He paused. The sharpness of his eye was misted. It was hard to imagine this aged elf as a young romantic but Sam made the effort.

“So what happened?”

“She vanished,” he said.

He spoke the word flatly, leaving her to grasp at its meaning.

“Vanished? Like… what? She took off? Got abducted? Died…?”

He said, as if she hadn’t spoken, “We used to meet behind St. Ylf’s, by the Wolf-Head Cross. Popular place for courting couples. Well hidden – at least, that’s the theory.”

He rose from his chair and went to stand by the window from which the stumpy church tower was visible over a clump of blood-pearled rowan trees.

“I wanted to talk to her father, but she said it was pointless, he’d rather see her die an old maid than get mixed up with a thick copper. I could see only one way to get Croft to agree to a wedding. That was to get Mary pregnant.”

He turned to face Sam.

“You know what young men are like. I’d have been at it already, but Mary always said she didn’t want to take the risk. But now risk was our best hope. At first she looked at me like I was daft. When she saw I was serious, she said she’d think about it and we arranged to meet three nights later. I said, ‘Come to Candle Cottage if you decide yes. I don’t want our first time to be in a cold and drafty churchyard.’ She kissed me then. A real passionate kiss. It felt like a promise.”

He looked around the room, as if searching for something he had misplaced.

After a while Sam prompted, “So what happened?”

“You can imagine the state I was in for the next couple of days. I kept thinking of that kiss. God, how the time dragged. Then the night came. I couldn’t sit still. I must have walked twenty miles up and down this room. It’s a wonder I didn’t put my hand through the window the number of times I rubbed the pane to see if I could spot her coming.”

Abruptly he sat down once more.

“But she never came. I sat up waiting till I fell asleep in my chair. Early next morning I was woken by knocking. It was Dick Croft, demanding to know where Mary was. He burst in and started searching the cottage. It was the start of a very confusing period. I didn’t know if I was on my arse or my elbow. By the time things got official, the story had settled down to this: Mary had told her stepmother that I’d given her an ultimatum, either we had sex or it was all off between us. She was going to say no and wanted to do it to my face but was a bit scared. And then she’d vanished.”

“I thought you said she didn’t get on with her stepmother?”

“I said she couldn’t be a proper mother to her. Anyway, we’ve only her word for what was said. But the upshot was, suddenly I found myself sitting in front of a DCI hitting me with questions about whether she’d come to the cottage to break things off and I’d got angry and there’d been a fight and maybe there’d been an accident… He thought he was offering me an easy way out. I told him to sod off. God knows how it would have finished, but then things changed. Mary’s stepmother found some clothes were missing. And the following day she took a phone call from Mary. I’m OK. I’ll be in touch when I’m settled. Nothing more. There was no technology in those days to check where the call came from. Or even if it came at all. But it was enough for the CID. Now it was simply another runaway case. No crime, so I was no longer a suspect. Which was ironic, as I was the only policeman in the county who didn’t believe she’d done a runner.”

He shook his head and fell silent for almost a minute, rapt in his memories, till Sam, who had never been long on patience, rattled her teacup.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m talking too much about me. This should be about you.”

“No, no,” said Sam. “I need to know what happened next.”

“That’s simple. I left Illthwaite. It’s funny, if we’d got married I’d have happily spent the rest of my days as the village bobby. As it was, Mary’s disappearance was the making of my career. A year later I transferred to CID. I was a natural. The trick-cyclists say a good detective will always have at least one case he keeps open in his mind long after it’s been closed in the files. I brought mine to the job with me.”

“And you’ve kept it open ever since.”

Sam tried to sound sympathetic but prevarication wasn’t her strong suit.

“You’re thinking that makes me a sad bastard, aren’t you?” he said, smiling. “I could have been, but I met a lass in Penrith. We got married, me and Alison. I never forgot Illthwaite, but it didn’t get in the way of having a life. If we’d had kids, or Alison had survived to share my retirement, I doubt if I’d ever have come back here. But we didn’t, and she didn’t. Cancer. God rest her.”

“I’m sorry,” said Sam.

“So am I, every day. She left a gap I filled with work. And when the work stopped, I had to find something else to fill that gap. When I saw the Authority was selling off Candle Cottage, it seemed like a message. So I bought the cottage, and came back here. Me versus Illthwaite, round two. First round Illthwaite won hands down. This time, I thought, it’s going to be different. If that’s sad, I’m sorry. But it’s kept me alive.”

“What about Mary?” asked Sam. “You get any nearer to finding out the truth?”

He smiled rather slyly and said, “Hard to say. Dick Croft died a few years later and the stepmother sold up and moved away. But I’m still here where everyone can see me. There’s two histories of Illthwaite, the official one, the kind that gets printed in books like Peter K.’s Guide. And the true history that only gets written in people’s minds. To read that you need to be around a long time. Passing through, you’ve got no chance.”

“Which is why you asked me here, right? To improve my chances?”

“I don’t know if I can, my dear, but if I can, I will. First you must tell me what it is you are truly seeking for.”

He settled back in his chair, fixed her with a keen unblinking gaze, and said quietly, “In your own time, my dear.”

Nothing had changed, at least nothing you could factorize. But somehow it felt to Sam as if Melton had switched elderly eccentricity off and an interrogation tape on. She was beginning to think this wasn’t a guy to mess with. On the other hand, unless he started after her with a rubber truncheon, she saw no reason to give more detail than she’d already put on public record.

She said, “Like I said in the pub last night, I’m looking for information about my paternal grandmother. All I know is she was called Sam Flood, she came from England to Australia in spring 1960, and she might have some connection with Illthwaite.”

Melton took a notebook out of his jacket pocket and made a note.

He said, “Did she sail with other members of her family?”

“No. She was part of that Child Migrant Scheme there was all that fuss about when the details came out a few years back.”

“I remember,” he said. “Isn’t there a Trust that gives advice and help?”

“Tried them. Nothing positive.”

Not directly anyway, and it seemed best to keep things direct.

“Have you found anything to support this possible connection since you got here?”

“Only the name Sam Flood carved on the churchyard wall.”

He showed no reaction, which must mean he’d known about it too.

“It struck me as odd that no one made any reference to it,” she went on. “But I’ve just been talking to that guy Thor Winander and he filled me in on the story and now I guess I can see why people don’t want to talk about it.”

“Yes, he tells a good tale, Mr. Winander,” murmured Melton. “So now you’re happy it’s just coincidence? Mission accomplished? No link?”

She thought about this then said, “Almost. But once you write stuff on the board you can’t just scrub it off.”

He looked puzzled then said, “Are we talking mathematics here?”