When Zach arrived back at the Spout Lantern, Pete Murray showed him to his room, ducking his head to avoid the low beams along the upstairs corridor. The room was at the far end of the building, away from the bar. It had a small double bed draped in a patchwork quilt, and a nautical theme-model boats on a shelf with a dried-up starfish; the walls pale blue; seahorses printed on the curtains. An hour or so later, Zach ate a plate of fish pie at a table facing the bar, surrounded by the low buzz of a moderate crowd of locals. He got some nods and smiles, but nobody tried to talk to him, no doubt taking him for a holidaymaker, transient, just passing through and not worth the bother.
People wandered in and out with their dogs, sinking a quick pint as part of their evening walk, and Zach amused himself watching the animals circle and sniff while their owners did the same. He felt heavy with lassitude, the aftereffect of fresh air and exercise. His muscles lengthened and relaxed, his glass of beer made his head light, and he didn’t feel in the least bit conspicuous, or unwelcome. Not until the door rattled open again and a woman strode in, small and wiry, her figure in tight-fitting jeans lost beneath the baggy swaths of a huge tartan shirt. Her legs disappeared into slouchy leather boots, the toes white with dust. Dark curls of hair held back by a peacock-green scarf, its edges frayed and grubby. He recognized her from the jeep at the farm in an instant, and for some reason her sudden appearance gave him a jolt, as if once again he’d been caught out doing something he shouldn’t.
She moved with the same speed and purpose as he had witnessed in the yard, and slowed only when she reached the bar and was greeted by several people. She smiled and shook hands with a few, which Zach found strange and refreshing-to see a woman shake hands rather than offer kisses, like the women he knew in the art world would have done.
“The usual?” Pete greeted her, and though the landlord smiled, Zach noticed he looked slightly uncomfortable, almost nervous. The woman smiled back at him and Zach caught her expression in the mirror behind the bar-the raised eyebrows, the slightly mocking tilt of her lips.
“As usual,” she said. Zach found himself straining his ears to pick up her voice. Pete put a shot of whiskey in front of her, which she knocked back as he pulled her a pint of dark ale. Zach saw her watching the landlord carefully; saw him flick his eyes up at her. As he put the pint down in front of her, he tilted his head to one side and seemed about to speak, but the woman held up her hand. “Don’t bother, Pete. Seriously. I’ve had a crap day and I’ve just come in for this one, okay?”
“Okay, okay. Don’t bite my head off! I didn’t say a word.”
“You didn’t have to,” she muttered, picking up her pint and lowering her head to sip without spilling. As she did, she raised her eyes and caught Zach’s gaze in the mirror. He flinched and looked away. When he looked up again, she was still watching him, and again he looked away. He looked down at his hands; he looked at a circular drip of beer on the table; he looked at his phone, which had no signal, not even one bar. Then he looked up, because she was standing right in front of his table.
“You were up at The Watch today,” she said, without preamble.
“You recognize me?” he said, trying not to sound pleased.
“Not difficult. You stand out like a sore thumb in those clothes.” Her voice was textured, slightly hoarse; the words spoken in the same quick, abrupt manner in which she moved. Zach looked down at his dark jeans, his leather shoes, and wondered what it was that made them so conspicuous. “Got lost, had you? Looking for the coast path?”
“No, I…” He hesitated, wondering if he should own up to what he’d been doing. “I was visiting somebody.”
“What do you want with her?” the woman demanded.
“Is… that any of your business?” Zach said carefully. The woman tipped her chin up a little, as if squaring up to him. Zach almost smiled at her fearless belligerence, and then felt a tug of recognition. He paused, trying to place the feeling. “I’m Zach Gilchrist,” he said, holding out his hand. “Have we met somewhere before?” She eyed his hand suspiciously, and paused before shaking it with a single jerk.
“Hannah Brock. And no, we haven’t met before. I’m Miss Hatcher’s nearest neighbor and I look out for her. Make sure she’s not… bothered by anybody.”
“Why should people bother her?” Zach asked, wondering how much Hannah knew of Dimity Hatcher’s claim to fame.
“Why indeed?” she asked, raising one eyebrow. She had dark eyes to match her hair, a narrow face tanned from the summer sun. It was hard to tell her age, because an outdoor life had put fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and yet she exuded a vitality that was almost unnerving. The hand that had clasped his briefly had been hard, dry, and tiny. Zach hazarded a guess at late thirties.
“I don’t think I bothered her. She seemed quite happy. She made me tea,” he said, smiling mischievously.
“Tea?” Hannah echoed skeptically.
“Tea,” Zach repeated. She studied him for a while, and he sensed a little of her hostility give way to curiosity.
“Well,” she said eventually. “You are honored.”
“I am?”
“It took me near enough six months to get a cup of tea out of her, and that was even after I… Well. Never mind. So, what did you want to see her about?”
“You’re her next-door neighbor. Which makes this… what? Extreme curtain-twitching?” said Zach. She gazed at him steadily for a moment, and then had the good grace to smile briefly.
“Miss Hatcher is a… special case. I wonder if you know how special?”
“I wonder if you do?” Zach retorted.
“Well, this is getting us nowhere.” Hannah sighed. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m looking out for her. And I won’t put up with her being… harassed. Okay by you?” She turned on her heel and started to cross towards a group of people at the far end of the bar.
“She invited me back again. She even set me an errand,” Zach called after her. Hannah glanced back over her shoulder at him and now her frown was puzzled, not hostile. With an impatient roll of her eyes, she turned her back, and Zach chuckled.
When the tall young man had gone, Dimity stood for a long time at the foot of the stairs, listening. Now there was silence from above, apart from all the normal sounds of The Watch. The scuffles of mice in the thatch; the wind in the chimney breast; water dripping onto metal somewhere, striking with a musical note. But there had been a sound; they had both heard it. The first one in a long time, and her heart had leaped at it. Hesitant, bewildered, she began to climb the stairs. In the hallway mirror behind her, Valentina waved a finger, wagged her chin mockingly. Dimity ignored her, but when she got to the top step her heart was thumping painfully. The small landing was gloomy and smelled damp, where the rain was finally coming in through the thatch and soaking the ceiling plaster. A bloom of concentric, tea-colored rings marked the spot. To the left was her bedroom, the door open, a window over the sea letting in a bluish light. To the right a closed door. She stood still again, and listened. She felt herself watched from above; reflected in the clustered eyes of incurious spiders. Slowly, she crossed to the closed door, pressed a cautious hand to the wood. A nervous song hummed in her throat, unbidden. In her hand she had posies, her cheeks were like roses…