It was a bore to be in Devon at all. If her mother hadn’t had to sell her house in London and move up to Scotland, she’d have found a far more glamorous job in Chelsea and would be spending every night with her friends in Boujis. As it was, she found herself in Devon, which she loathed on account of the many summer holidays she had spent being dragged onto cold beaches and shivering on rocks while her brother and father went crabbing. Marina used to make lavish picnics and would take her up and down the beach looking for shells, but Clementine always refused to take her hand. It was a small act of defiance. But she had always felt inadequate beside this beautiful creature who had stolen her father’s heart. She was well aware of the light in his eyes when he looked at her, as if he were gazing on an angel, and the way the light dimmed when he looked at her, as if she were an interruption. She didn’t doubt his love; he just loved Marina more.
Approaching the town, Clementine noticed a black object lying in the middle of the road. At first she thought it was an old boot, and slowed down. But on closer inspection she saw that it was a hedgehog, crawling leisurely across the tarmac. She glanced in her rearview mirror to see a couple of cars behind her and knew that if she didn’t stop, the hedgehog would surely be crushed. The animal’s plight drew her out of herself, and she braked suddenly, threw open the door, and hurried to his aid. The man in the car behind tooted angrily. Clementine ignored him and bent down to move the hedgehog along. The trouble was, he was very prickly and riddled with flees. She thought quickly, noticing a couple of cars coming towards her, and took off her shoes. Carefully, she scooped the hedgehog off the ground in one and put him down on the grassy verge. It gave her pleasure to watch him shuffle into the bush and disappear. By the time she climbed back into her car there was a small queue behind and in front. She waved her thanks as she passed, beaming a smile at the drivers who scowled back at her.
When she burst into the office, mumbling apologies, it was well past ten. Sylvia Helvin, a feisty redhead divorcée with big breasts barely restrained by her tight green V-neck sweater and silk scarf, placed her hand over the telephone receiver and grinned broadly. “Don’t panic, lovely, they’re both out at a meeting this morning. We have the office to ourselves. Be a darling and get me a latte.” She lifted her scarlet talons and laughed throatily into the telephone. “Now, Freddie, you’re a naughty, naughty boy. You better behave or I’ll have to smack you again.” Clementine wandered off to the Black Bean Coffee Shop. When she returned, Sylvia was still talking, the receiver clamped between her chin and shoulder, busy filing her nails. Clementine plonked the coffee carton in front of her and threw her bag onto the floor. “Bad morning?” Sylvia asked, hanging up.
“Submarine is interviewing artists.”
“Ah, the artist-in-residence. Very posh.”
“But that’s just it. It’s not posh at all. It’s pretentious.”
“Does it matter, if he’s handsome?”
“Handsome? Some chance. You should have seen the pirate that rocked up at dawn. Old, smelly, and clearly mad. All that was missing was his ship.”
Sylvia sipped her latte cautiously so as not to ruin her lipstick. “You know, she’s either brave or foolish inviting a total stranger into her home.”
“It’s not a home, it’s a hotel. Anyway, that’s the business for you—total strangers traipsing in and out all day, every day. Ghastly!”
“No, I mean with the robberies. They’ve started calling him Baffles, the gentleman thief. He targets hotels like your father’s, as well as big houses. Haven’t you read the paper this morning?”
“I don’t read the Dawcomb-Devlish Gazette.”
“You’re missing out. It’s a veritable mine of local information. It’s all getting rather bizarre. He descended on a big house just outside Thurlestone, crept in while they were all asleep, and left with loads of cash and a serious work of art. The weird thing is he seemed to know where everything was, as if he’d been there and checked it out first.”
“How do they know he’s a he?”
Sylvia shrugged. “Well, he signs his name Raffles, after the fictional character, and he was a man. That’s why they’ve nicknamed him Baffles.” She laughed through her nose. “Typical journalists, they’re loving it! Get this, though: he didn’t leave a single clue except for a little note saying ‘thank you’ in neat and tidy writing.”
“You’re joking!”
“Would I make light of such a serious matter?” She sucked in her cheeks. “I tease you not, Clemmie dear. The robber has good manners. To think, only a week ago he targeted the Palace Hotel in Thurlestone. Hope he doesn’t come down here.”