Rutledge went to the windows and looked out. From the first floor he could indeed see the water, a thin line of waves curling in, gleaming dully, and a flight of birds rising from the shingle strand. The hummocky, marshy ground filling the harbor from the headland to his left as far as the great hook of land that served as a natural breakwater on his right appeared to be threaded with foot-wide rivulets of no great depth, as well as the little stream that was all that remained of the harbor.

Having seen the photographs in the passage, he realized that the buildings that had once served the sea—shops selling ship’s stores, fish markets, taverns, yards—had long since been turned to other uses. He had noticed one sporting a sign proclaiming a branch of the wildfowl trust. Another had become a smithy-cum-garage.

Hamish said, “I ken the sea taking a man’s livelihood. Storms scour the coast of Scotland. Men drown, ships are lost. It’s a hard life. But here . . .”

“They turned their hands to other things, I expect. Norfolk is sheep country. Or people simply moved on, those with a skill to offer somewhere else.”

For a time he stood there simply enjoying the view, his windows open to the cry of the seagulls and the light breeze that was rapidly clearing the rain out. But the air here was fresh and clean, a tang of salt in it; the houses and shops seemed richly colored in the warming sunlight, their flint and brick walls holding the very character of Norfolk. Many of the streets of this village now looked inland, as if growing accustomed to accommodating the missing sea, but Water Street still ran toward it and then turned when it reached the quay. The pale line of water out beyond the ridges of grass seemed to lack the energy to find a way back, a wan lover with no real passion for a reunion.

Hamish said, “No one remembers when the storms brought the sea inland. I wouldna’ hae wanted to live here then!”

Which was, Rutledge thought, a perceptive remark. He noticed an elderly man in a small boat rowing up the stream, heading in to Osterley. He rowed smoothly, back bent, arms moving from long practice in the even, easy strokes of someone brought up on the water. Muscles bulged where the sleeves of his darned sweater had been rolled back to the elbows, and the heavy corduroys he wore were well worn. Watching him pull for the quay, Rutledge realized suddenly that he envied the man, drawn to the water as he himself was.