“It sounds very impressive.”

“It’s more comfortable than impressive. Chatsworth needn’t worry about the competition.”

“It sounds…suitable for someone of your stature.”

“It’s just where I was born, Daidre. Why did you want to know?”

She turned her head. Her gaze took in everything: the earthen hedge, the stones, the boulders in the field, the tiny junction in which they’d parked. She said, “Because I was born here.”

“In that farmhouse?”

“No. Here, Thomas. In this…well, whatever you want to call it. Here.” She walked over to a stone and from beneath it he saw her remove a card. She brought it to him and handed it over. As she did so, she said, “Did you tell me that Howenstow is Jacobean?”

“It is, in part, yes.”

“I thought so. Well, what I had was a bit more humble. Do have a look.”

He saw she’d given him a postcard with the image of a gipsy caravan on it. It was of the type that once embellished the countryside with the flavour of Romany: the wagon bright red, the arched roof green, the wheels’ spokes yellow. He studied it. Since she clearly wasn’t of gipsy birth, her parents must have been on holiday, he thought. Tourists had done that in Cornwall for years: They hired wagons and played at being gipsies.

Daidre seemed to read his mind, for she said, “No romance to it at all, I’m afraid. No getting caught short on a holiday and no Romanies in my background. My parents are travellers, Thomas. Their parents were travellers as well. My aunts and uncles, such as they are, are travellers also, and this is where our caravan was parked when I was born. Our accommodation was never as picturesque as this one,” with a nod at the card, “as it hadn’t been painted in years, but it was otherwise much the same. Not quite like Howenstow, wouldn’t you say?”

He wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure he believed her.

“Conditions were…I’d have to call them rather cramped, I suppose, although things improved marginally by the time I was eight years old. But for a time there were five of us shoehorned together. Myself, my parents, and the twins.”

“The twins.”

“My brother and my sister. Younger than I by three years. And not a single one of us born in Falmouth.”

“Are you not Daidre Trahair, then?”

“I am, in a way.”

“I don’t understand. ‘In a way’? What way?”

“Would you like to meet my real self?”

“I suppose I would.”

She nodded. She hadn’t removed her gaze from him since he’d looked up from the postcard. She seemed to be trying to evaluate his reaction. Whatever she read on his face either reassured her or told her there was no further point to obfuscation.

She said, “Right. Come along then, Thomas. There’s far more to see.”

WHEN KERRA CAME OUT of her office to ask Alan’s advice on a hiring issue, she was greatly surprised to see Madlyn Angarrack in reception. She was alone and wearing her kit from the bakery, and Kerra had the odd sense that Madlyn had come to make a delivery of pasties. She looked at the reception desk to see if a box with Casvelyn of Cornwall written upon it was sitting there.

No box in sight, Kerra hesitated. She reckoned that Madlyn had apparently come on a different sort of errand, and she assumed that the errand might have to do with her. But she didn’t want any more harsh words with Madlyn. She felt somehow beyond them now.

Madlyn saw her and said her name. She spoke tremulously, as if in fear of Kerra’s reaction. That was reasonable enough, Kerra decided. Their last conversation hadn’t gone swimmingly and they’d hardly parted as friends. They hadn’t, indeed, been friends in ages.

Madlyn had always possessed a glow of health, but that was missing at the moment. She looked as if she hadn’t been sleeping well, and her dark hair had lost something of its lustre. Her eyes, however, were still her eyes. Large, dark, and compelling, they drew you in. No doubt they’d done as much for Santo.

“Could I have a word?” Madlyn asked. “I’ve asked for a half hour from the bakery. I told them personal business…?”

“What, with me, then?” The mention of the bakery made Kerra think Madlyn must have come about a job, and who could blame her? For all the relative fame of its pasties, one could hardly expect to build a career at Casvelyn of Cornwall. Or to have much fun. And Madlyn could give surfing instruction if Kerra was able to talk her father into offering it.

“Yes. With you. Could we…somewhere?”

Alan came out of his office, then. He was saying, “Kerra, I’ve just had a word with the video crew and they’ll be available-” when he saw Madlyn. His look went from her to Kerra and rested with Kerra. His expression was warm. He nodded and he said, “Oh. I’ll speak with you later,” and then, “Hullo, Madlyn. Fantastic to see you again.”

Then he was gone and Kerra was faced with whatever reason Madlyn had for coming to speak to her. She said, “I s’pose we could go up to the lounge?”

“Yes, please,” Madlyn said.

Kerra took her there. Outside and below, she saw that her father was directing two blokes who were making something of a mess out of a flower bed, which edged a lawn that was clipped for bowling. They had containers of shrubbery meant to go at the back of the bed and Kerra could see that the labourers had nonsensically planted the shrubs at the front. She muttered, “What are they thinking?” And then to Madlyn, “It’s to give the less adventurous something to do.”

Madlyn looked confused. “What is?”

Kerra saw the other girl hadn’t even glanced outside, so apparently nervous was she. She said, “We’ve done a pitch for lawn bowling over there, beyond the rope-climbing setup. It was Alan’s idea. Dad thinks no one’s going to use it, but Alan says a gran or granddad might come along with the family and not exactly want to abseil or rope climb or whatever. I tell him he’s not got the first clue about modern grans and granddads, but he’s insisted. So we’re letting him have his way. He’s been right about other things. If it doesn’t work out, we can always do something else with the area. Croquet or something.”

“Yes. I can see how he would be. Right, that is. He always seemed…He seems very clever.”

Kerra nodded. She waited for Madlyn to reveal the reason for this call. Part of her was prepared to tell the girl up front that Ben Kerne wasn’t likely to offer surfing, so do save your breath in that regard. Part of her wanted to give Madlyn a chance to make her case. Yet another part had a small suspicion this might not be about employment at all, so she said helpfully, “Here we are, then. D’you want a coffee or something, Madlyn?”

Madlyn shook her head. She went to one of the new sofas and perched on the edge. She waited for Kerra to sit opposite her. Then she said, “I’m very sorry about Santo.” Her eyes filled, quite a change from their previous encounter. “I didn’t say properly when we talked before. But I’m so very sorry.”

“Yes. Well. I expect you are.”

Madlyn flinched. “I know what you think. That I wanted him dead. Or at least that I wanted him hurt. But I didn’t. Not really.”

“It wouldn’t have been so strange if you’d wanted that, at least that he be hurt as much as he hurt you. He was rotten in the way he treated you. I thought he might be. I did try to warn you.”

“I know you did. But, see, I thought that you…” Madlyn pressed her hand down the front of her pinny. The whole kit she wore was terrible on her: the wrong colour, the wrong style. It was amazing to Kerra that Casvelyn of Cornwall could hold anyone in their employment, making their girls wear such a getup. “I thought it was jealousy, you see.”

“What? That I wanted you for myself? Sexually, or something?”

“Not that. But in other ways. In friendship ways. She doesn’t like to share her friends, I thought. That’s what this is all about.”