'Greywethers.' I tried the feel of it on my tongue. 'It sounds very romantic'

'Uninspired, really.' Vivien Wells smiled at me. 'It's just an old name for the stone they used round here for building. Sarsen stone. You know, like the ones at Stonehenge. There used to be hundreds of them littered across the downs, and builders just took what they wanted.'

‘Oh.’

'You've had your eye on it some time, Iain tells me?'

I nodded, wondering how much of my foolish story he had told her. Not much, I wagered, remembering those impassive, flint-gray eyes. Iain Sumner had not impressed me as the gossiping type.

'I saw it several years ago, and took a fancy to it,' I explained. 'Marvelous luck that it came up for sale. And at a price I could afford.' Almost afford, I corrected myself, thinking of my plundered savings.

'Well'—Vivien picked up a glass and began polishing it with a practiced motion—'there's not much demand for houses in this area. We've only got a few farms and a half-dozen shops—it's mostly pensioners living here now. I'm afraid you'll find us deadly dull after London.'

'London is overrated,' I said, but I was sure Vivien Wells already knew that. 'Besides, I need the quiet for my work.'

'Of course.' She took up another glass and went on polishing. 'You're an artist, aren't you? Do you paint?'

'Watercolors,' I replied. 'Actually, I'm an illustrator. I paint pictures for books.'

'Really? Anything I'd know?'

'Not unless you read children's books. I did the Llandrah series with Bridget Cooper a few years back.'

'Did you? I've a six-year-old niece who's in love with those stories. Well, well.' Vivien raised her eyebrows, impressed. 'You don't mind if I spread that around, do you? It'd put some of the locals at ease. They've been worried you might turn out to be one of those modern sculptors. You know, great globs of twisted metal, and things.'

I shook my head, smiling. 'No, I don't mind.'

'I don't imagine they'll ... Hang on, would you excuse me a moment?'

A summons from the lively group at the corner table diverted her, and while she attended to them I downed another mouthful of gin and tonic and wriggled into a slightly more comfortable position on the hard wooden stool.

I had not slept well the night before. While my body had been exhausted, my ears had remained alert and sensitive to every unfamiliar sound within the lonely house: every creak of the attic stairs beside my bedroom, every drip of the leaking tap in the bath down the hail, every movement of tree branch sweeping across the slate roof overhead. I had drifted in and out of a fitful sleep, and woke more in need of my morning coffee than usual.

Nonetheless, I had managed to unpack most of the boxes in my study before finally taking a break and walking the short mile into town.

The Red Lion shared Exbury's High Street with a handful of shops and offices, a string of postwar cottages, and a few lovely old homes set back from the road and shielded from prying eyes by low stone walls and wrought-iron fences. The street itself was paved, but on the west side of it the old cobbled walk had been left untouched, lending a \ distinct charm to the village. There was also, I had noted with some pleasure, an old-fashioned wooden gateway, with benches and roof, which I assumed led to the church whose steeple was barely visible above a screen of budding trees.

I wondered idly how old the church was, and must have spoken the question aloud, because Vivien Wells answered me, resuming her place behind the bar. 'It's Saxon, actually, parts of it, although it wasn't properly finished until the 1500V She cast a friendly eye at my empty glass. 'Would you like another?'

'Maybe just a small one,' I conceded, pushing the glass toward her. 'You really are the local historian, then.'

Vivien smiled. 'I take an interest in history,' she said, 'and I had a grandmother who loved to talk. Iain said you were looking for information on your house, is that right? Well, I'm afraid I don't know too much about it, myself. My aunt would probably know more. The Randalls have lived there as long as I can remember, and they weren't exactly an exciting lot. I'm sure I can find something out for you, though. As a matter of fact ...'

She turned to face her co-worker, who was lounging against the far end of the bar, reading the daily paper and smoking a cigarette.

'Ned,' she addressed him, 'didn't your father used to do some work up at Greywethers in old Mr. Randall's time?'

Ned lifted his eyes from his paper, glanced briefly at me, smiled at Vivien, and called over his shoulder, 'Hey, Dad.'

One of the old men at the corner table raised his head in reply. 'What?'

'Viv wants to talk to you.'

Ned's father tottered obligingly over to the bar and was introduced to me as Jerry Walsh, retired plumber. Yes, he told Vivien, he had done a few jobs for old Bill Randall.

'He wanted the bath done up modern,' he said. 'All new pipes and everything. You'll never need to worry about your pipes, miss,' he added proudly, tapping his chest. 'I did a proper job, I did. Not like these young lads today.'

I chose not to mention the dripping tap, nor the water that ran shockingly brown when one first turned it on. 'You don't remember who the Randalls bought the house from, do you, Jerry?' Vivien asked him.

He frowned. 'I'm not sure ... they bought it just after the First War, I think. Seems to me it was a military chap had it before. My brother Art might remember.... Arthur!' He called another man over from the table.