It had been on the tip of Ginny’s tongue to say that the café was no longer just a job, but a prospect for the future, and accommodation might not be an issue. However, on second thoughts, she decided to keep quiet.

She moved away from the door and stood, irresolute for a moment, listening to the murmur of voices and chink of china and cutlery from the dining room, where Andrew’s elderly housekeeper Mrs Pelham, and Mavis from the village were clearing away the remains of the buffet.

Which we’ll probably be eating for the rest of the week, she told herself ruefully.

Mrs Pel, of course, was another problem for her to worry about. Not that the old lady was under any illusions. She knew quite well that Rosina had been trying to get rid of her ever since she’d come to live at Barrowdean House, using Mrs Pel’s age and growing infirmity as her excuse. But Andrew had ignored all hints.

Apart from his personal fondness for her, he said, Mrs Pelham was part of Barrowdean, and ran the house like clockwork. When she decided to retire, she would tell him. Until then, no change would be made.

Now, of course, there was no such curb, and the housekeeper’s dismissal would be high on the list of Rosina’s ‘things to do’.

Ginny knew she ought to lend a hand with the clearing, as she did with most of the household chores these days, out of regard for Mrs Pel’s arthritis, but instead she headed for Andrew’s study to make sure everything was ready for the formal reading of the will.

‘What a ridiculous performance,’ Rosina had said scathingly. ‘When we’re the sole beneficiaries.’

I hope it’s that simple, thought Ginny, aware of a brief and inexplicable pang of anxiety.

However, Mr Hargreaves, the solicitor who’d always handled Andrew’s affairs had been quite adamant that in this, at least, his client’s wishes should be observed, and had arranged to call at five o’clock.

The study had always been Ginny’s favourite room, probably because the walls were lined with books, and she’d enjoyed curling up in a chair by the fire, silent and engrossed, while Andrew worked at his desk.

She hadn’t been in here since his death, and she had to brace herself to open the door, hardly believing that he would not be there to look up and smile at her.

But there was still a living presence in the room. Barney, her stepfather’s five-year-old Golden Labrador was stretched out on the rug in front of the fire.

As she entered, he raised his head, and his tail beat a brief tattoo on the rug, but he didn’t jump up and come over to push his muzzle into her hand. That was a privilege still reserved solely for the beloved master who would not return.

‘Poor old boy,’ Ginny said softly. ‘Did you think I’d forgotten you? I promise I’ll take you out again once this will-reading business is sorted.’

Although Barney, of course, was another problem. Her mother who disliked dogs—the mess, the smell—was already talking about sending him to the vet to be put down, and Ginny felt sick at the prospect.

She would take him herself like a shot, but until she knew for certain what her own prospects were, her hands were tied.

She added logs to the fire, switched on the lamps, made sure there were enough chairs, then walked across to draw the curtains over the French windows. As she did so, she saw the flash of car headlights approaching up the drive, and glanced at her watch, verifying that Mr Hargreaves, usually a stickler for punctuality, was in fact early.

Probably because this is undoubtedly going to be his least favourite appointment of the day, and he wants to get it over with, she thought, with a sigh.

When the doorbell rang a few minutes later, she was surprised to find Barney accompanying her across the hall, whimpering with excitement.

He must think Andrew’s simply been away and has just returned, she told herself, her throat tightening again. But it’s the sound of his key that he’s always recognised in the past.

She tucked a hand into his collar, knowing that not everyone relished being hit amidships by a large and exuberant Labrador, and opened the door.

She began, ‘Good evening,’ then stopped with the words ‘Mr Hargreaves’ freezing on her lips.

Because the man standing in front of her was certainly not the family solicitor. For a moment, he seemed part of the darkness, his black trench coat hanging open over a charcoal grey suit, with a leather satchel on a long strap hanging from one shoulder. His hair was dark too, and glossy as a raven’s wing, even if it was over-long and slightly dishevelled.

For the rest of him, he was tall, with a lean tanned face and heavy-lidded dark brown eyes. Not good-looking, was her overriding impression. Not with that thin-lipped, uncompromising mouth, nor that beak of a nose, which looked as if it had been broken at some point, and a chin that by contrast seemed to threaten to break any fist which dared approach it.

And yet he was, in some incomprehensible way, faintly familiar, and she found this disturbing.

But Barney had no reservations about the newcomer. With a whine of delight, he broke free of Ginny’s suddenly slackened hold and pushed himself against the stranger’s legs.

‘Barney! Sit down, sir.’ There was a faint quiver in her voice, but the dog obeyed, tail thumping and brown eyes gazing up in liquid adoration.

She said, ‘I’m sorry. He’s not usually like this with—people he doesn’t know.’ Or with people he does know most of the time...

The man bent and stroked the smooth golden head, gently pulling Barney’s ears.

‘It is not a problem.’ A low-pitched voice, slightly husky, with a definite accent that was certainly not local.

As he straightened, Ginny realised she was being looked over in turn. His face betrayed nothing, but she sensed he was not impressed by what he saw.

Which makes two of us, she thought.

She took a breath. ‘I’m sorry. Were we expecting you?’

‘Mr Hargreaves expects me,’ he said. ‘He asked me to meet him here.’

‘Oh—I see,’ she said untruthfully, trying and failing to connect this tough who appeared to need a shave with the ultra-conservative firm of Hargreaves and Litton. ‘In which case, you’d better come in.’

And if he turns out to be a master burglar and/or a mass murderer, she addressed Barney silently, I shall blame you.

She turned and walked back to the study, knowing without looking round that he was following her, the dog at his side.

She said, ‘If you’ll wait here. Would you like some coffee?’

‘Thank you, but no.’

Civil, she thought, but terse. And the way he was looking round him, appraising what he saw, much as he’d done with herself, made her even more uneasy.

‘Mr Hargreaves should be here at any minute,’ she went on, and he responded with a silent inclination of the head, as he put down his satchel and shrugged off his trench coat. His shirt she noticed was pearl-grey, open at the neck and he wore a black tie tugged negligently loose.

Feeling she was observing altogether too much, Ginny murmured something about her mother and sister and retired.

In the drawing room, Rosina rose, smoothing her skirt. ‘I presume Mr Hargreaves has arrived, and we can get this farce over and done with.’

‘No, that was someone else—from his office apparently,’ said Ginny, frowning a little as she remembered the tanned and calloused fingers that had fondled Barney. Not, she thought, the hand of someone who worked at a desk. So, who on earth...

Her train of thought was interrupted as the doorbell sounded yet again. She rose but was halted by her mother.

‘Stay here, Virginia. It’s Mrs Pelham’s job to answer the door, while she remains under this roof,’ she added ominously.

Just as if she didn’t know how many of the household tasks Ginny had quietly taken over in the past six months.