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The man had first appeared in the winter, which was strange; most came only in summer. A year later he returned in the spring, this time ready for a much longer stay. He came at night, which was even stranger; the others had always arrived in the day. He stayed for three weeks, and disappeared halfway through the fourth. Even to the nearest detail, Valeria remembered the story well. The man had eaten lunch at just before one o’clock on 8 April 1905 and left just before two. He departed carrying only a light duffel bag, leaving his remaining possessions in his room. Over a week later, he had not returned. The initial conclusion at the Gibbous Moon had remained unchanged for a century. The man was a fraudster and had slipped out without paying.
     
    That was also the official verdict.
     
    Until the boat was found.
     
     
     
    Valeria was working in the dining room when the latest guest arrived. Even without an introduction, she immediately knew who he was. Ever since the remains of the famous adventurer had been discovered, the papers had been full of pictures, the most frequent a photographic portrait of the man taken during his heyday. Another guest had arrived the night before, apparently a descendent. That lad had been younger, she guessed no more than twenty-eight , whereas this one was slightly older, more mature. The first had been clean-shaven, whereas this one was more like the man in the portrait. He had something of a beard: stubble if you could call it that. His dress was different too, but then again, styles vary. Unlike the man of a century ago, Dr Livingstone had been replaced by someone somewhere between Indiana Jones and Tom Brady. His Levi’s were dark blue, matching the colour of his T-shirt, presently hidden by a black windproof jacket that was necessary on a night like tonight.
     
    Like the two men before him, he came in the rain.
     
    Ben Maloney shook off the excess water from his hair and forehead as he made his way inside the inn. It was after 10pm, and the foyer was deserted, the quiet sound of the radio and the ticking of a grandfather clock from the Victorian era the only exceptions.
     
    He paused for a second to take in the surroundings. Wooden furnishings and a setting that was calm and quaint reminded him of the country inns that dotted the towns and villages of his native New England. A man was standing behind the counter at the other side of the room. Ben approached across a smart yellow carpet that was covered in watery footprints, dropped his case to the floor and placed his hand baggage on the counter. Like the man of a century ago, he travelled light.
     
    The receptionist was a man named Daniel Anakoto: a well-built, handsome man aged somewhere in his mid twenties with a large forehead and a strong shock of black hair . The man was famous at the GM, not only for being the most charming, but also the only black . Though born in Ghana, after eighteen years in Cornwall and St Mary’s he had acquired a strong accent that was unmistakeably Cornish.
     
    He smiled from behind the counter. “Good evening, sir,” he said, studying the man’s appearance. “How may I be of assistance?”
     
    Ben looked back with a stern expression. “I believe you’re expecting me.”
     
    “Mr Maloney, I presume?”
     
    “That’s right.”
     
    Danny turned around and removed a large key with a gold key ring from a selection of hooks. “Your cousin is upstairs; he gave precise instructions that we should inform him when you arrive.”
     
    “Thanks. I’ll find him when I’ve showered and unpacked.”
     
    “Of course. Your cousin specifically asked for room seven. Apparently it was the room once frequented by your relation.”
     
    “Well, how about that,” Ben replied, silently impressed.
     
    “Unfortunately the room is unavailable for tonight but available from tomorrow if you’d like to use it then.”
     
    “Fine. Thanks.”
     
    “In the meantime we have another double room