‘Turns out your pal Bickerton was resident in the area way back when the Clearys were hereabouts,’ Mr Huff informs me (as if this will be breaking news to me). ‘At least that’s what he claims.’

‘Clifford is a local,’ I confirm as Mr Huff’s hand snakes out and purloins a half-slice of my toast. ‘He and I were at school together.’

‘Huge!’ Mr Huff exclaims, taking a bite.

‘Yes.’ I scowl (the impudence!). ‘Very tall.’

‘And possibly a little unstable,’ Mr Huff continues (on finishing his mouthful).

‘Clifford?’ I snort. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Clifford’s ridiculously stable – trustworthy, reliable – almost to a fault.’

Mr Huff takes another bite of the toast, grimaces then points at my cheek. ‘It looks very odd,’ he says.

I rub at it, reddening.

‘4.0.0.4,’ he re-reads, then, ‘Gracious me! Just look at your hands!’

I glance down at my hands. My hands seem to be improving in texture and colour with virtually every passing second.

‘What brings you to Rye so early?’ I ask.

‘Why are you changing the subject?’ he responds.

‘Am I?’

‘Yes. You seem very … very shifty this morning. Quite ill at ease.’

‘Shifty,’ I echo.

‘I’ve been invited out to breakfast,’ he swiftly moves on.

‘Really? Where?’

‘With a woman called Sage Meadows.’ He finishes off his slice. ‘She’s the widow of a local doctor.’

‘Dr Meadows.’ I nod, eyes slitting. ‘Of course.’

‘Ah, so you’re familiar with Mrs Meadows?’

It irritates me in the extreme the way he automatically presumes that I have no social circle in the area. He’s been here for a matter of weeks. I’ve lived here my entire life! It’s so patronizing! Do I know Mrs Meadows? Do I know Mrs Meadows? This is the sort of thing a person simply shouldn’t need to say – or to ask. It should be … It should be patently obvious.

‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Not personally. I knew Dr Meadows though, of course. And I know of her. I mean I know her by sight. I must confess that I’ve always thought her name a little … ridiculous.’

What I don’t say is that I’ve always thought her a little ridiculous, too. Full of herself. Stuck-up.

‘A redhead.’ He nods. ‘Beautifully groomed. Got a first-class honours degree in English and Philosophy from Durham University. Lives up in Henry James’s old house. Aspirant poet. Has an amazing walled garden – the most lovely in Rye, I’m told. It’s won awards. Classic borders bursting with elegant white annuals. She’s very green-fingered by all accounts.’

‘The gardens are beautiful,’ I concede, ‘although I believe some of the credit must go to the full-time gardener, Richard Stanley. Dick and I were in the Sea Scouts together.’

‘Girls aren’t permitted in the Sea Scouts!’ Mr Huff barks.

‘My mother made a deal with the head of the local troop.’ I shrug.

‘Ah, the legendary Else Hahn.’ Mr Huff smirks. ‘The bête noire of local squatters, I’m told. Punctilious and unbending to the point of pure insanity in her application of local planning laws.’