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The village of Castle Knoll is like a picture on a biscuit tin—all narrow lanes and dry-stone walls, with a tall hill at one end that holds the crumbling ruins of a Norman castle on its shaggy shoulders. Sheep even graze its slopes, and I can hear the odd bleating from my seat as we navigate the road around the castle.

I'm a few minutes early to this meeting with Mr. Gordon, so I head up the cobbled high street to poke around. As I hoist my backpack up a little, I wonder if I should have brought more books. Or maybe that fourth notebook—the one bound in blood-red leather.

It's such a small village that I can see the whole thing by simply turning in a circle. The castle ruins loom at one end, with an ancient-looking pub called the Dead Witch at the foot of the hill. It looks suitably haunted. Its slate roof slopes as if its sides are too tired to hold it up anymore, and the whitewash on the thick walls is sun-bleached and peeling. The rest of the village is spotless—to such an extent that it feels like a film set. An old- fashioned sweets shop is already bustling with tourists at ten A.M., and a Victorian train station takes up a good portion of the street adjacent to the pub. Steam drifts from the engines waiting there, and families line up to buy tickets to the trains' only destination—the neighboring seaside town.

On the other end of the high street is a sweet little stone building that stares down the road at the Dead Witch. The words crumbwell's deli are painted across a bright red sign in gold lettering, and it bookends the high street like a jolly antithesis to the Dead Witch. Near the deli is the Castle House Hotel. It looks like the kind that's boutique, immaculate, and posh, and it probably charges the earth.

Eventually I swing open the door of Gordon, Owens, and Martlock, which is really just the ground floor of one of the terraced cottages that line the high street. It's an open, airy room that's surprisingly cheerful given that they've crammed four desks in what was once a small sitting room. The glow of green banker's lamps competes with the light streaming through the glass in the front door. There's a round-faced man at a large desk in one corner, but all the other desks are empty.

"Excuse me," I say. "I'm looking for Mr. Gordon?"

The man looks up and then blinks at me a few times. He checks his watch and then looks up again. "I'm Walter Gordon. Are you Annabelle Adams?"

"Yes, that's me, but just call me Annie."

"Lovely to meet you," he says. He stands up to shake my hand but doesn't come out from behind the desk. "You know, you're the spitting image of Laura."

I laugh weakly, because I hear that so often it's old news. But it does remind me that Mum grew up near here, and that there are people in Castle Knoll who knew her when she was younger. I wish she'd brought me here when I was little, but she didn't get along with her parents and always said London was the only place we needed.

"I've just spoken to Frances on the phone," Mr. Gordon says. "I'm afraid we're going to be moving this meeting to Gravesdown Hall. She's having some sort of car trouble. We'll just wait for everyone to arrive and then we can all make our way up there together."

I help myself to the chair opposite his desk, and he notices too late that he's been rude not to offer me a seat. I'm not old- fashioned this way, but Mr. Gordon clearly is—he's wearing a rumpled suit but has made the effort to include a pocket square, and he glances at the desk next to his and mumbles something about a secretary and tea. "You said 'everyone.' Do you mind if I ask who we're waiting for? I was under the impression I'd just be meeting with you and Great Aunt Frances."

"Oh." He looks a little flustered and starts shuffling some papers across his desk. He's trying to look official, but I can tell he's nervous. "Frances has made some rather, erm, 'creative' changes to the future plans for her estate. So we're meeting with Saxon and Elva Gravesdown, who will be late—they always make a point to be."

I'm torn between asking who Saxon and Elva Gravesdown are and keeping my mouth shut so that I don't reveal how cut off I am from the great aunt who has suddenly decided I'm going to inherit her fortune. If Gravesdown Hall is Frances's house, I'm guessing these people are relatives of her late husband.

"And my grandson, Oliver, should be back any minute," Mr. Gordon continues. "He's included in the meeting too. Ah, speak of the devil."

I turn in my chair as a profile appears through the glass in the door. The person on the other side struggles with the handle because he's balancing a tray full of takeaway coffee cups. Mr. Gordon jumps up to help, and a blast of late morning light throws a golden stripe across me as the door opens. Oliver Gordon finally makes it across the threshold, and he's magazine-gorgeous. If anything, he's a little 'too' put together, in that "dress for the job you want" sort of way. His shirt is a light blue obviously chosen to match his eyes, with one button open at the collar instead of a tie. He's wearing gray suit trousers and has a leather laptop bag slung over his shoulder. In one hand he holds a cardboard tray with several coffees in it, and in the other an elaborate-looking cake box.

The words 'Castle House Hotel' flash gold across the top. "Annie, this is my grandson, Oliver," Mr. Gordon says, his voice holding the notes of pride that seem specific to all grandparents. "Oliver, this is Laura's daughter, Annie Adams."