She didn’t seem to notice, but miraculously she said, “Tell you what, I have to go to the village and I promised to show you the Wolf-Head Cross. Let me give you a lift.”

“I doubt if your father would approve.”

“I got over my Elektra complex several years ago,” she said. “Come on.”

She closed the door behind her and went to the parked Range Rover.

Madero headed round to the passenger door. His knee felt fine. He sent it heartfelt thanks for having done its job of getting him the lift.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked.

“At the thought that it’s not so bad being ejected from Paradise so long as Eve goes with you.”

It was by his standards boldly flirtatious, but it didn’t fare much better than his previous attempt.

She said to him rather sadly, “I fear you really are going to find that you and I inhabit different myth systems.”

And then they were speeding down the hill toward Illthwaite.

“This used to be the police house,” said Noddy Melton. “I came here back in 1949 I think it was. It was pretty primitive then, but it was my own. I loved it, ghost and all.”

The old man was sitting upright in a tall-backed armchair which dwarfed him. Sam sat in a matching chair on the other side of the fireplace. We must look like a couple of kids who’ve strayed into a giant’s house, she thought.

“You’ve got a ghost of your own?” said Sam.

“Hasn’t everyone? Specially in Illthwaite,” said Melton. “They took great delight in telling me the tale down at the Stranger when I first came. Long time ago the cottage was occupied by a widow who made a living out of making candles, hence the name. Seems one winter night when it was blowing a blizzard she opened the door to an old woman begging for shelter. She brought the visitor in, set her by the fire, and shared her supper with her. As she did so she got more and more worried by various things such as the size of the old woman’s feet, her gruff voice, the hair on the back of her hands.

“But her worry became terror when, after they’d eaten, lulled by the warmth of the fire, the old woman dozed off with her head tipped back, revealing an unmistakable Adam’s Apple. It was a man! Worse still, with the blizzard piling snow up against the windows, the candle maker was trapped, her and her young child sleeping in the corner.”

“So what did she do?” said Sam, eager to short-circuit the story.

“She was desperate at the thought of what he might have in mind for her and her child when he woke. In the hearth there, by the fire, stood the tub of tallow into which she dipped the wicks to form the candles. The man opened his mouth wide to let out a tremendous snore. And without any more ado, the widow picked up the tub and poured the bubbling tallow down his open maw.”

“Jesus,” said Sam, shocked despite herself. “I guess that killed him.”

“Oh yes. Worse, it was three days before a thaw allowed her to get out of the house and call help. Child in arms, she ran across to the church and got the vicar. It was probably a Swinebank. He came with a couple of other men, and one of these recognized the poor devil sitting here with his belly full of candle wax.

“Seems he was a harmless idiot out of Dunnerdale who, since the death of his mother, had taken to traveling around from church to church, dressed in his mother’s shawl and gown, and begging alms.”

“The poor bastard!” exclaimed Sam. “So what did they do when they realized what had happened?”

“That’s what I asked when I first heard the story in the bar of the Stranger. There was a long pause, then Joe Appledore, the landlord, said, ‘The way I heard it was, they took him into St. Ylf’s, someone put a wick in his mouth, they lit it, and he burned lovely for the best part of a year.’ Then they all fell about laughing.”

“You mean it was all a gag?” said Sam indignantly.

“No. Seems likely it’s a true story, except for the last bit. That’s just their way of dealing with things. Now I don’t believe in ghosts, but I learned two lessons from that tale. One was not to jump to conclusions. The other was, if ever I find myself dozing off in front of this fireplace, I get up and go to bed!”

“Wise man,” she said. “So, despite the story, you liked the place so much you asked if you could stay on here after you retired. That’s really nice.”

She heard in her voice the reassuring note she used on small children and nervous dogs. She guessed he heard it too for he smiled and said, “I didn’t spend all my career here. The cottage came on the market just as I was coming up to retirement. Change of policy, village bobbies out, two townies in a Land Rover driving by three times a week in. Progress! So they sold all the old police houses off. I pulled a few strings and got first refusal. Even then it cost more than I made on my place in Penrith.”

“Penrith?” The only Penrith Sam knew was back home in New South Wales.

“Where County Police Headquarters is,” said Melton.

Careful now, Sam said, “So you worked at HQ? That meant promotion?”

“Oh yes. Gradual. Sergeant… Inspector… Super… Chief Super… I ended up as the County’s Head of CID.”

He eyed her mischievously as he slowly went through the ranks.

Oh shit, she thought.

“That’s great,” she enthused. “You must have loved it here to want to come back.”

He frowned and said, “Loved it? Illthwaite?”

He spat the word out with the same force he’d used twenty-four hours earlier.

Illthwaite. An ill name for an ill place.

So what was going on here? wondered Sam, as she sipped the tea he’d made and nibbled a biscuit. He’d offered her bread and cheese as it was getting on for lunchtime, and she’d said no, though if he had anything chocolate, the darker the better… and he’d come up with half-coated milk digestives.

Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers of chocolate, but they could certainly pick their pitch, and she was starting to think this could be a complete waste of time.

Melton said casually, “They’ve probably told you I’m a bit cracked.”

“Something like that,” she said. “But I make up my own mind.”

“That’s the impression I get,” he said. “Which makes me think it might be better if before we get on to your story, I tell you mine.”

“I like a good story,” she said.

He laughed, a high-pitched whinny.

“That’s a perfect cue,” he said. “Do you like a good story? was what my first caller said back in 1949. Farmer called Dick Croft. Big man in these parts, family had been farming here since the Dark Ages. I said, yes I did. He nodded and said, ‘Then get yourself signed up with the traveling library next Monday, because you’ll have plenty of time for reading.’ I asked him what he meant and he said, ‘The law’s here already, son. There’s God’s Law and there’s Sod’s Law, and they take care of most things, and what they don’t cover, we like to take care of ourselves.’ And then he shook my hand and went.”

“Weird,” said Sam. “And was he right?”

“Mostly he was. I certainly did a lot of reading. But a young man can’t live on books alone, and after three or four years when I began to feel I’d got accepted as one of the community, I picked myself a girl. A local lass. Her name was Mary. Mary Croft.”

“Like in Dick Croft? His daughter?”

“The same. We didn’t make a big public show of things. Not that you needed to in Illthwaite. Break wind in the church and they’ll get a whiff in the Stranger thirty seconds later, that’s what they say. Anyway, I was smitten. I asked her to marry me. Imagine that. I asked Dick Croft’s daughter to marry me, and her only eighteen.”

“So?” said Sam, puzzled.

“Still a minor back in those days. Needed her father’s consent. Her mother had died when Mary was a lass. There was a stepmother, far too young to be a second mother to Mary. Anyway, her father had things worked out for her future. A neighbor’s son. Bring the two landholdings together. But Mary dug her heels in. She and her dad didn’t get on. He was a right hard bastard, but she had a mind of her own too.”