“That’s right. Sometimes you do a calculation on a blackboard. Blackboards are good because it means you can see the whole thing at once. Most calculations aren’t aimed at finding something out but at arriving somewhere you want to be. But you don’t always get there. Maybe you’ve gone wrong. Maybe you started in the wrong place. But even if you wipe the board clean, all that stuff’s still in your mind to go over again and again, maybe for years, maybe forever. Sorry, does that sound crazy?”

“Sounds like good detective work to me,” he said, going to a tall mahogany bureau that occupied almost the whole of one wall. From his pocket he took a bunch of keys attached to his belt by a chain. He used three of the keys to unlock the bureau cupboard doors which swung open to reveal lines of files and a stack of cardboard boxes.

“My blackboards,” he said. “Nowadays it would be disks, but I’m a paper man.”

He removed one of the files then dragged out a box which seemed too heavy to lift. He sat down and opened the file on his knee.

“Samuel Joseph Flood. Appointed curate of St. Ylf’s in August 1960. Found drowned in Mecklin Moss in March 1961. Inquest held in April… Here we are.”

He took out a folder which held some typewritten A4 sheets stapled together.

“What is that stuff?” demanded Sam, impressed.

“Record of the inquest.”

Jesus, when he said he had connections, he meant connections.

“How’d you get a hold of that?”

He said, “I told you. I was Head of CID for fifteen years. All cases of sudden death came under my remit. Any linked to Illthwaite I took a personal interest in.”

She was starting to think there was something just a bit scary about Noddy Melton. Not the scariness of insanity, maybe, though it might have something to do with its near cousin, obsession. But if it prompted him to help her, why knock it?

“Now, what do we have?” he asked, studying the report. “Canceled Bible class that afternoon. It was a Sunday. At two o’clock the vicar, Mr. Swinebank, took Sunday School with the younger kids in church while at three Flood held a Bible class for the eleven-pluses in the church room attached to the vicarage. That day the kids found a notice on the door saying the class was canceled… no one much bothered till he failed to turn up for evensong… the vicar might have got worried a bit sooner but he was distracted by a family emergency… checked Mr. Flood’s room in the vicarage after the evening service… no sign… reported his concern to PC Greenwood circa 7.30 P.M… Greenwood mounted a search but soon had to call it off because of darkness and foul weather…”

“PC Greenwood? Your successor?”

“Next but one. The one that followed me didn’t take, so they got him moved.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The power brokers – Woollasses, the vicar, Joe Appledore at the Stranger – ”

“You mentioned him before. What’s his relationship to Mrs. Appledore?”

“Joe was her father.”

“Then why’s she called Mrs.?”

“It seems she went off to catering college in Lancashire. Did her course, fell for one of her tutors, they got wed and set up in business down there. When her dad died she and her man – Buckle was his name – came and took over the Stranger. I gather Buckle didn’t like it round here. He wanted to sell up and move back south. That can’t have gone down well. There’s been Appledores running the Stranger for centuries and they don’t like change in Illthwaite. But, to general relief, he died before anything was decided. Heart attack. They said. So Edie stayed put. Pretty soon folk were back to calling her Appledore, with the Mrs. tagged on in acknowledgment she was a widow.”

“Weird,” said Sam. “What about her mother?”

“Died when Edie was fourteen. After that she ran the house and helped out in the pub.”

“With all that hands-on experience, why did she need to go to catering college?”

“Good question,” said Melton approvingly. “Story is she had a disappointment. Round here that can mean anything from cut out of a will to crossed in love. Anyway, same result, she almost got away, but the tendrils snaked out and pulled her back in.”

Like you, thought Sam.

“You were telling me about the local power brokers?” she prompted him.

“Oh yes. A lot of voices, but ultimately it’s the Woollasses who really make things happen. Local power’s nothing unless you’ve a line to the big power sources outside. Committees, dinners, charities, old-boy networks, that sort of thing. Upshot was that in the end they got the kind of policeman they wanted. Sandy Greenwood. Stayed here for nigh on twenty years till they pulled the plug on village bobbies.”

“So he’d know the patch pretty well?”

“He’d know which farm would dish up the best tatie-pot and how many free pints he could sup after hours at the Stranger and still be able to cycle home,” said Melton scornfully. “Likely if they’d told him not to worry about the curate going missing he’d have done nothing. But people were worried. The missing man was very popular. It was established that there’d been three sightings. One as he came out of the vicarage gate, the next along the main road through the village, the third and last on Stanebank, the track that leads up by the Forge and the Hall. If you keep going where the track bends round to Foulgate, you get to Mecklin Moss. First thing next morning the search was concentrated up there, and about nine o’clock a cross belonging to Flood was found. They kept on looking and the body was recovered at quarter to eleven.”

“Poor bastard,” said Sam. “And he’d definitely drowned himself?”

“Didn’t seem any doubt. No note, but they found that Flood’s pockets were filled with stones. I’ve got them here.”

Out of the box he pulled a Hessian sack which he opened to let Sam see inside. It was filled with smooth rounded stones, black and white and gold and ruddy brown.

Jesus! she thought. What else had he got in there? Skulls and body parts?

“About four kilos, I’d say,” said Melton. “Enough to counter the natural buoyancy of his clothes. No point hanging about when you’ve made up your mind. No marks of violence on the body, evidence of an agitated state of mind… Hard to make it accidental death, so the coroner reluctantly brought in a suicide verdict.”

“Why was he reluctant?” said Sam, dragging her gaze away from the sack.

“Serious business in those days, suicide. You could go to jail for it.”

An old police joke, she guessed. Maybe it had once been funny.

He went on, “In addition, Flood was a Man of the Cloth. Farmers can top themselves in droves and it’s regarded as a risk of the job, but vicars are expected to show a better example. Also everyone who gave evidence went out of their way to say what a splendid young man he was… beloved by everyone… a picture of perfection…”

“Balder,” said Sam, recalling Winander’s story.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. Any explanation of this agitation?”

“None offered formally. Law says all relevant information has got to be supplied to the coroner. What’s relevant is up to the investigating officer. In this case it was an old boss of mine, DI Jackson. Good man, Jacko. Not much got past his beady gaze. Dead now. His missus told me after the funeral, take anything you want, Noddy. As a souvenir. I had a ratch around. Jacko was a bit of a trophy man. Liked something positive to remind him of his cases. His wife was going to junk it. Don’t blame her. Some of the stuff…”

He shuddered. Pot calling the kettle black, thought Sam.

“That’s where you got the stones?” she said.

“That’s right. The Illthwaite connection. But what I really wanted was this – ”

He delved in the box again and produced a battered notebook which he opened.

“You can learn a lot from a good cop’s notebook. Jacko might have had his little quirks, but he was good. Now, let’s see. The vicar, Mr. Paul Swinebank, that’s Rev. Pete’s dad, gave a glowing testimonial. His explanation was that maybe his curate felt the woes of others too intensely. In some ways – his words – he was too good for his own good.”