Chapter One

THE MAN BLEW INTO GREYSTONE AT the height of a September gale. That was how the story went, at least. Suddenly he was there, leaning against the bar of the Maiden’s Prayer, face as brown as a nut, white hair so short that it must have been cut that day, laughing at one of the landlord’s jokes. The rain dripped off his waterproofs, and all his worldly belongings were in an oilskin bag at his feet. There was no indication as to how he’d arrived. He hadn’t driven himself. There was no car. But somehow Jem Rosco, adventurer, sailor and legend, had arrived in their midst.

He told them that he’d rented one of the cottages that climbed up the bank behind the pub.

‘But I was desperate for a pint, boys, so I called in here on my way.’ A wink.

Harry Carter, the landlord, couldn’t tell if the wink was meant to indicate that this was a lie, a joke, or to include the other customers standing at the bar in his desire for a drink. They too, the wink seemed to imply, must know how it felt to be so desperate for a pint that they wouldn’t drop a heavy bag off first.

Rosco had two pints of local, cloudy cider, then he slung the bag, which was big enough to hold a child, onto his back and was on his way.

He was in the Maiden’s every night after that. There was never a specific time. He’d appear suddenly, all smiles. Sometimes he’d stay at the bar, chinwagging with Harry. Other nights he’d drift around the room, landing at a table – the playgroup mums on their regular night out, or an elderly couple playing dominoes by the fire – like a piece of flotsam washed up by the tide. He was always friendly, always chatty, but he never really gave anything away. When anyone asked if the move to Greystone was permanent, or if he was there on a holiday, planning another journey perhaps, he’d only touch the side of his nose and grin.

‘I’m here to meet someone. Someone special. I’m expecting them any day.’

He never stayed for more than two pints and then he was off again, sometimes with a little wave to the other customers, sometimes just disappearing, so that suddenly they realized he was no longer there.

They all knew which cottage he’d rented. It was at the end of the terrace, right on the top of the hill, owned by Gwen Gregory, who’d grown up at Ravenscroft Farm, and who cleaned in the Maiden’s. It had the view across the village to the sea. Nobody had any need to walk past it. Beyond the single row of houses, there were only the remains of the quarry, which was the original reason for the village’s existence.

But now people walked past the house anyway, out of curiosity. They were interested to know if Jem Rosco’s mysterious visitor had arrived yet. They’d see the man sometimes looking out of the upstairs window, focused on the horizon, as if he was watching for a boat. Even in this stormy weather, a skilled sailor might float in and tie up at the jetty. There were two curved piers to shelter the narrow bay, built when stone from the quarry was carried out on big, flat barges. People said that one of his madcap adventuring friends would appear. Or the woman he was waiting for. Because most of the villagers had convinced themselves that it would be a woman.

Then one night, a few weeks after his arrival, Jem Rosco didn’t come to the Maiden’s for his usual two pints of rough cider. The regulars immediately noticed his absence. They chatted amongst themselves and speculated that perhaps the expected visitor had finally arrived. Perhaps old Jem would bring the stranger into the bar the following night, and finally they’d know what all the secrecy was about.

But Jem Rosco didn’t appear again. They felt cheated. He might be an outsider but for a while he’d become part of the community. He was a celebrity, who’d been on television, sharing his travels – making his way up the Amazon, sailing single-handedly around the southern oceans – with the world. Part of his glory had rubbed off on them, but now the excitement was over.

Until the following morning, when the coastguard received an emergency call from a fishing boat in difficulty, sheltering from the storm in the lee of Scully Head.

Then, it seemed, the excitement had only just started.


Copyright © 2023 by Ann Cleeves