The village population numbered about three hundred. Most of the houses were contained on Marine Parade, which stretched along the front, with a second, narrower road behind it called Rectory Lane. The other buildings that made up Tawleigh-on-the-Water consisted of a church – St Daniel’s – a butcher’s, a baker’s, a garage and a chandlery that also sold various household goods. For years there had been just one pub, the Red Lion, in the village. But then Melissa had bought the nineteenth-century customs house and converted it into a hotel that she had called the Moonflower after one of her films. It had twelve bedrooms, a restaurant and a comfortable bar.

There was no police station in Tawleigh-on-the-Water but nor was there any need for one as, apart from a few teenagers getting drunk and causing mischief on the beach, there had been no trouble in the village for as long as anyone could remember. Nor was there a post office, a bank, a library or a cinema. For any of those you would have to make your way to Bideford, which was about twenty minutes away on the steam train that ploughed up and down the single line from Instow, or about a quarter of an hour by car, on the other side of Bideford Long Bridge. Visitors were sometimes surprised that there was no fish shop either. The fishermen sold their catch directly from their boats.

The Moonflower had been built for the growing number of families from London and elsewhere who dreamed of escaping to the coast during the summer months and Melissa had made sure that it was attractive to children and adults alike. The more expensive rooms had bathrooms en suite. Although dinner was served strictly at seven o’clock, there was a high tea for younger guests at half past five. Every weekend there were concerts, tea parties and croquet or French cricket on the lawn. Nannies and personal valets were accommodated in a separate building at the bottom of the garden, discreetly out of sight.

Melissa drew up in front of the main door. The rain was coming down harder now and although there were only a few steps across the gravel, her hair and the shoulders of her coat were still splattered with water by the time she arrived in the entrance hall. Lance Gardner, the manager, had seen her arrive, standing there unctuously as if it had never occurred to him to come out with an umbrella and help her into the building. Was this the way he greeted the guests?

‘Good evening, Miss James,’ he said, completely unaware that he had already put her in a bad mood.

‘Hello, Mr Gardner.’

The two of them had never been on first-name terms. It simply wasn’t appropriate. Lance and Maureen Gardner were Melissa’s employees, not her friends. When she had found them, they had been the landlord and chief barmaid at the Red Lion and she had been rather pleased that she had been able to poach them to run her new hotel. After all, they knew the area. They had friends on the council and in the police. If there were any problems with licences or local suppliers, they would find ways around them. It had seemed like a good idea at the time and it was only now, three and a half years after the Moonflower had opened, that she wondered if it had been right to trust the couple so completely. She knew almost nothing about them. The pub had been making a profit when they worked there – that much she had managed to find out – but they had been tied to a major brewery chain with only minimal control.

They certainly hadn’t made any profit running the Moonflower. Something had to be wrong. The hotel was popular. All the newspapers had written positively about it, obviously attracted by the idea that it was owned by a bona fide Hollywood star. In the beginning, she had known that a number of her clients had only come in the hope of seeing her and would be disappointed if they didn’t go home with at least an autograph. But as the hotel had bedded in and she had turned up less often, it had been accepted for what it was: an elegant, comfortable retreat in an attractive seaside village with a great beach and lovely views. It was successful – full for most of the summer and busy even in the wetter months.

But it was devouring money. Her money. Whose fault was it? Melissa had already taken steps to find out, but she had called this meeting to test a theory, one that had been forming in her mind for some time.

‘How are things?’ she asked quite casually as she followed Lance Gardner through the empty reception area and into his office.

‘We can’t complain, Miss James. Not really. Nine rooms occupied. I’m afraid this bad weather really isn’t on our side. But I’ve been looking at the reports from the Meteorological Office and they say that May is going to be lovely.’

They had passed through the doorway into a large, square room with two desks, filing cabinets and an old-fashioned safe prominent in one corner. There was a complicated switchboard along one wall, connecting all the rooms, and Melissa remembered authorising it even though it had cost a small fortune. Maureen Gardner was sitting at her desk, going through paperwork, but stood up as Melissa came in.

‘Good evening, Miss James.’

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Gardner asked. ‘Or perhaps something stronger?’ he added with a hint of conspiracy. The bar wouldn’t open until half past six.

‘No, thank you.’

‘These came for you, Miss James … ’ Maureen Gardner had produced a packet of three envelopes, already opened, and handed them across as Melissa sat down. The first of them was lilac-coloured. She had expected the scent of lavender and already smelled it. She knew who it came from.

She received far fewer letters than she had at the height of her career but she still had fan clubs in America and Britain, and of course her address at the Moonflower had been well publicised. Every month there were two or three of them, imploring her to make another film, telling her how much she was missed. The woman who wrote on lilac paper and who signed herself only as ‘Your number-one fan’ had strong, neat handwriting with every comma and full stop in place. Melissa wondered if she was single or married, happy or sad. It was something she had never understood, the neediness of some of the people who had followed her career – and sometimes it worried her. Glancing at the page now, she read: ‘How can you do it to us, dear Miss James? The screen is diminished without you. A light has gone out of our lives.’ Wouldn’t you have to be a little disturbed to write something like that? And this must be the ninth or tenth message that Miss Lilac had sent her over the years.

‘Thank you,’ she said, sliding the letter back into its envelope. She wouldn’t reply. She never did any more. ‘I’ve been looking at the accounts up until February,’ she went on, wanting to get back to the subject in hand.

‘We did very well over Christmas,’ Mrs Gardner said.

‘Well, we lost less in December than we had in the month before, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I think we need to raise our prices, Miss James,’ Lance Gardner exclaimed. ‘The room rates and the restaurant—’

‘But we’re already one of the most expensive hotels in Devonshire.’

‘We run a very tight ship. We’ve cut back on staff. Obviously, we have to keep an eye on the quality of our service … ’

There were times when Lance Gardner looked and sounded like nothing more than a spiv. It wasn’t just the double-breasted jacket, the slicked-back hair, the pencil moustache. It was in his entire manner, the way he never quite met your eyes. His wife was the same. She was larger than him, with a louder voice. She wore too much make-up. Melissa remembered the first time she had seen her behind the bar at the Red Lion and that was exactly where she belonged. The two of them were about fifty years old. They had been married for a long time but had no children. In a way, they were reflections of each other, but in fairground mirrors that twisted and distorted the images almost beyond recognition.

She decided to spring her trap. ‘I’ve been thinking about calling in a team of accountants,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry?’ Lance Gardner looked at her with undisguised dismay.

‘I want someone from London to go over the books for the last two years: the income, all the outlays, the redecoration …’ she waved a hand ‘… the new switchboard. What I want is a complete audit.’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting that Maureen and myself—’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Gardner. I’m sure the two of you have done a terrific job. I’m only doing what’s sensible. We’re losing money and we don’t see how. If we’re going to make a profit, we need to find out.’

‘We do things our own way down here in Tawleigh, Miss James.’ Lance Gardner had fallen silent, so his wife took over. ‘For example, we always pay the fishermen in cash. That’s what they want and there are no receipts. And the last time Mr Hocking came in, we gave him dinner and a bottle of Scotch. He didn’t take a penny.’ Melissa vaguely remembered. Mr Hocking was a local electrician. ‘All I’m saying is,’ she went on, ‘I’m not sure a London firm would be able to help.’

‘Well, we’ll see.’ Melissa had known they would argue. She had been watching them carefully, waiting for it. ‘My mind is made up. I want you to start preparing for when they arrive.’

‘And when will that be?’ Lance asked. ‘Have you written to them yet?’

‘I’m going to write to them tomorrow. I imagine they’ll be here in a week or two. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve heard.’

She got to her feet. She had said everything she wanted to say.