Behind the pub, he glimpsed a seawall where larger craft were tied up, bobbing at anchor, their masts swaying. Slowing again, he watched as a man in a heavy fisherman’s sweater and wool cap came up between two houses, moving briskly along what must be a path. Without looking in their direction, he turned toward the shops and disappeared into one of them.

“I feel overwhelmed by the warmth of our reception,” Frances commented wryly. “Are we leaving, do you think?”

“Not just yet,” Rutledge answered. He wasn’t sure what he’d hoped to find here in Furnham. Whatever it was, he was still unsatisfied.

There were others on the street now, and the feeling that the village must be as deserted as River’s Edge lessened. But the air of friendliness often encountered in summer was still missing. Frances was a very attractive young woman, and yet none of the men had even glanced her way. It was almost as if they wished to discourage any excuse for personal contact.

He’d no more than thought that when a short, heavyset man coming their way stopped and said brusquely, “Looking for someone?”

Not “Can I help you?” or “New to Furnham, are you?”

“Actually,” Rutledge answered, pulling up, “we were wondering where we might have lunch.”

The man considered them. “We don’t run to restaurants,” he replied. “Not here. You might find something more to your liking back the way you’ve come.”

But there was nothing back the way they’d come. Not for miles. While over the man’s shoulder, Rutledge could see what appeared to be a small shop of no particular distinction perhaps, but most certainly catering to the local people. He thanked the man, who walked on without another word.

Rutledge pulled to the far side of the street, indicating the shop.

“We might try our luck here,” he suggested. “Not precisely the Michelin Guide, but we could do with a cup of tea, don’t you think?”