“They say once you start following the Dark Man, there’s always another door, no matter how long you keep chasing.”

“Bit like Hilbert’s Hotel then,” said Sam, trying to lighten things.

“Don’t know it, dear. In Windermere, is it?”

“No,” said Sam. “It’s a made-up place in math that has an infinity of rooms.”

“Doing the laundry must be a real pain,” observed Mrs. Appledore. “I’m glad I’ve only got the two to show you. Unless we come across the Dark Man, that is.”

She spoke so lugubriously that Sam couldn’t help shivering. The pub’s low ceilings, shadowy corners, narrow windows and general air of not having been tarted up in living, or dead, memory didn’t make the prospect of such ghostly company appealing. What am I doing here anyway? she asked herself. Illthwaite would probably turn out to be a pointless diversion, any chance of real fact lay in Newcastle Upon Tyne, some hundred miles further on. Here all she was doing was chasing one phantom at the risk of sharing a room with another.

Then Mrs. Appledore, a most unspooky lady in her late fifties, with rosy cheeks, broad bosom and matching smile, let out a peal of uninhibited laughter and said, “Don’t worry, miss. I’ve never laid eyes on the bugger and I’ve lived here most of my life. Bathroom’s across the corridor. Come down to the bar when you’ve cleaned up and I’ll make you a sandwich. Or would you like something hot?”

The assumption that she was staying couched in such a friendly way was irresistible. Suddenly the room seemed less constricting. Also she’d been driving through steady drizzle since not long after dawn, and the thought of setting out once more had little appeal.

“A sandwich will be fine,” she said.

Ten minutes later she’d descended to the bar to find herself confronted by something resembling a small cob loaf from which slices of ham dangled like the skirts of a hovercraft.

Mrs. Appledore had pushed a half-pint of beer toward her, saying, “First on the house, to welcome you to Illthwaite.”

Which had provoked her question about the origins of the name and the old leprechaun’s disconcerting interruption.

“Anyway, don’t let old Noddy put you off,” the landlady concluded. “He’s been living by himself too long and that sends you dotty. I should know. Woman on her own running a pub these days, I must be crazy!”

“You’re saying he’s off his scone?”

“If that means daft but not daft enough to lock up, yes,” said Mrs. Appledore cheerfully. “So what are you going to do with yourself while you’re here?”

Sam bit into her sandwich and nearly went into toxic shock when her tongue discovered that internally the ham had been coated with the kind of mustard you could strip paint with. She grabbed for the beer and took a long cooling pull, using the pause to consider her reply.

Pa’s advice on communication was, “Tell enough to get told what you want to know.”

“I’ll see the sights, I guess,” she said. “What do most visitors do?”

“Most come to go walking on the fells. That’s what we call our hills,” said Mrs. Appledore. “As for sightseeing, there’s not a lot to look at except St. Ylf’s, and the Wolf-Head Cross in the churchyard.”

“Yeah?” said Sam, carefully chewing at the ham’s mustard-free skirting. “The church would be the place where they keep the parish records, right?”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Appledore. “You interested in that sort of thing?”

“Could be. I think my gran might come from this part of the world,” said Sam.

She looked for polite interest and got a blank.

“Is that right? And what would her name have been?”

“Flood, same as mine. Are there any Floods round here?”

“Only in a wet winter when the Skad overflows down the valley. Got in the cellars at the Powderham three years back,” said Mrs. Appledore not without satisfaction. “But there’s definitely no local family called Flood. So when did your gran leave England?”

“Your spring, 1960. February or March, I think.”

“Spring 1960?” echoed the woman.

“Right. Does that mean something?” asked Sam, detecting a note of significance.

“Only that I turned fifteen in the spring of 1960,” said Mrs. Appledore rather wistfully. “Mam died the year before and I’d started helping Dad in the pub. Against the law, but I was big for my age, so strangers didn’t notice and locals weren’t going to complain. Point is, I knew everyone in the valley then. Definitely no local family called Flood. Sorry, dear. You sure it’s Illthwaite you’re after?”

Sam shrugged and said, “I’m short on detail, so maybe not. But I’ll check the church out anyway. What about the local school? They’ll have records too, right?”

“Would do if we still had one. Got closed down three years back. Not enough kids, you see. The few there are get bused into the next valley. When I was a kid, the place was really buzzing. Thirty or forty of us. Now the young couples get out, go where there’s a bit more life and a lot more money. Can’t blame them.”

“Looks like it will have to be the church then. Is it far?”

“No. Just a step. Turn right when you leave the pub. You can’t miss it. But you’ve not finished your sandwich. It’s OK, is it?”

“The ham’s lovely,” said Sam carefully. “I’ll take it with me. And one of these.”

She helped herself from a small display of English Tourist Board leaflets standing at the end of the bar as she slipped off her stool.

“By the way, I tried my mobile upstairs, couldn’t get a signal.”

“You wouldn’t. It’s the fells. They wanted to build a mast but Gerry wouldn’t let them.”

“Gerry?”

“Gerry Woollass up at the Hall.”

“The Hall?” Her mind went back to some of the old Eng. Lit. stuff they’d made her read at school. “You mean he’s like some sort of squire?”

“No,” said the woman, amused. “Gerry’s not the squire. He’s chairman of the Parish Council.”

And just as Sam was feeling rebuked for her archaism, Mrs. Appledore added, “Gerry won’t be squire till old Dunstan, his dad, pops his clogs, which he’s in no hurry to do. If you need to phone, help yourself to the one in my kitchen.”

“Thanks. I wanted to ring back home, tell them I was still in the land of the living. I’ll use my credit number so it won’t go on your bill.”

“Fine. Through here.”

The landlady led her out of the bar and down the hall. The kitchen was a strange mix of old and new. Along the left-hand wall it was all modernity with a range of white kitchen units incorporating a built-in electric oven, fridge, dishwasher and stainless-steel sink. A coal fire glowed in a deep grate set in the end wall and from one of the two massive black crossbeams hung a pair of cured hams on hooks held by ropes running through pulleys screwed into the beam and thence to geared winding handles fixed into the walls. The floor was flagged with granite slabs which bore the marks of centuries of wear, as did the huge refectory table occupying most of the center space. One of the slabs, a rectangle of olive green stone which ran from just inside the door to twelve inches or so under the table, had some carving on it, almost indecipherable now.

“Latin,” said the landlady when Sam paused to look. “Old Dunstan says it’s St. Matthew’s Gospel. Ask and it shall be given, that bit. Sort of a welcome. This was the room that the monks fed the travelers in. Phone’s at yon end by the fireplace.”

As Sam made her way down the narrow corridor between the table and the units she had to pause to shut the dishwasher door.

“Bloody nuisance,” said Mrs. Appledore.

“Why not get something smaller?” asked Sam, looking at the huge table.

“No, not the table, those units,” said the woman. “The table’s been here since the place were built. The units were Buckle’s idea.”

“Buckle?”

“My husband.”

Sam tried to puzzle this out as she made the connection home.

“Yeah?” said a familiar voice.