LITMIR.BIZ

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about it, or they knew about it but were certain it had nothing to do with her, or they knew it had something to do with her but preferred she stayed ignorant.

      The first seemed unlikely. It was Swinebank’s church; Woollass was the local squire—sorry—squire’s son; as for Thor Winander, he gave the impression he’d know everything round here.

      The second was the simplest explanation. It was an old inscription that they knew could have nothing to do with her family. Fair enough, though it didn’t look all that old, not antique anyway like some of the not dissimilar lettering on the old headstones.

      As for the third, that was less likely but more troublesome.

      One thing was sure, before she left she needed an explanation. But she’d give them every chance to volunteer one before she started throwing punches.

      This decision made, she lay on her bed for ten minutes, which when she opened her eyes had turned into three hours, giving the chance for the shoulder and hip which had borne the brunt of her fall to stiffen up and turn an interesting shade of aubergine.

      She headed for the bathroom opposite her bedroom door. The water was piping hot and the old-fashioned bath deep enough to float in. A long soak eased the worst of her stiffness, and now she realized she was very hungry.

      At the top of the stairs she heard voices below at the entrance end of the shadowy hallway. Alerted by the unavoidable creakings, the speakers stopped. Then one of the figures moved into the dim light and said, ‘Here she is now. You can ask her yourself.’

      It was Mrs Appledore. And the man she was talking to was Gerry the Son.

      ‘We’ve just been talking about your accident, dear,’ said the landlady, her pleasant round face touched with concern. ‘How’re you feeling now?’

      ‘I’m good,’ said Sam. ‘No problem, really.’

      The pub had been empty when she returned and she’d worked out that Mrs Appledore must have been one of the funeral congregation singing that cheerful hymn.

      ‘That’s good to hear,’ said Woollass. ‘We were all very concerned.’

      He sounded sincere enough and his gaze felt less like that of an angler examining a strange fish than it had in the church.

      ‘No need,’ she said. ‘Thanks again for your help.’

      Not that it had amounted to much but, like Pa said, always be polite till you’ve got good reason not to be.

      ‘Excellent. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay. Now, I must be off. You’ll remember my message, Edie?’

      ‘Ten, not nine thirty. I think I can just about manage that, Gerry. My best to your dad. It’s a long time since we saw him down here.’

      ‘He feels very susceptible to cold draughts these days,’ said Woollass.

      ‘Does he? Well, tell him the only cold draught he’ll find here is the beer,’ retorted the landlady. ‘Goodnight now.’

      As the door closed behind Woollass, she turned to Sam and smiled.

      ‘He’s a good man, Gerry, but diplomacy’s not his strong point.’

      ‘He didn’t come here just to enquire after my health, did he?’ asked Sam.

      ‘No. He wanted to leave a message, though as you heard it wasn’t much of a message. But he was very concerned about you. That’s Gerry all over. As someone said, he’s got such a bleeding heart, you can hear it squelching when he breathes.’

      ‘That wouldn’t be Mr Winander, would it?’

      Mrs Appledore laughed out loud.

      ‘You’re the sharp one, aren’t you? Of course you met him up at the church.’

      ‘That’s right. He was very kind. So what’s he do for a living?’

      ‘Winanders have been blacksmiths and general craftsmen in the village since way back. Thor’s branched out, but. Does arty stuff. And he’s a real salesman, so take care. Now you’ll be wanting something to eat, I expect. Unless you’re planning on going out?’

      Memory of the caustic cob had made Sam consider driving down to the fancy-priced hotel in search of dinner, but answers to her questions lay here.

      She said, ‘Yeah, I’m hungry enough to eat shoe leather. What have you got?’

      ‘Anything you like so long as it’s sausage or ham.’

      ‘Sausage sounds great.’

      ‘OK. In you go. I reserved a table for you. I’d better get back behind the bar before the natives get restless.’

      The ringing of the bar bell and cries of ‘Shop!’ had already been audible from the bar, but all sound stopped for a moment as Sam pushed open the door and stepped inside.

      The room was crowded but a path opened up for her leading to a small round table with a handwritten Reserved sign draped across an ashtray, and the noise resumed as she sat down. She’d brought the Reverend Peter K.’s Guide with her, but before she could open it a pint glass was slammed on the table. She looked up to find Thor Winander smiling down at her.

      ‘A belated welcome to Illthwaite, Miss Flood,’ he said. ‘Glad to see you looking so spry after your adventure.’

      ‘You’re looking pretty spry yourself, considering, Mr Winander,’ she replied.

      He laughed, showing good strong teeth, and said, ‘I won’t ask, considering what? I’m sorry your family enquiries came to a dead end.’

      ‘One man’s dead end can be someone else’s starting point,’ she said.

      He looked at her speculatively. She met his gaze square on. He wasn’t totally unattractive for a geriatric, and he still had a certain Viking swagger to go with his name.

      Thought of names made her ask, ‘You never told me how you knew what I was called. I’d guess you’d been talking to Mrs Appledore. Right?’

      ‘Quite right. I ran into her and naturally an exotic stranger in our little village was quite a news item. In Edie’s defence, I daresay she’s been just as forthcoming about me.’

      ‘Well, she did say you were a bit of an artist.’

      ‘I won’t ask what kind,’ he grinned. ‘But it’s certainly true that few visitors to our fair village escape without paying due tribute to my talents. I look forward to seeing you in my studio before you go. In fact, let’s make a date. Tomorrow morning, shall we say?’

      ‘What makes you think I’m in the market for art?’

      ‘What makes you think I’m talking about art?’

      Jesus, the old fart was flirting! Did he really think his pillaging and ravishing days weren’t altogether behind him?

      Perhaps her disbelief showed, for his tone changed from teasing to something well short of but in the general area of pleading as he said, ‘It would be good if you could call in. I’m at the Forge, across the bridge and up Stanebank. Enjoy your drink, my dear.’

      She watched him make his way to a bench by the window where he sat down next to a man Sam recognized as the menacing grave-digger. Or she thought she recognized him till her gaze moved to a third man on the bench, and there he was again.

      Her eyes flickered between the two. Same face, same clothes, and the same blank animal stare which though it seemed unfocused she felt was fixed on herself. Twins? Certainly brothers. Bad enough giving birth to one who looked like that, she thought unkindly, but you must really piss fate off to get landed with two!

      And now it occurred to her that if there were two, it didn’t matter if the grave-digger was still clearly visible outside while she was falling off that bloody ladder. It could have been his mirror image whose petrifying gaze she

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