Sitting on the floor beside the wood burner was a young woman. She was damp, with unkempt hair. She was dressed in a tatty red jumper and grubby jeans, and was barefoot. There was a pair of ancient trainers tucked toe-first against the stove, a pair of threadbare socks lying beside them. She had a mug of gently steaming coffee in one hand and on the floor beside her, next to a battered old rucksack, was a plate of toast. Bukowski had his head in her lap and was looking up at the girl with adoration as she stroked his daft head.

‘That’s Gilly,’ Rachel said quietly, as she poured Edie’s coffee and passed it over. ‘I think she’s just looking for somewhere dry to wait out all this rain.’

Edie frowned. ‘Hmm.’

Rachel glanced at her as she began to fill the rotating stand with new postcards. ‘What?’

‘Just be careful,’ Edie said. ‘Yesterday Jean at the Co-op was worried about some young troublemaker who’d been hanging around looking for a chance to steal. I bet it’s the same girl.’

‘Edie,’ her friend said, with gentle reproach.

‘What?’

Before Rachel could say what was on her mind, a large shape appeared at Edie’s side. She knew who it was before she’d even looked, and was already scowling as she turned to her neighbour. Ezra Jones had one hand full of several of those ridiculous historical romance novels that seemed to be the only literature he ever read.

‘You,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’

‘You surprise me,’ Ezra said, with that tone of studious patience that always drove Edie to apoplectic distraction. ‘Tell me, Edie, what is it you think I’ve done now?’

‘I don’t think you’ve done anything,’ she snapped. ‘I know your bloody goat was in my garden not half an hour ago, destroying my plants again.’

‘Did you leave the gate unlatched?’ Ezra asked, putting his books down on the counter for Rachel to total up.

‘Of course I didn’t!’

‘Because goats are smart as well as stubborn. It’s probably learned that if the gate’s unlatched it can open it.’

‘The gate wasn’t unlatched.’

Ezra gazed at her implacably. ‘Then I guess she must have learned to fly.’

‘Don’t be flippant.’

‘I’m not. The gate latches from your side, Edie, so—’

‘I told you—’

‘Hey, hey,’ said Rachel. ‘Come on now, you two, keep it down. We’ve got a guest.’

Edie cast a riled glance at the girl on the floor, who was far too busy with toast and the dog to have noticed the spat at the counter.

‘I don’t mean Gilly,’ Rachel said, clearly trying to keep her voice down. ‘I mean the man quietly sitting upstairs trying to write a book.’

Edie’s gaze automatically lifted to the mezzanine, though the reading chairs weren’t in sight. ‘Oh! You mean the journalist who’s come to the village to write his memoirs? It’s Toby Hollingwood, isn’t it? He used to write for The Times as one of their foreign correspondents. Got shot in Yemen last year. Messed up his leg, hasn’t worked since. What’s he like?’