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7
Claude
Lobster Pot Cottage was very small, squeezed between two larger cottages almost like an afterthought. It was made of whitewashed stone, with a black tiled roof, and it looked as though it had seen better days.
Claude had lived here so long, he rarely noticed what his home looked like. But sometimes, like today, when visitors were milling past and staring at the peeling paint on his front door, he imagined what they must be thinking. Especially if they spotted him peering out of the downstairs window.Look at the eccentric old man of Heaven’s Cove!
To be fair, that was how some of the young locals perceived him, too. They never said as much to his face, but he’d heard them whispering when he went past, and children always clasped their parents’ hands tightly when they saw him. Claude Creasey: bogeyman.
He sighed and was moving away from the window when a young woman stepped off the quayside and into his tiny front garden. He squinted at her. Tall, pretty, with striking red hair that fell in thick curls down her back.
He recognised her as the woman who’d been talking to Belinda a day or two ago. At least she’d distracted Belinda long enough for him to hurry past before he was nabbed.
The woman stared at the fraying lobster pot that was nailed to the wall, close to a stone trough of flowers, their blooms dehydrated and their leaves scorched by the salt wind. Then, to his surprise, she walked along his front path and knocked on his door. The sound echoed through the building as he drew back from the window, feeling confused. Why would she be calling at his home?
Claude decided to ignore her. Strangers never brought good news, and she would think he was out. But Buster suddenly bounded past him and started barking and scratching at the door.
‘Shush, you daft dog.’
Buster shook himself and quietened down, but it was too late. The girl knocked again, more loudly this time as though she wouldn’t easily be put off. He would have to get rid of her.
Nudging the dog out of the way with his leg, Claude pulled the door open and stood in the doorway. He almost filled the frame.
‘If you’re selling something, I’m not buying,’ he told her.
He must have sounded quite fierce because the girl almost took a step back. He didn’t like that. Frightening people wasn’t something he was proud of. But she steadied herself and stood her ground.
‘I’m not selling anything.’
Her voice was soft and her accent was different from the Devonian burr Claude was used to. She actually sounded a bit like that preening over-puffed property man, Simon, who was going round upsetting everyone. Perhaps she worked with him, in which case she definitely wasn’t welcome.
‘There’s nothing for you here so you might as well move along.’
‘I don’t mean to be a nuisance,’ said the woman, her pale cheeks flushing rosy pink.
‘Then don’t be and leave me in peace. This cottage is not for sale.’
‘Oh.’ Comprehension dawned in the woman’s eyes which were a peculiar shade of pale brown with green flashes around the iris. ‘I’m not selling anything and I’m not trying to buy anything either.’
‘You don’t work with that property man, then?’
‘No, I don’t and I’m not sure why people keep thinking that I do.’
When she patted Buster, who was snuffling his nose into her thigh, Claude frowned. His dog didn’t usually take to strangers.
‘Whatdoyou want, then?’ he asked, gently pushing the dog away from her.
‘I was hoping that you might be able to help me with some information.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have the time to give out information. There’s a perfectly good tourist information place in the village hall, near the café.’
‘That’s not the sort of information I’m after. I’m not a tourist. Well, I am, but my family come from around here.’
Claude tilted his head to one side. ‘Is that right? What’s your name?’
‘Lettie Starcross.’
Claude stepped across the threshold into the garden, so he could straighten up. He was over six foot, which was rather too tall to be living in such a small cottage.
