“Is that so?” said Frek, in a voice so coolly polite you could have served caviar on it. “And has this strangely acquired wisdom produced any positive interpretation you care to share with us? The date perhaps?”

The Australian frowned slightly as if for the first time detecting antagonism, but replied relatively mildly, “Let’s see. If it’s a simple pentadic system, it would be 1589. Yeah, that would be it.”

Frek laughed out loud.

“Only five or six centuries out,” she said. “Or the mason couldn’t count?”

Sam removed her sunglasses and turned her unblinking slatey gaze on Frek who, rather to Madero’s surprise, let herself be faced down.

“Sorry,” said Sam. “I should have said. I didn’t mean the original maker’s name but the repairer’s. It came to me when I was talking to Thor Winander this morning and he told me his name was the same as some old Viking who got a lake named after him.”

“Thor’s been playing that little game with you, has he? My ancestor who owned Windermere,” said Frek, smiling. “But it’s true that it figures on old maps as Winandermere, meaning the lake of a man called Vinandr.”

“There we go then,” said Sam. “This oval here with the wavy line in it, that’s this Winander lake.”

“And these earlier symbols, you’re saying they’re semagrams too?” said Frek, clearly still doubtful but now, Madero observed, genuinely interested.

“Yeah. Difference is they form a rebus. This one here, the triangle like a roof, I think that’s a barn. And this one with the little cross on top, I reckon that’s an abbey. All the other stuff is just a bit of ornamentation to confuse matters.”

“And this gives you…?”

“Barn abbey Winandermere,” said Sam slowly. “Barnaby Winander who, according to Peter K.’s Guide, restored the cross in 1589. And from what I’ve read about the family and seen of this Thor guy, that’s exactly the kind of daft trick he’d get up to!”

“Well, well,” said Frek softly. “You are a surprisingly clever little thing.”

Madero could see that the Australian didn’t care to be patronized.

“Nice of you to say so,” she said, looking up at Frek as if seeing her for the first time.

Then her eyes widened in what looked to Madero like a parody of recognition and she exclaimed, “Hey, I thought you looked familiar.”

“I saw you briefly this morning outside the Forge,” admitted Frek grudgingly.

“No. Not outside the Forge. Inside. You must have been the model for that carving Mr. Winander did. It’s a real close likeness.”

She let her gaze slide down the other woman’s body and grinned as she added, “So far as I can see, that is.”

A tiny smudge of color touched Frek’s cheeks.

Madero, intrigued, said, “What’s this then?”

Sam said, “Hang around and I daresay you’ll get the chance to check it out for yourself.”

She paused long enough to see the smudge spread into an angry flush before adding, “Yeah, Mr. Winander said he’d be bringing it down here this afternoon. It’s the headstone for Billy Knipp’s grave. Miss Woollass modeled the angel. Right?”

Their gazes locked. The flush subsided. Then surprisingly there was the suspicion of a smile and Frek said, “I may have provided the features, the form was Thor’s idea. It’s been nice to meet you again, Miss Flood. You’ve given me food for thought.”

She offered her hand to Sam who took it, surprised rather than reluctant.

Frek brought her other hand up and held Sam’s enclosed in both her own as she continued, “I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday. You too, Mr. Madero. I need to be off now. No need for you to rush. You must be dying to see the inside of the church. Perhaps Miss Flood, who knows so much, can give you the tour. Unless you don’t feel up to walking and really need a lift back to the Stranger…?”

Nice twist, thought Sam approvingly. She had spotted that the woman had taken Madero by surprise. Would he play the poor invalid or take it on the chin like a hero?

He said, “I’m fine.”

“Then I’ll say goodbye. I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”

She gave Sam’s hand one last squeeze, let go, turned and walked swiftly away.

Together they watched her out of sight round the side of the church.

“Lovely mover,” said Sam. “Things didn’t go so well then?”

He didn’t try to deny it.

“No,” he said. “Does your fund of arcane knowledge in fact extend to showing me round the church?”

“I’d rather not,” she said. “Someone in there doesn’t like me. Anyway, I need to get my gear together. I’m moving on today. See you around maybe.”

She moved forward past the cross to the churchyard wall and stooped down to push aside the veiling weeds.

“Well, Sam Flood,” she murmured softly. “What are you? Mr. Perfect, or Mr. Pervert? And have you got anything at all to do with me? God knows, and maybe it’s best I stop trying to get in on the secret.”

She released the vegetation, stood up and turned round to find herself face to face, or rather face to neck, with Madero whose curiosity had made him follow her.

“Talk about creeping Jesus!” she said angrily.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But that name on the wall, isn’t it yours? Sam Flood?”

“That’s right. So what?”

“I’ve no idea. Is this what you and Miss Woollass were referring to just now?”

“Why don’t you ask her? No, sorry, I forgot. It doesn’t sound like you two will be getting much chance of talking again.”

“Doesn’t it?” he said, slightly taken aback by the sharpness of her riposte. “Well, they say fortitude is the virtue of adversity, don’t they?”

“Not where I come from. Kick against the pricks till the pricks stop kicking back, that’s what my pa says.”

He surprised her by laughing out loud, knocking a decade off his age.

“A natural philosopher by the sound of him. But my morning hasn’t been altogether wasted. As for meeting Miss Woollass again, I daresay God will provide an excuse, such as, for instance, my need to retrieve my briefcase from the back of her car.”

He smiled at her, and she found herself smiling back. When he smiled you could almost forget he was a wanked-out priest.

They walked together round the side of the church. She noticed that he was moving much more easily than when last she’d seen him laboring up Stanebank.

As they came in sight of the churchyard gate, they saw it was wedged fully open and Pete Swinebank was helping the driver of a pickup to reverse in. On the back was Billy Knipp’s memorial stone. Supporting it on either side, like a pair of pet apes positioned to emphasize the angel’s brooding beauty, stood the Gowders.

Safely through the gate, the vehicle came to a halt as near as it could get to the young man’s grave. As Sam and Madero approached, Rev. Pete turned and saw them. He looked distinctly uneasy.

Not without cause, thought Sam grimly. Not mentioning my name being carved on his wall and all that crap about stolen records. I could probably get him defrocked!

She had a flash image of ripping off his cassock and seeing him standing there in frilly undies. This, plus the almost comically abject guilt of his expression, softened her heart toward him a little and when he said uncertainly, “Hello again, Miss Flood. How are you today?” all she replied was, “What do you think, Vicar?”

Madero gave her the same look he’d given when she’d chilled out the nun, then said with a compensatory if not quite natural heartiness, “Vicar, I’m pleased to meet you. Michael Madero. I’ve just been looking at your splendid cross.”

They shook hands. Thor Winander got out of the cab. Sam walked toward him. As she passed Swinebank he gave her an appealing glance. She ignored it, fixing her gaze on one of the Gowders at random and saying, “Lovely day, Laal.”

He studied the statement and her face for a menacing moment before replying ponderously, “Not si bad, eh?”

It works! she thought.