“He was a potter.” She picked up a small, swirly-colored vase. “His. He was good, I thought. He made these for all the tables.” She studied it for a few moments, then returned it to the center of the table. “They were in here a few times for meals. He argued a lot. She didn’t join in much. Argued mostly about here. I mean Bryher, not the hotel. He only wanted to leave. Well, it’s not hard to understand. This place has nothing going on. Peace and quiet.”

For which she seemed to have a burning contempt. Jury said, “But if you were a Londoner—”

“Don’t I wish?” She laughed a little. “Funny he was the one wanted to travel, but she was the one always in Bewley’s.”

“Bewley’s?”

“Little travel agency down there.” She nodded toward the window. “Sorry, someone needs me.” She got up and started toward the only other occupied table. A man had raised his hand to beckon her.

When he stopped in at Bewley Travel Lettings, Jury found a late-middle-aged woman behind a large wooden desk that held an old typewriter, on which she was typing at terrific speed. How long had it been since he had seen a typewriter being used at all, much less, speedily? Josephine Bewley (the name on a small brass plaque) did not even glance up when he entered, although he thought Bewley’s might be grateful for the custom, as there was no one else in the place. Eventually, she raised her head, nodded and gestured for him to sit down in one of the two saddle-backed chairs arranged before her desk. She had sparse grey hair and was dressed in Liberty lawn.

Finally, she halted her fingers and said, “I’ll be with you as soon as I’m free.”

Free? Jury looked about him to see if he’d missed a few patrons eagerly awaiting her attention. But no. “Freedom” seemed to be part and parcel of the Bewley life. He sat and looked around the room. On the walls hung two or three obligatory views of the Scillies and one surprising shot of a maze, apparently at Hever Castle. But there one’s travel plans would have to end. The rest of the area was hung with truly awful artwork, paintings whose subjects—owl, hare, human—shared expressions of surprise, their looks in a kind of stasis as if needing to react but hesitating, as if the paintings were about to sneeze.

Having placed her pen in its wooden holder, and letting her rimless glasses dangle on the black cord round her neck, the woman said, “Now, what can I do for you?”

Jury rose, took a step toward her desk and held out his warrant card.

She looked at it and said, “I’ve just had police round this morning. One visit should be sufficient.”

He produced the photo of Flora Flood. “Have you ever seen this woman?”