windows.
He knew he ought to cut the climbers back or they’d block out the light, maybe destroy the mortar, but he was way too busy trying to keep the rental cottages in good repair. Tresco Farmhouse had managed for three hundred years; it could wait a while longer.
A hundred meters away from the farm stood the four former farm workers’ cottages which included Fiona’s place, Creekside. He knew Fiona had persuaded Marnie to sell her the property years ago while Josh had been away at college, struggling to get a degree in business. The other three cottages belonged to him.
They rented out well enough, considering Tresco Creek was off the beaten track. Seaspray was empty right now but Porthcurno had guests arriving later. With Mrs. Sennen still laid up with a sprained wrist, it fell to Josh to clean and prepare the cottage for the next guests. He also needed to repair the dishwasher, although he’d rather be carve jibing in a Force Five, flying over the water of the estuary. He smiled. Getting it wrong, more like, and catapulting into the creek, salt water shooting into his mouth, eyes, nose…
“Work, Tally!” called Josh, and the dog came to heel and trotted after him toward the cottages.
Chapter 13
Lucy turned on the shower in the bathroom and hoped that the trickle of hot water dribbling out of the faintly mildewed head might someday be powerful enough to wash in. She fiddled with the controls and then the water suddenly whooshed down, icy cold. After a shriek and some hasty adjustments, it heated up. At least in here she was safe from reporters.
She’d decided that the scary guy with the camera had to have been from the press and wondered if he was from some local paper, hoping to make his name out of snapping her in her knickers. She had no idea how he’d found out she was here unless he’d been tipped off by the people who maintained the cottages. If so, why would Fiona have told them who she was? Above the hiss of the shower, Lucy heard the cottage door open and the familiar sound of Hengist’s bark. There was a clattering of claws on stairs.
“Fiona?” she called.
“Hi!” Fiona called back. “Shower working OK?”
“Fine,” lied Lucy, hastily turning off the shower as the hot water ran out unexpectedly.
“I’ll make some coffee. I managed to get some almond croissants. There’s a posh new patisserie opened in Porthstow,” called Fiona.
“OK. Thanks. I’ll be down in a minute,” said Lucy.
Wrapping herself in a towel, Lucy brushed her teeth and checked her face in the cracked mirror above the sink. She still looked pale but definitely not “haggard.” Maybe a few weeks of fresh air and sun would help with the outside, but her inner paleness would take longer to go. She wondered how Nick was coping. Gathering up her pajamas and wash bag, Lucy lifted the latch.
“Oh my God!”
A black Labrador was slurping her bare leg but that was the least of her worries. The fake postman was standing on the landing, holding a wrench.
“How the hell did you get in here?” cried Lucy.
“Fiona let me in,” said the man, with chilling calm.
“Fiona?”
He spoke slowly, as if she was an especially dim Big Brother housemate. “Yes. The woman who owns this cottage.”
Involuntarily, Lucy raised her hand which was armed with a particularly noxious bottle of lavender bath soak.
“Fiona asked me to come over to fix the central heating pump,” said the man, eyeing the bath soak with a mix of amusement and alarm.
Then Lucy noticed the canvas tool bag farther along the landing, spilling an array of deadly weapons such as pliers and screwdrivers onto the floorboards, which was quite a large clue to the fact that he was telling the truth.
“If you came to fix the heating, why didn’t you say so earlier when I answered the door?” Lucy asked, reluctantly lowering the bath soak.
“You hardly gave me the chance.”
“I thought you were a postman…”
“A postman? Why would you
He knew he ought to cut the climbers back or they’d block out the light, maybe destroy the mortar, but he was way too busy trying to keep the rental cottages in good repair. Tresco Farmhouse had managed for three hundred years; it could wait a while longer.
A hundred meters away from the farm stood the four former farm workers’ cottages which included Fiona’s place, Creekside. He knew Fiona had persuaded Marnie to sell her the property years ago while Josh had been away at college, struggling to get a degree in business. The other three cottages belonged to him.
They rented out well enough, considering Tresco Creek was off the beaten track. Seaspray was empty right now but Porthcurno had guests arriving later. With Mrs. Sennen still laid up with a sprained wrist, it fell to Josh to clean and prepare the cottage for the next guests. He also needed to repair the dishwasher, although he’d rather be carve jibing in a Force Five, flying over the water of the estuary. He smiled. Getting it wrong, more like, and catapulting into the creek, salt water shooting into his mouth, eyes, nose…
“Work, Tally!” called Josh, and the dog came to heel and trotted after him toward the cottages.
Chapter 13
Lucy turned on the shower in the bathroom and hoped that the trickle of hot water dribbling out of the faintly mildewed head might someday be powerful enough to wash in. She fiddled with the controls and then the water suddenly whooshed down, icy cold. After a shriek and some hasty adjustments, it heated up. At least in here she was safe from reporters.
She’d decided that the scary guy with the camera had to have been from the press and wondered if he was from some local paper, hoping to make his name out of snapping her in her knickers. She had no idea how he’d found out she was here unless he’d been tipped off by the people who maintained the cottages. If so, why would Fiona have told them who she was? Above the hiss of the shower, Lucy heard the cottage door open and the familiar sound of Hengist’s bark. There was a clattering of claws on stairs.
“Fiona?” she called.
“Hi!” Fiona called back. “Shower working OK?”
“Fine,” lied Lucy, hastily turning off the shower as the hot water ran out unexpectedly.
“I’ll make some coffee. I managed to get some almond croissants. There’s a posh new patisserie opened in Porthstow,” called Fiona.
“OK. Thanks. I’ll be down in a minute,” said Lucy.
Wrapping herself in a towel, Lucy brushed her teeth and checked her face in the cracked mirror above the sink. She still looked pale but definitely not “haggard.” Maybe a few weeks of fresh air and sun would help with the outside, but her inner paleness would take longer to go. She wondered how Nick was coping. Gathering up her pajamas and wash bag, Lucy lifted the latch.
“Oh my God!”
A black Labrador was slurping her bare leg but that was the least of her worries. The fake postman was standing on the landing, holding a wrench.
“How the hell did you get in here?” cried Lucy.
“Fiona let me in,” said the man, with chilling calm.
“Fiona?”
He spoke slowly, as if she was an especially dim Big Brother housemate. “Yes. The woman who owns this cottage.”
Involuntarily, Lucy raised her hand which was armed with a particularly noxious bottle of lavender bath soak.
“Fiona asked me to come over to fix the central heating pump,” said the man, eyeing the bath soak with a mix of amusement and alarm.
Then Lucy noticed the canvas tool bag farther along the landing, spilling an array of deadly weapons such as pliers and screwdrivers onto the floorboards, which was quite a large clue to the fact that he was telling the truth.
“If you came to fix the heating, why didn’t you say so earlier when I answered the door?” Lucy asked, reluctantly lowering the bath soak.
“You hardly gave me the chance.”
“I thought you were a postman…”
“A postman? Why would you
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