‘Not quite.’ Tamsyn managed not to smile. There was absolutely nothing spindly about Cris Defoe. ‘But he will be staying with us for a while longer. For his health.’
‘Will he now?’
Tamsyn knew the tone. It could be roughly interpreted as, Some of us will take a look at him and we’ll sort him out proper if he’s up to anything with Jory Perowne’s widow. She appreciated their loyalty, but there were times when the fact that the whole close-knit community knew everyone’s business made her want to scream with frustration.
‘Yes, he will. Now, do you think we ought to pay some of the lads to watch the animals at night for a while?’
‘Good idea.’ Willie, distracted from the thought of a strange man under the Barbary Combe House roof, leaned his elbows on the gate and settled down to a discussion of who was reliable and whether one lad alone was more reliable than two or three, all egging each other on for mischief.
* * *
Cris stood up and, now that he was alone, permitted himself the indulgence of a long, slow stretch. His muscles were still sore across his shoulders and deep in his thighs, but the walk uphill had done them good. By tomorrow he would be himself again, and now he needed to walk, stride out and work up a sweat and distract himself from the memory of a pair of amused brown eyes and the novelty of a woman who seemed to say exactly what she thought.
Why that was arousing he was uncertain, and he was not sure he wanted to explore why that should be. It was bad enough, every time he got close to her, to find himself imagining her naked under him as the surf pounded on the beach and the sun beat down hot on his back. The fantasy had kept him awake in the small hours of the night, too. It felt disloyal to Katerina, it disturbed his conscience and it was discourteous to his hostess.
Cris surveyed the rough track that led onwards towards the head of the valley. It looked challenging enough to drive any thoughts of sex out of his head for a while. How the blazes Collins had got the carriage over this road without breaking an axle was a minor miracle, he decided as he jumped a particularly evil pothole. He had thought the roads to Hartland Quay were bad enough, but this area appeared to have had nothing done in the way of road-making since before the Romans.
By the time he walked into the village he had taken off his coat, his body felt warm and limber and he had worked up a healthy thirst. There had to be an alehouse hereabouts. He surveyed the main street, which forked where he stood, the other arm presumably running to his right down to the quayside. The road was lined on both sides with single-storey cottages, some thatched, some with slate roofs. The whitewashed walls bulged and looked as though they were made with clay, but the quality improved slightly as the street rose from the fork, with a few two-storey dwellings, a public house with a faded sign showing a galleon in full sail swinging outside it, a shopfront and, rising behind the rooftops, the stumpy grey tower of the church.
Cris shrugged on his coat again and turned to walk up to the Ship Inn. The street was roughly cobbled, with narrow slate pavements raised on either side and, although he could see no signs of prosperity, neither did it look poor or neglected. A woman came out and emptied a pot of water into a trough of flowers that stood beside her door, stared openly at him, then went inside again, shooing a small child in front of her.
Two more women came down the street, baskets on hips, skirts kirtled up to show their buckled shoes and a glimpse of ankle. They smiled at him as they passed and broke into shy laughter when he doffed his hat. He kept it in his hand as he ducked under the low lintel of the inn door. ‘Good day, gentlemen.’
The half-dozen men in the taproom fell silent, stared at him with the calm curiosity he was beginning to expect, then there was a murmur of greeting before they went back to their ale. He heard the click of dominoes from the table next to the window. The big man behind the bar counter waited, silent, as Cris made his way between stools and settles, then nodded. ‘Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?’
‘A pint of your best, if you please.’ Cris leaned one elbow on the bar and half turned, letting the others take a good look at him. ‘Is this cider country?’
‘No, sir. Nor hops, neither, so we’ve no beer. We brew our own ale. Or there’s brandy,’ the landlord added.
‘Your ale sounds just the thing at this hour.’
The brandy, no doubt, was French and smuggled. Cris picked up the tankard that was put in front of him and took a long swallow, then a more appreciative mouthful. ‘A good brew.’
‘Aye, it is that.’ The man nodded, unsmiling, well aware of his own worth. He went back to polishing thick-bottomed glasses and Cris drank his ale and waited.
Finally one of the dominoes players slapped down the winning tile and shifted in his seat to look across to the bar. ‘You be the gennelman down at Barbary?’
‘I am.’
‘Mizz Tamsyn fished you out the sea, is what we hear.’
‘She found me staggering out and the ladies were kind enough to let me recover at their house.’
‘Huh. Swimming. Don’t hold with it, just makes drowning last longer.’
‘It certainly seemed to go on a long time,’ Cris agreed, straight-faced, provoking laughter from the other tables. ‘I was most grateful to the ladies. Popular landowners hereabouts, I imagine.’
‘Miss Isobel is that and all. A proper lady, for all that she’s a bit scatty sometimes. Miss Rosie does a power of good for the school, too, poor lady, despite her afflictions. But Mizz Tamsyn makes certain it all runs right and tight.’ There was a murmur of agreement round the room.
‘They’re having a difficult time just now, I understand. Rick fires, the sheep over the cliff.’ Around him the dim room fell silent. Cris took another swallow of ale and waited.
‘Nothing that won’t get sorted. Mizz Tamsyn’s one of ours now.’ There was a warning in the voice from the shadows.
‘What manner of man was her husband?’ Now the silence was tangible, thick.
‘Another one of ours,’ the dominoes player said, putting down a tile and placing both formidable fists on the table. ‘We look after our own. No need for strangers to get involved.’
It was said pleasantly enough, but the threat was quite plain. He was an outsider, this was not his business and if he continued to probe they would assume the worst and take action. He couldn’t blame them for it, for all that it made life damnably difficult. Time to change the subject. ‘Fishing good at the moment?’
As he spoke the latch on the door beside the bar snicked up and Dr Tregarth walked through, rolling down the cuffs of his shirt, bag under one arm. ‘Your daughter will be fine now, Jim. It was a clean break. Just make sure she puts no weight on that leg until I say so or it will grow out of line. Now, where did I put my coat?’
‘Here, Doctor.’ The innkeeper produced it from behind the bar. ‘I’m rightly glad to hear it ain’t worse, given that she went down the stairs top to bottom. The little maid was crying fit to break her heart. What do I owe you?’
‘A jug of ale and my noon meal will suit me just fine.’ He shrugged into the coat. ‘I’ve got to go down to the Landing, but I’ll be back directly.’
‘Old Henry’s rheumatics, that’ll be,’ the other dominoes player remarked.
‘There’s no privacy to be had around here,’ the doctor said, turning with a grin, then saw Cris. ‘Mr Defoe. How the blazes did you get up here?’
‘Good day to you, Dr Tregarth. I walked.’
‘Sore?’
‘Some,’ Cris returned, equally laconic. ‘Exercise eases it, I find, once I get going.’
‘First mile’s the worst, eh?’ Tregarth made for the door. ‘I’ll