Charlotte is trying to get on with writing her new novel and hoping for inspiration for strange situations to get Lottie Lincoln into, but it is Charlotte who faces a strange situation.

‘Have you visited the tree yet?’ asked Myrtle.

Charlotte had been invited in for a cup of tea by her elderly next door neighbour. She had seen plenty of trees on her walks by the River Ham. Late spring and they were at their best, fresh green leaves bursting with new life. Among the people she had met living by or enjoying the river, none had mentioned a particular tree.

‘What tree?’

‘The Hambourne Oak of course, hmm, perhaps I should not have spoken out of turn, only locals know about it and newcomers are not told unless they are worthy.’

Charlotte was not sure whether to be honoured Myrtle had told her or disconcerted that Myrtle thought she should not have revealed the secret.

‘I won’t tell a soul Myrtle, your secret is safe with me. I have been reading all the local books about Hambourne, so interesting, but never any reference to the oak tree.’

‘You won’t read about the Hambourne Oak anywhere. No one knows how old she is, the important thing is that you must introduce yourself politely to her then she will protect you.’

Charlotte had not imagined Myrtle to be a tree hugger and though she was an older lady, she surely she had not been brought up in a time of myths. Still, her curiosity was aroused and this sounded like inspiration for the next Lottie Lincoln adventure in her WIP, work in progress, though she was making little progress…

‘Protection against what?’

‘Who knows, anything can happen in Hambourne, strange things have always happened here.’

‘Well when Robert Falstaff from the writers’ group I had joined was found murdered with his hands chopped off, that was certainly strange!’

‘Exactly and he was not a local, nor was he liked much so I imagine he had never been told to meet the tree.’

‘So where is this oak tree.’

‘I can’t tell you that dear, the whole point is to find it for yourself, which you will if she wants you to find her.’

‘How will I know, trees all look much the same to me, I mean I know what an oak tree looks like, but how would I recognise a special one?’

‘You will know when you see it, but on no account carve your name upon her, only Hambourne born may do that.’

Charlotte was intrigued with that information, a tree trunk with names carved for generations should be easy to spot.

‘Just tie ribbons in your colours.’

‘I don’t think I have my own colours.’

‘You must have, everyone has a colour of their own.’

The next day, Charlotte walked down the lane to the river and set off along the river bank in the opposite direction to the Ham Way. After a night of strange dreams about trees she was uncertain whether to believe Myrtle, a rational person would just laugh. She told herself all she was doing was investigating the other side of the river and enjoying fresh air and exercise before getting down to writing. In her pocket was the pound coin for the Ham ferry. She soon spotted a green flag and a few people standing on a wooden jetty. A small motor boat was making its way towards the jetty. As she drew closer she could see the flag bore the motif of an oak tree, was that a clue?

The captain or boatman, whatever one called him, deftly flung a rope loop over a wooden post and pulled in close enough for his passengers to climb out, without securing the other end of the boat.

‘See you later’ he waved them on their way. Charlotte guessed they were from the village of Little Hambourne, off to enjoy the comprehensive attractions of the town of Hambourne.

The boatman turned his attention to those waiting on the jetty.

‘Any news yet?’

‘No, nothing’ they shook their heads.

‘Sorry to hear that, if there’s anything me and Cis can do…’

Charlotte felt herself a real outsider. The few minutes it took to cross the river were spent in silence, she was intrigued to know whatever was happening, but unlikely to find out. She perched awkwardly on the narrow bench feeling her presence an intrusion. Remarks about the nice day or the pleasure of being on the river, would be out of place.

At the other side the rope was slipped over a rickety post and the boatman motioned for her to get off first. She would have to clamber unsteadily out under the watchful eyes of everyone.

As she turned to thank him and hand her coin over he said ‘Be sure not to miss the last ferry at five thirty and don’t get lost in the woods.’

He smiled for the first time and she was sure the other passengers caught his eye and smirked.

Charlotte chose the path along the bank, she was not letting the river out of her sight and resisted the temptation to turn and see if the others were following. She hoped she was setting a confident pace and after ten minutes stopped to take a sip of her water and admire the view, while glancing back to see if she was being followed. Not a soul in sight and soon it was obvious why no one else had taken this path as it petered out. At some stage the river bank had collapsed into the river, she would either have to turn back or follow the narrow track into the woods. She determined to wander a little way to see where it went then return. Birds were singing, though she could not see them in the thick foliage and the woodland floor littered with centuries of leaves had a unique scent. Though she had only ventured a few yards she felt she was in the depth of the woods. She must relax and enjoy the moment, forest bathing, she closed her eyes.

When she opened them she was standing under the oak tree. Was this really the Hambourne Oak? It was festooned with ribbons and dangling ornaments and a closer look revealed many names carved and various symbols, though nothing as common as a heart to link names.

‘Good Day, I’m Charlotte from Hounslow.’

Did she say that out loud? The tree looked down at her with a dignified stillness, there was no breeze to ruffle her leaves. She touched the ancient bark with one hand then both, not a tree hugger yet. The mighty oak was much too vast to hug.

A crackle of twigs startled her, then she detected movement on the other side of the trunk. Her first instinct was to run back to the river, but she pictured herself tripping over a tree root and lying helpless… she paused and a man stepped out, scruffy appearance but familiar.

‘Sorry, I thought I was alone.’

‘Danny, Daniel Worth?’

He did not seem to recognise her.

‘Charlotte from Hambourne Creative Writers…’

He looked more nervous than she was so she felt emboldened to speak again.

‘You have been reported missing.’

‘Do I look like I’m missing? I came to talk to the tree. Don’t look so scared, I’m not a murderer.’

Any illusion Charlotte had that she was handling this cool and calmly, like those heroines on TV dramas, were shattered.

‘I did not kill Robert Falstaff’ he said in a strong voice that did scare her.

This was turning into a plot she had not even imagined for Lottie Lincoln, what would Lottie say or do?

‘Nor did I, so the only way to prove our innocence is to find out who did.’