12
Rowe Farm
Barely a hundred metres farther on, the road had taken a sharp left turn back up the hill, emerged out of the trees and passed the entrance to Alan Rowe’s farm. Alan, the man in charge of both the torch and the excitable Old English Sheepdog called Winston, led her down the lane toward a large farmhouse standing at the end.
‘We’ll clean up your cuts, get you a cup of tea, and then I’ll drop you back to the square,’ he said. ‘It’s only a mile, but you’re clearly not from round here and it can be a bit terrifying in the dark. It gets proper dark round here, as they say. You’re from Exeter or farther afield?’
Emily felt sheepish as she answered, ‘Birchtide.’
‘Really? That’s just up the road.’
‘I fancied a change of scenery.’
‘Not much of one, but I suppose each to their ow
