Madero withdrew his hand and bowed his head in silent acknowledgment and Winander continued, “It will be a blessing to have some intelligent conversation and news of the outside world. My companions, though excellent fellows in their way, are not famed for their taste or wit. But if you want a ditch cleared or a grave dug, they are nonpareil. Goodnight to you, Mr. Madero.”

“Goodnight,” said Madero.

The men went on their way, talking in subdued voices and occasionally glancing back at him. One of them had a torch and its beam dipped and danced across the road and over the bridge till finally it vanished in the mass of land rising on the far side.

The light from the still open door made the darkness all around seem even denser now and the stars were nothing but a smear of frost across the black glass of the firmament. He shivered and went inside.

As he reached the foot of the stairs, Edie Appledore appeared.

“There you are,” she said. “Found your room all right, did you, Mr. Madero?”

“Yes, thank you. And by the way, it is Mathero,” he said gently, correcting both stress and pronunciation.

“Sorry,” she said. “I knew that because that’s the way Gerry Woollass says it. Which was what I wanted to catch you for. I forgot earlier, I was so busy, but he left a message asking if you could make it ten o’clock at the Hall tomorrow, not half nine as arranged.”

“Thank you. It will suit me very well to have an extra half-hour in bed.”

“Been a long journey, has it?”

“From my mother’s house in Hampshire.”

“That’s a right trip. You’ll need your rest. Care for a nightcap? Not always easy to sleep in a strange bed, not even when you’re tired.”

“Thank you. That would be nice.”

“Right. No, not in there,” she said as he made to step into the bar. “I’ve seen enough of that place for one night.”

She led him down the corridor into a kitchen.

Madero glanced from the huge table to the small windows and the narrow door and said, “How on earth did they get this in here?”

“Didn’t,” said Mrs. Appledore. “Built it on the spot, they reckon, so it’s almost as old as the building. I’ve been offered thousands for it, and the guy was going to pay for having it dismantled and taken out. I was tempted. Sit yourself down. Brandy OK?”

“That would be fine,” said Madero, seating himself on a kitchen chair whose provenance he guessed to be Ikea. “But you resisted the temptation out of principle?”

“No. Superstition. Round here they think you change something, you pay a price.”

She opened a cupboard, produced a bottle and two glasses, filled them generously and sat down alongside Madero.

“Your health,” he said. “Ah, I see why you don’t keep this stuff in the bar.”

“They’d not pay what I’d need to ask, and if they did, most of ’em wouldn’t appreciate it.”

“But they appreciate some old things, it seems,” said Madero, running his hand along the top edge of the table then beneath it, tracing the ancient cuts and scars. It was like touching the corpse of a battle-scarred warrior. He got a strong reminder of that pain and fear he’d experienced earlier and withdrew his hand quickly, suppressing a shudder.

“You OK, Mr. Madero?” said the woman.

“Fine. A little tired perhaps. What an interesting old building this is. Was it always an inn?”

“No. There used to be a priory hereabouts and this is what’s left of the old Stranger House – that’s where visitors and travelers could be put up without letting them into the priory proper.”

“And it became an inn after the priory was pulled down by Henry’s men?”

“Know a bit about history, do you? I suppose you would. Not right off, I don’t think. But it was so handy placed, right alongside the main road, that it made sense. It’s all in the old guidebook the vicar wrote back in the eighteen hundreds. I’ve got a copy. I loaned it to Miss Flood when she arrived, but you can have it soon as she’s done.”

“Miss Flood?”

“My other guest. In the room next to yours.”

“Oh yes. The red-haired child. I saw her.”

Mrs. Appledore laughed.

“No child. She’s a grown woman. OK, not much grown, but she’s over twenty-one. Says she’s looking for background on her grandmother who emigrated to Australia way back. I think she’s been steered wrong, so she’ll probably be on her way soon. You know how restless young women are these days.”

“Are they?” he said. “I haven’t noticed.”

“No, you’ll not have been around them much, I daresay. Whoops. Sorry.”

Madero studied her over his glass then said pleasantly, “You seem to know quite a lot about me, Mrs. Appledore.”

She said, “All I really know is you’re writing a book or something about the old Catholic families, right? No secrets in a village, especially not if it’s called Illthwaite.”

“So I see. But if you know all about me, it is perhaps fair if I get some inside information in return to prepare myself. What kind of man is Mr. Woollass, for instance?”

“Gerry? He’s a fair man, I’d say. Not an easy man, but a good one certainly. There’s not many folk in Skaddale won’t bear testimony to that. But he’s not soft. You’ll not get by him without an inquisition.”

He noted her choice of word.

“Is there a Mrs. Woollass?” he asked.

She hesitated then said, “Probably best you know, else you could put your foot in it. There was a wife. In fact, there still is in his eyes, him being a left-footer, sorry, Catholic. She ran off a few years back with the chef from the hotel down the valley.”

She suddenly laughed and said, “Come to think of it, if I remember right, he was Spanish, so I’d definitely keep away from the subject!”

Her laugh was infectious and Madero smiled too, then asked, “Children?”

“One daughter. She was at university when it happened, but it seems like she sided with Gerry.”

“You call him Gerry,” he said. “You are good friends?”

“Not so’s you’d notice,” she said. “But what should I call him? Sir, and curtsy when he comes into the bar?”

“So you are all democrats in Cumbria? It’s not quite the same in Hampshire.”

“Oh well, but Hampshire,” she replied as if he’d said Illyria. “It’ll be nobs and yobs down there. Don’t mistake me, we’ve got a pecking order. But we’ve all been to the same school, up till eleven at least, and most families have been around long enough to have seen everyone else’s dirty linen. It’s not whether you’re chapel or Catholic, rich or poor, red or blue that matters. It’s what you do when your neighbor’s heifer gets stuck in Mecklin Moss on a dirty night or his power line comes down on Christmas Day.”

“You make it sound like an ideal community,” he said.

“Don’t be daft,” she said. “We’re all weak humans like anywhere else. But for better or worse, we stick together. And Gerry Woollass is part of the glue.”

He smiled and finished his drink.

“I too am a weak human, and I think I’d better get some sleep. By the way, I couldn’t find a phone point in my room.”

“Likely because there isn’t one,” she said. “Is that a problem?”

“Only if I wanted to get online with my laptop. No problem. I’ll use my mobile.”

“Not round here you won’t,” she said. “Had to tell Miss Flood the same. No signal. But feel free to use my phone here whenever you want, no need to ask.”

“Thank you. And thanks also for the drink and the conversation. I look forward to talking with you again.”

He meant it. She was a comfortable companion.

“Me too, Mr. Madero,” she said, carefully getting it right this time. “Sleep well.”

“Thank you. Goodnight.”

She watched him leave the kitchen, noting his careful gait. But despite what she perceived as a slight stiffness in his left leg, he moved very lightly, passing up the stairs with scarcely a telltale creak.

Two interesting guests in one day, she thought. The girl she’d be glad to see the back of, but this one was rather intriguing, and sexy too in that mysterious foreign way. Talking to him would make a change from the usual barroom fare of local gossip and tales she’d heard a hundred times already.