“Ian,” Frances said quietly, “I really feel we ought to take the none-too-subtle hint and be on our way. In fact, I’ve rather lost any appetite I might have had.”

“Quite,” he answered but nodded toward the shop as two women stepped out and turned up the street, not looking at them. “All the same, it could be two hours or more before we find a suitable restaurant. Let’s take our courage in our hands and go inside. Those women seem to have survived the experience.”

Frances laughed. “You are impossibly optimistic.”

Coming around to open her door for her, he added, “Surely not everyone in Furnham is churlish. There could even be a friendly smile inside that door.”

But as they stepped into what turned out to be a small tearoom-cum-bakery, he caught the quick look the woman behind the counter gave them and watched her mouth turn down, as if she resented their intrusion.

It was cozy enough, inside out of the wind. Pretty blue checkered linen covered the tables, and the chairs were painted white. A large mural along the back wall showed the sea on a sunny day, the water as blue as the sky, and white puffs of cloud sailing along the horizon. A man and a woman sat on the strand, a picnic basket between them, while three children splashed in the water or built sand castles with the aid of a small green bucket and a white shovel. It was unexpectedly good workmanship. A local artist, or someone from the flying field?

The woman was saying, “Sorry, love, we’re just closing.” In spite of the friendly words, her voice was cold.

The three elderly women sitting in the far corner turned to look in Rutledge’s direction, taking in what his sister was wearing, and then turning away, as if they’d lost interest.

“I expect,” he said pleasantly, “that you could provide a cup of tea for two travelers who have lost their way.” He ushered Frances to a table and stood waiting for the woman to answer.