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could approach him. The remote hill tribes were a mutual enemy, and that had helped smooth the way too—­no one wanted to find them on the doorstep, taking advantage of our troubles.
    As it was, I found the quay deserted. The tide was only just turning, hardly stirring the beached boats. A pair of seagulls, spotting me, came flying out of nowhere to inspect me in case I was bringing their luncheon. They were raucous, and intent on making sure I knew they were about, but I ignored them.
    This close I could get a better view of the ruins. I could see where Mr. Ashton must have forded the river before realizing that there was nothing to be done for those caught in the blast. I paused, looking to my right toward The Swale, and the low-­lying Isle of Sheppey beyond. Marshy indeed, there, and also on the far side of the Cran below the mill. There the land sloped, running down to The Swale, while on this side of the Cran, rising ground kept the land dry, fit for sheep and hops and whatever else the abbey and now the Ashtons chose to grow.
    I was shading my eyes with my hand for a better look at the island, cut off from the Kent mainland by The Swale, when someone spoke from just behind me, making me jump.
    â€œThe Isle of Sheep. It’s what Sheppey means.”
    I turned. Several of the shed doors had stood open as I walked along the river, but the interiors had appeared to be empty. Now, in the one nearest me, a man was lighting a cigarette. Then he leaned back against the frame.
    He must, I thought, have heard the gulls and stepped out to see what they were on about.
    Tall, but not as tall as Mark, fair, hazel eyes, his expression lively with curiosity.
    â€œSorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was working behind the boat.”
    I could see a rather large sailboat hull sitting on a cradle in the dimness of the interior behind him. His hands were covered in dust, as if he’d been sanding, and I could see flecks of it on his face. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been the egg thrower. Or knew who it was.
    Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “You’re a nursing Sister. Did you bring someone to Cranbourne? Anyone I might know?”
    â€œActually, I’m a guest at Abbey Hall,” I said.
    He frowned. “Indeed.”
    â€œI was one of Major Ashton’s nurses. I met his mother when she came over to find him.”
    â€œAh. And so you’ve walked down to see the scene of the tragedy.”
    Turning back to the river, I said, “It’s not the best of times to be a visitor. Earlier someone threw eggs at the motorcar when Major Ashton brought me here.”
    â€œNot a very friendly welcome,” he agreed. “If you’re wondering if I threw them, the answer is no.” But from the tone of his voice I gathered he’d have preferred something a little more lethal.
    â€œAs a matter of interest, were you here when the mill exploded?”
    â€œI was.” He looked with distaste at the cigarette he was holding, then pitched it in the river beyond us.
    â€œNot working in here, surely?” I asked, gesturing toward the open shed.
    â€œGod, no. The doors were blown in, and the place was a disaster. Paint and varnish and all the rest scattered every which way.” He inclined his head in the direction of the hull. “I hadn’t begun this one—­or it would probably have been matchwood.”
    â€œYou’re a boat builder?”
    â€œI was, until the war put an end to it. No one is buying pleasure craft these days.”
    â€œI expect not.”
    â€œThere was a flying club out on Sheppey. I was a member, as it happened. When war came, I wanted to fly. Early in 1916 I crashed coming in with a machine that was barely holding itself together. That put paid to my war. I should have gone down at sea.” He pointed to his foot. “A softer landing, if a wet one.”
    I could see that his right boot was high,