until Grand-pa went "funny" - and she hadn't sorted that one out yet and the old buffer wasn't communicating at all these days - under whatever alias he went under. Strange affair that, she thought as she bottled beetroot, and she personally put it down to despicable dealers. Raise a Grecon's value, put it on a plinth, and then the trade topples and it's back to road kill again. Such scandalous tales she had heard when shopping at the local market. You never knew where you were with dealers, look at that blonde cherub bombshell, Cedric. She wouldn't trust him an inch nor as far as her strong and capable arms could throw him. But Her Boys - she almost purred - her boys were made of better stuff and knew their Georgian from their Victorian. Good wires, nice tweeds and merry smiles - not like that gloomy Mr Trumpington - abducting kiddies some two years ago and up to the same tricks now, so she had heard, time someone rapped him over his small knuckles. She continued to spoon the beetroot into the jars with a serene expression on her face, none of her inner turmoil showing on her features.