She wondered if the monks had felt like this about the strangers who sought shelter here, eating their simple food perhaps at this very same table. Or had they blocked their ears to news from the great world outside, doubting it could be anything but bad? In the long run, they’d been right. Fat Henry’s men from London had come riding up the valley and made them listen and told them their way of life was all over. Nowadays they didn’t come on horseback. In fact usually they didn’t come at all, just sent directives and regulations and development plans. But the message was still the same.

She poured herself another glass of brandy and pulled her chair closer to the fire. The heat had almost died away, only a hollow dome of coal remained, at the heart of which a thin blue flame fluttered one of those membranes of ash which in the old stories always presaged the arrival of a stranger.

“Bit bloody late, as usual,” said Edie Appledore, sipping her drink. “Bit bloody late.”

Next morning Sam woke to sunlight, the first she’d seen since dropping through the clouds over Heathrow four days earlier.

She opened her window wide. What she could see of Illthwaite looked a lot more attractive in the sunshine. In front of her across the Skad the ground rose unrelentingly to a range of hills which looked so close in the clear air that she felt she could trot up there before breakfast. But a glance at her map told her they were four miles away.

She found Winander’s house, the Forge, marked on the map. It was on a narrow road, presumably Stanebank, snaking uphill from the humpback bridge almost opposite the pub. Half a mile further on Illthwaite Hall was marked. She raised her eyes again and finally managed to spot an outcrop of chimneys. Their size gave her a proper sense of scale and put paid to any residual notion she might have of a quick walk up to the ridge.

Of the Forge she could see nothing, but a column of smoke rising into the morning air seemed likely to mark its presence.

In the bright light of morning, her discovery of the churchyard inscription felt far less sinister and significant. There was probably a simple explanation and all she had to do was ask. She’d start with Winander. Did his invitation have a more than commercial motive? Then there was the impish little Mr. Melton who’d hinted he might be able to assist her with her inquiries. Finally there was Rev. Pete who’d looked ripe to have any hidden info shaken out of him.

She leaned out of the window and took a deep breath. The air still retained its night coolness, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and things would surely warm up as the sun got higher. She backed her judgment by putting on shorts. She thought of topping them with her skimpiest halter but decided maybe Illthwaite wasn’t ready for that. Also she didn’t want to flaunt her bruised shoulder, so she opted for a green-and-gold T-shirt. Might as well fly the colors!

She picked up the Guide and ran lightly down the narrow stairs which nonetheless squeaked their tuneless tune, reminding her that she hadn’t heard a thing when her mysterious neighbor ascended the previous night. Perhaps he was a ghost after all.

If so, he was a ghost with a good appetite. She found him sitting in the bar tucking into the breakfast version of last night’s supper.

She gave him a nod but he didn’t even look up.

Mrs. Appledore appeared almost instantly with coffee, cornflakes, and a mountain of thick-cut toast alongside half a churnful of butter and a pint of marmalade.

“Round here, even foxes get hungry,” she said, smiling. “It’s a grand morning.”

“Yeah, a real beaut,” said Sam.

She glanced again at the stranger, giving him a last chance to join the human race, and surprised a moue of distaste. Something in his breakfast? Or something in the way she spoke, more like. Well, stuff him!

“So what are you planning to do?” asked the landlady.

Her decision to be more upfront didn’t mean she had to lay out her plans, so she answered, “Thought I’d stroll down to the post office and buy some cards to send home.”

And dig for a bit of info as well as stocking up on chocolate supplies.

“You’ll be lucky. It’s shut,” said Mrs. Appledore.

“All day, you mean?”

“No. I mean permanent. Since last year. It’s happening all over. Government!”

She uttered the word with a weary disdain that was more telling than ferocity.

“Don’t like the government then?” said Sam. “Shouldn’t have thought you’d have been much bothered up here.”

“Once maybe, but not anymore. Now you need to move fast as our Dark Man to keep ahead of them. Difference is, if they catch up, it’s likely you that dies. Just shout when you want more toast. How are you doing, Mr. Madero?”

She was still careful with the pronunciation.

Mathero, thought Sam. More than just a mysterious stranger, a mysterious foreigner, which somehow made his response to her accent even more offensive.

But his voice when he replied was pure English, purer than hers anyway!

“I’m doing very well, Mrs. Appledore,” he said with grave courtesy.

“Good lad. We’ll soon get you fattened up.”

She left. Sam glanced at Mr. Madero once more and this time caught his eye. She gave the small sympathetic smile of one who was often herself the object of other people’s fattening-up ambitions. He returned her gaze steadily but not her smile.

Determined not to risk another rebuff, Sam opened the Guide at random and began to read a passage about Illthwaite Hall and the Woollass family. The Reverend Peter K. clearly enjoyed the benefits of their influence and their board and was at pains to stress that, though they were Roman Catholics, this in no wise interfered with the pursuit of their many social and charitable duties as the chief family of the area.

Sam read at her usual rapid pace, her eye devouring the pages as fast as her mouth devoured toast, until her reaching hand encountered emptiness.

She raised her head and became aware of two mysteries. One was that Madero had somehow moved from his table to a stance by her left shoulder without attracting her attention. The second, equally unobserved and therefore far more worrying, was that the mountain of toast had somehow moved from the plate, presumably into her stomach.

“Help you?” she said.

He said, “Mrs. Appledore mentioned the Guide to me and I wondered if I could have a look at it, when you’re finished, of course.”

“Sure,” she said. “When I’m finished.”

She stood up and, tucking the book firmly beneath her arm, went through the door. In the hallway she met Mrs. Appledore.

“All done, my dear? Sure you don’t want something hot? Always start the day with a hot breakfast, my mam used to say. Never know when you’ll need your strength.”

“I’ll just have to take my chances, I guess,” she said. “Anyway, your other guest looks like he’s eating enough for two.”

“Mr. Madero? Well, he needs feeding up. I think he’s been ill, poor chap. And I doubt if they feed them much solid grub in them foreign seminaries.”

“Seminaries?”

“Oh yes. He was training to be a priest or something afore he got ill. Left-footer, like the squire,” said Mrs. Appledore confidentially.

“Catholic, you mean?”

“That’s right. You’re not one, are you, dear? I mean no offense.”