He gave a wild laugh. ‘Good question.’ He made as if to leave me, brushing back the hair he didn’t have. But then he turned back, as on an afterthought. ‘How’s your writing going?’

I shrugged. I had made the foolish mistake, when I first arrived in the village, of letting it be known that I was a contributor to learned journals, even though I hadn’t contributed a single word since the day Sharon had me hypnotized. I don’t know why I told anybody this; I can only suppose I didn’t want to be thought of as Camilla’s cleaner and nothing else. Since then the village has given me no peace. ‘How’s your writing going?’ everyone wants to know, hoping to catch me out in a lie. ‘What writing?’ I am meant to be tricked into blurting out. Inhabitants of remote rural places don’t believe that anybody that they know does anything that they don’t. It hasn’t endeared them to me that in my case they happen to be right.

It wasn’t quite like that with Lionel, though. As Camilla had pointed out, he was his own man. He had a pen name himself. And he claimed that he had once come across a slashing piece of mine on the Brontës – not just the sisters but the whole family, great aunts, second cousins, the lot – in Plymouth reference library. So we might reasonably have had an author to author conversation out there on the rocks. Except that I have an aversion to that sort of thing.

‘How’s yours?’ I enquired, without feeling.

‘Ask me about sales.’

‘How are sales?’

‘Down.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I was, too. Lad of Destiny had been on sale for a few pence in every shop in the village – even the grocer sold it – ever since I could remember. It had gone into countless editions. If Lionel’s sales were down then nothing could be accounted stable.

‘Of course I used to do best at Camilla’s place,’ he said. ‘Have you got any plans to re-open that?’

I shook my head. I must have been looking better all right. No one had mentioned Camilla’s name in my hearing for months. And it was especially unexpected on Lionel Turnbull’s lips. Because he’d been in a measure involved; he’d been there, or thereabouts when Camilla had … when it had happened.

‘No, no plans,’ I said. I remembered that I had a grievance against him and I was now pleased that sales were down. I hoped I could keep them that way.

‘Pity. Well, I must be off. Are you sure you don’t think I look as if I’ve been overdoing it?’

‘Overdoing what, Lionel?’