This story is fictional, but its inspiration will be obvious to anyone who remembers the tragic newspaper reports of August 1952 or who has visited the pretty Devon seaside town of Lynmouth.

Last watch

Florence sat in the window gazing at the water, just as she always did - just as she did yesterday, when the dipper put on an engaging display as he hunted around the larger stones in the bed of the river. As the dipper scuttled from stone to stone a garrulous flock of mallards disturbed the peace of the too-hot early afternoon. It was not too hot today. Florence gathered her cardigan around her and shuddered as she watched rowdy raindrops bounce off the larger stones and merge with the swelling stream. Bright days were often brightened still more by passing visitors who responded to her gaze with a cheery wave. Today, even the most determined visitors gave up by mid-morning and disappeared into the hotels and bars, or scuttled inland where the wind was lighter.

Nobody knew how old Florence was. As long and anyone could remember, she had lived in that riverside cottage, with its prominent bay giving a sideways view of the sea. And she always kept up her daily surveillance. Townspeople drew comfort from her regular habits and she never bored of her self-appointed task. She didn't go out. She didn't have visitors, other than the paperboy and postman and the shop people who delivered her groceries. She lived alone and, as far as anyone knew, she had no relations. But she seemed content as she watched people in the street and studied every change in the passing river.

The river was busy, but never fierce. It tumbled prettily over its stony bed with a music that was especially cheering in the twilight hours. The fading of the day was hard to discern this evening after an afternoon when clouds lay heavy on the scene and deposited their load without mercy.

//Continued