Later, it would be the voice that Mrs Gregson remembered the most. It was deep, strong and cultured. Not brusque and ‘tuppence-ha’penny toff’ like the visiting tourists or members of the local Golf Club had. No, this one was the real thing; it was used to giving commands and knew its own mind.
She lifted her perfectly coiffured head up from reading and inspected the voice’s owner. She appraised him sternly; dark hair, strong blue eyes. He reminded her of her late husband, Albert.
“Good evening. I have a reservation,” said the man. “The name is Mr Bradbury.”
So who was he?
Well, his name certainly wasn’t ‘Bradbury’; at least not his real name. He used names like traffic lights – he passed through them on his way to somewhere else.
His real name was H.D. Martineau – the H.D. standing fo
