Mrs. Bushnall, you say?"

      "Sheila Bushnall.  She said something about having a contact who could maybe change things in my favour - by setting up a trust-fund and so on."

      "What nonsense!  My dear, you can't change bequests just like that.  I sometimes wish we could, but we have a strict code of practice forbidding all such dealings.  We're bound to keep faith with our clients, even the deceased.  You asked if you could trust me?  Yes, my dear, you can, so please, tell me everything you know."

      Ashleigh relayed all she could remember of her early morning phone call.  She told him about her meetings with Peter at the oast-house, about his divorce, and the situation regarding Julie.

      At the mention of Julie's name Clive Caplin looked up with renewed interest.  "Julie, eh?  Have you ever met this woman who phoned?"

      "Once, briefly.  She's tall, with reddish hair, cold grey eyes, and an air of lofty self-importance.  She has a boy-friend, James, who's very rich, apparently.  He drives a Volvo just like mine."

      Clive's face fell.  "Oh dear.  Now it makes more sense.  What else did this woman want, did she say?"

      Ashleigh picked up a banana and began peeling it.  "She's simply trying to locate her ex-husband.  She reckons I know where he is."

      "And do you?"

      "Not at this moment, no," said Ashleigh, taking a large bite and looking up with soulful eyes as she handed another banana to her guest.

      "Come on, Ashleigh.  I know you.  Where's he likely to be tonight?"

      "You did say I could trust you?"

      "Of course.  Let me help by putting you in the picture as far as I can.  I have working with me a young chap called James Molyneux.  He joined us quite recently and I don't know much about him, except that he does go around with an older woman who fits your description.  He was asking me the other day about a father's custody rights and obligations, and happened to mention the name Julie.  What's more, he would have been there in the outer office when you called yesterday."

      "Oh?  I didn't see him."

      "That may have been intentional.  Ashleigh, we spoke of trusting each other.  You'll keep this to yourself, I hope?"

      "Of course.  But what did she mean about setting up a trust-fund?"

      "Don't worry, that's something I'll get to the bottom of.  Meanwhile, your lips must remain sealed or you really will rock the boat.  Understood?"

      "I did tell one other person ..." she confessed.

      "The missing Mr. Bushnall?  Yes, it all adds up.  Thank you, Ashleigh.  I'm glad you told me - you're a very sensible girl and I often wish I had you on my staff."

      "Thanks," she said, "but I'm very happy where I am."

      "I know," he smiled, and began eating his banana.

      Declining the offer of coffee and biscuits, Clive Caplin was about to leave when a headlamp beam flashed across the front curtains.  Ashleigh and the solicitor exchanged glances of embarrassed amusement as Peter boldly let himself in and called heartily: "Yoo-hoo!  Daddy's home."

      "It's Peter!" she blushed.  "In here, Peter.  We have a visitor - Mr. Caplin.  It's okay, he's quite harmless."

      Peter peered cautiously round the door, then advanced to shake hands.

      "We were just discussing Miss Challon's artwork," Clive volunteered.  "It seems Ashleigh isn't keen on keeping it, even though I've explained it was the lady's own handiwork.  If no-one else wants it, might it perhaps end up coming my way, hmm?"

      Peter picked up the frame and studied it at arm's length.  "Not bad," he conceded graciously.  "All the same I'm glad I didn't have to meet her on a dark night.  Then presumably, Mr. Caplin, you've known Aunt Elsie for a number of years, even before you became her legal advisor?"

      "Yes," he said, "we first met when Ashleigh must have been about ten.  Dare I reveal that's nearly twenty years ago?"

      "You have now," Ashleigh laughed.  "Really, Mr. Caplin, and I thought I could trust you.  Never mind, Peter knows quite a bit about me now, including details of my funny phone call this morning from his ex-wife."

      "Yes, I'm sure.  Anyway, my dear, I must be going - and we'll keep a tight lip on those other issues till I've done some private digging of my own, I hope that's clear."

      Clive Caplin took his leave and drove off leaving Ashleigh and Peter standing arm in arm on the doorstep.

      "Nice man," he remarked.

      But Ashleigh turned on him with an accusing finger.

      "Okay, Daddy-loud-mouth!  Two questions.  Where have you been, and why the interest in Caplin's relationship with the old girl?  He only became her solicitor when the other one retired six years ago.  Why the concern?"

      Peter smiled mysteriously.  "Have you any idea who this previous man was?  You see, Ashleigh, I've been doing a spot of private digging myself today, and I've unearthed a nasty little worm.  So I was just wondering whether Mr. Caplin knows more than he's prepared to admit.  In whose interest is he working - yours or Aunt Elsie's estate?  And what's for supper?  I've had no lunch and I'm starving."

      "Good.  That means you'll eat anything I put in front of you - you'd be a hit with Aunt Elsie.  I could do you a quick omelette, or if you can survive another twenty minutes, how about paella?"

      "Wonderful!  Listen, sweetheart, I have been a busy boy.  Can you listen while you cook?"

      Ashleigh nodded and led the way to the kitchen where she started to prepare something out of a packet.

      "First tell me the follow-on from Sheila's call?" he asked.

      Ashleigh placed a finger over his lips.  "I promised Mr. Caplin I wouldn't say a word until he's done his bit of digging."

      Peter took a playful grip on both of Ashleigh's cheeks.  "Listen, you.  If you were really my daughter you'd still be under age and morally bound to tell Daddy everything."

      Ashleigh picked up a wooden spoon and pressed it firmly onto Peter's nose.  "Yes, and if I were your wife - God forbid!  - they couldn't make me testify against you in court.  But since I happen to be merely the cook around here, you'd better tell me your news right now, or you won't get any dinner."

      Peter placed an arm across Ashleigh's shoulders as she stirred packets of rice and paella into a hot pan.

      "Listen," he said.  "Cut the jokes and cast your mind back twenty-five years.  Tell me everything you can remember about where you lived with your parents, and what sort of car they owned."

      "Peter, I was only four.  But I vaguely remember a large house with a circular front lawn, rather like the place where Sheila and Julie live.  As for the car, I haven't a clue.  Four-year-old girls don't take much notice of cars."

      "I happen to know it was a Rover.  I found some photos in your aunt's bookcase - Leslie and Angela Ferguson, with their little daughter Ashleigh, aged three.  The point is, my love, your parents weren't paupers.  Don't speak - just cook my dinner and try to be impressed by my logical thinking!  It struck me that if your Dad had money, then he would surely have prepared a will, and since you were his only child, I reckon the bulk of his estate would have been invested in your name, to be used for your education and so on.  But then I keep hearing how Aunt Elsie treated you like a slave.  She didn't spend a bean on your welfare, and stopped you going to university, claiming she couldn't afford it.  Anyway - being a nosey sort of chap with an enquiring mind, prone to occasional whims of spontaneity - I dug deeper, and found a pile of letters addressed to your beloved Aunt Elsie from a firm of solicitors in Tonbridge - all about the legacy from your parents, mentioning a substantial sum of money to be handed over to you at the age of twenty-one."

      "Yes," Ashleigh nodded.  "That did happen, eight years ago.  I was left twenty thousand pounds - I saw the cheque, and a copy of the will.  Aunt Elsie took back three-quarters of it, saying it was her compensation for looking after me all those years.  But I was allowed to keep five thousand which I spent it on my little car.  I hope you haven't wrecked it completely.  I've seen the way you drive."

      "Ashleigh, listen - you're right about the twenty thousand.  When you were four, that amount was invested in your name and it began earning compound interest.  By the time you were twenty-one, the legacy had grown to nearly a hundred thousand pounds.  Okay, so someone handed over twenty thousand - but what happened to the rest?  Where is it, or did your penny-pinching aunt pinch that too?"

      "I've no idea.  I'm sure Mr. Caplin knows nothing either, or he'd have mentioned it when I saw him."

      "Would he?  You really do trust him?"

      "Yes, I do.  He was most concerned about how I'd manage with just a hundred pounds.  I trust him and he trusts me.  It seems he's got a minor problem in his office, but I promised I wouldn't talk about that."

      "Oh come on, Ashleigh.  We're both trying to solve a puzzle here.  It won't help if you're going to sit on half the pieces."

      "Then watch my body-language while I change the subject.  Do you happen to know where your wife's new boy-friend works?"

      "The infamous James?  Somewhere in Ashford I believe.  Aha!"  He waved a knowing finger at Ashleigh.  "Aha!"

      "Aha!" she responded, slapping his palm like victorious tennis player.  "Note, I didn't say anything.  I merely asked a question, and you're not to mention this to anyone, is that clear?  We both need to sit on this for a while and see what else we can dig up on our own."

      "So Lord Fauntleroy works for your friend Clive Caplin?" he repeated.

      "Maybe not for much longer - but keep that to yourself.  Come on, show me these photos and the papers you've found."

      "What about my dinner?"

      "That'll take at least fifteen minutes," she said.  "You've had all day to wallow in your own brand of nostalgia.  Allow me ten minutes with mine."

      They returned to the front room, where Peter drew a large album out of the bookcase.  Ashleigh expressed surprised that she hadn't noticed it before.

      "No," he said.  "I pulled out loads of books yesterday, and found a number of things tucked away behind them - including this."  Peter opened up the heavy album and pointed to a particular photograph.  "Recognise that?  Or that?  Each photo is a piece of puzzle - a car, a house, a little girl, probably called Ashleigh."

      "Oh, that's me all right.  I remember that dress."

      "Good.  Then can you explain this?"  He turned to another photo which had a small square cut out.  "Who's the guy with no head?"

      "That's Mummy on the right," she said.  "It must have been Daddy."

      "Right!  So I'm now going to stick my neck right out and suggest that upstairs among your aunt's jewellery, you may find a locket or perhaps a small brooch, something approximately the size of that hole."

      Ashleigh ran upstairs, followed at a more leisurely pace by Peter.  She went straight to her aunt's room and lifted a large polished wooden box down from the top of the wardrobe.

      "If it's anywhere," she said, "it'll be in here.  This is actually an old Victorian writing desk that belonged to one of Aunt's ancestors.  I often wanted to ask about it, but never got any sense out of her."

      She opened it up, rummaged through the contents, and found a small locket which she snapped open.  Inside was a miniature photograph showing the face of her father.  Ashleigh stared up at Peter with a look of puzzled innocence.

      "Does this mean she was related to Dad after all?"

      "My guess," he said softly, "is that your father was a man Elsie Challon once intended to marry.  That's probably why she offered to take care of you - it was the closest she could get to loving your father."

      "But she never loved me," cried Ashleigh.  "Aunt Elsie hated everything about me."

      "That's because you weren't the person she really wanted," he said.  "But try to realise that not everyone feels about you the way she did.  Have I convinced you of that?"

      "Yes," she nodded.  "What else is in there?"

      They looked through an assortment of trinkets and souvenirs, but none of them held any significance for Ashleigh.

      "I wonder," said Peter, feeling with his fingers around the interior of the box.  "Some of these Victorians were devilish cunning."

      "Aunt Elsie wasn't Victorian.  She just behaved like one."

      "I'm talking about the box.  I've come across these before."

      "Well, you're welcome to play," said Ashleigh, "but I'd better get back to the kitchen before your dinner goes up in smoke."

      Ashleigh went downstairs, and Peter followed with the box, taking it into the front room where he continued fumbling, tapping the sides with his knuckles, and lifting out inkwells.  Then, when he touched a thin section of wood which divided the two pencil trays, a long flap suddenly sprang forward, revealing three hidden drawers.  Inside one of them he found some folded pieces of paper.

      "Ashleigh!" he yelled.  "Someone deserves a big kiss here."

      She came hurrying in.

      "Look," he cried, waving the sheets of paper.  "It appears someone called Ashleigh Ferguson owns a tidy fortune invested with four different building societies - twenty thousand in each, all in your name.  Eighty thousand, my love, plus eight years' interest to come - you're looking at well over a hundred thousand.  Of course, they were probably bought under your aunt's signature, but your Mr. Caplin can soon fix that."

      "I'm quite sure he can," Ashleigh nodded simply, "but haven't I missed out on something else?  What was that you said about someone deserving a kiss?"

      Peter looked bashful.  "Just me being flippant."

      "Oh!" said Ashleigh, and she pouted like a disappointed child.

      "On the other hand," he added, "I'd hate to spoil your day."

      "Spoil my day?" she laughed.  "I don't think anyone could accuse you of that.  Come here."

      They stood together, staring into each other's eyes, Ashleigh raising herself slightly on tiptoe.

      "You know," she said, "for a hairy beast who owns a castle and a scrunched-up sports car, you're not that bad-looking."

      "And for a cute little girl who's well on her way to affording her own oast-house, you're quite a presentable sight yourself."

      "Good.  Then stop yapping and kiss me.  What did you say I had to do?  Just melt?  Mind I don't stain the carpet - it doesn't belong to us."

      "Now who's yapping.  Shut up and kiss me."

      In accordance with advice once supplied by her aunt, Ashleigh flung her arms around Peter's neck, dutifully closed her eyes, and prepared to think of England!  But within seconds she was more aware of a sizzling sound, as her nostrils alerted her to the importance of something needing urgent attention in the kitchen.

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