Was it her imagination or had he put the slightest emphasis on the last bit?

He was the most appealing man she’d met in a long time, but she didn’t have the time, not while her deadline was breathing down her neck. So she sent him her blandest smile.

“There are a few staples in the cupboards, but if you plan to cook tonight, you’ll need to get to the shops. The ones in town close at five. There’s a Sainsbury’s-that’s an American-style supermarket. It’s open until seven, but it’s a drive.”

“Any chance of home delivery or takeout meals?”

“Not in the village. There’s the King George Café-does a nice breakfast, lunch and cream tea, but it’s not open for dinner-or there’s the pub.”

“Right. I guess I’ll see you for dinner, then.”

“You’ll see me before that.”

Her brows rose.

“I’ll fetch your bags from the station.”

“Oh, there’s no need, I can-”

“It’s all part of the service.”

She took the keys he held out. “Thanks.”

She allowed herself the luxury of watching him walk back across the fields, watching the long gait, the easy stride of a man at home in the country. She told herself it wasn’t lust gluing her gaze to his retreating back, but research. When he got to the stile, he turned and lifted a hand. As though he’d known she’d be watching him. Which she had, damn it, she thought, waving back.

Okay, lady, she said to herself, time to write. The tingling in her fingertips that had never quite gone away since she’d had her vision in the pub now warred with a slight queasiness in her stomach that she knew was nerves.

She unzipped her bag and pulled out her laptop, placing it on the sturdy oak kitchen table. The kitchen chairs were also oak, though they appeared to be a later vintage than the table. They were also hard.

At home she had an ergonomic desk and a chair with about seventeen levers and knobs to adjust height, angle, and amount of lumbar support. She shook her head at herself as she found a cushion on the sofa in the lounge area, as Arthur had called it, and placed the flattish square cushion covered in green brocade on the kitchen chair. She faced the window and the view of the fields with the big house in the background.

A bit of crawling around on her hands and knees and a minor amount of swearing later, and she had her adapter plugged into the English socket. The computer seemed perfectly happy with the new system, powering up with a reassuring whir.

She sat down. Opened a new file, flexed her fingers as though she were a pianist about to perform at Carnegie Hall. Typed Chapter One.

Then she sat against the hard wooden back of the kitchen chair and pondered the murder in the pub.

She pulled out the six pages and typed in what she’d written, adding details as she went.

The pub was busy. It was a Friday night. She imagined a lot of laughing, the thunk of darts hitting the dartboard, the end-of-the-workweek letting loose as the place filled up and the pints went down. The restaurant would be kept busy. Patrons as thick around the long bar as seagulls around a fishing boat. And, in the dim corner, the man in the expensive dark suit drinking his beer slowly. Was he waiting for someone? Or was it a surprise when the tall figure sank down beside him on the long upholstered bench?

A surprise, she decided. Her victim did not know his killer. She described the knife briefly. It wasn’t elegant or showy. It was an unadorned stiletto: a tool of death. Nothing more. It was the hand holding the knife that fascinated her. The long, sensual fingers curled round the hilt. It was a man’s hand. He wore no ring, but the fingernail of the thumb was ridged as though it had been smashed and had regrown in a strange manner.

Meg felt the moment that the knife moved. It wasn’t a simple matter to stab a man to death in a public place. He needed strength, her villain, as well as guile and an amazing self-confidence. She saw all three come together in the way he watched for his moment, then took it, muscles bunching in his arm, the suppressed grunt of effort, the gasp of shock from the victim, and the quiet sigh as his last breath was expelled.

By the time Manfred Waxman slumped to the table, stabbed through the heart, the villain had pocketed his knife and was making his way to the door before the first drop of blood hit the floor.

She heard the pub door open, and shut. Then the villain sauntered down the village high street as though he were a man on his way home after a couple of pints. She felt the knife in his pocket, as though her own fingers touched the blade, still wet with a dead man’s blood.

When a hand touched her shoulder she jumped a mile. She’d have screamed if her heart hadn’t jammed in her throat, preventing her from making a sound. She swung around to find Arthur looking down at her in some amusement.

“I’ve never seen anyone go into a trance the way you do. I knocked on the door, and then I called. I could see you in here through the window so finally I let myself in. Sorry I startled you.”

She put a hand to her chest, feeling her heart pound. She needed a minute before she could speak.

“I really frightened you,” he said in a concerned tone. “You’re trembling.”

He touched her hand and she jerked back instinctively. His thumbnail was ridged. “What happened to your thumb?”

He took his hand back and looked down at the misshapen nail. “I banged it with a hammer a couple of months back. Terrible looking thing, I know.”

“It’s weird because my murderer has a thumbnail exactly like that.” Of course, his misshapen thumbnail didn’t make Arthur a murderer. It meant she’d noticed his nail and it hadn’t registered consciously.

She shook her head. “Sorry. I scare myself when I’m writing. You crept up on me when the murderer was leaving the scene.”

Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Writing your books frightens you?”

“Of course. If I didn’t scare myself I’d be worried. It would be like a comedy writer not getting her own jokes, or a cookbook writer not feeling hungry when she dreamed up recipes.”

He nodded, looking down at her with a thoughtful expression. “Better to end up laughing or eating a fine meal than trembling with fright, though.”

“You’re right, of course. Sometimes I get so scared when I’m writing that I can’t sleep.”

“What do you do then?”

“Keep writing. With every light burning and all the doors locked.”

“Well, I can assure you it’s safe round here, but if you’re ever bothered by anything, you can call me.” He gave her a rueful grin. “For a chat. I’m a light sleeper, myself. I live alone, so you’d not be disturbing anyone.”

“Thanks,” she said, hoping that she’d be strong enough to resist. Or at least strong enough not to phone him unless she was really, really scared. She wasn’t happy with herself for being so pleased that he’d casually let her know he slept alone.

“Shall I take your bags upstairs, then?”

“That would be great. I found some tea bags and everlasting milk. Do you want a cup?”

He hoisted her three bags with such ease she felt jealous, knowing her arms and shoulders would be sore tomorrow from hauling them on and off the train. “Better not. I’ve got a few things to do.”

“Okay.” She was relieved, of course, since she didn’t want to be interrupted now that the heat of the story was upon her, and she’d only asked out of politeness. But now that he’d turned her down, she wished he was staying, instead of abandoning her with no one but a murderer for company.

Hunger pangs, eye strain, and jet lag finally dragged her out of her story. A glance at the watch she’d already set to local time told her it was seven.

She prepared to head back to the scene of the murder.