Downstairs he solved the mystery of the rapid police response. This was no high-powered investigatory team but a single constable who had got the call in the Powderham Arms where he’d been checking security, which everyone knew was a euphemism for chatting up one of the waitresses. A comfortably built young man, he seemed both excited to be first cop on the scene and uncertain what he actually ought to do. But he was soon helped by the arrival of a strange little man in a garish waistcoat who spoke in his ear, and rapidly thereafter everyone was ushered out of the kitchen into the bar.

When Mrs. Appledore protested at being ordered around in her own home, the constable said in the stilted tone of a newly conned part, “We need to keep the crime scene uncontaminated till SOCO get here, ma’am.”

The mystery of this new authority was solved when Madero asked Winander, “Who is that old man? Is he too a policeman?”

“Was. Noddy Melton, Head of CID, retired. At least he knows the ropes, which is just as well as this bugger doesn’t seem to know his whistle from his whatsit.”

Now there was a further diversion as a handful of early drinkers came into the bar only to be told the pub wasn’t open and probably wouldn’t be for some time.

During the debate which ensued, Madero noticed the old man slip out. He followed and found him in the kitchen, examining the skull.

“What are you doing?” asked Madero. “I thought this place was to be kept clear.”

“Not of me,” said the old man mildly. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Madero. I would say this is pretty old, wouldn’t you? A man. Pre-dentist, by the look of it. There is a story that some relicts of St. Ylf were kept at the Priory. Didn’t find a silver bullet, did you?”

“I am sorry?”

“The legend says he turned into a wolf to show travelers the way, which makes him a werewolf, and the best way to kill them was a silver bullet.”

“Mr. Melton, are you OK?”

Sam Flood, smelling of scented soap and changed into lowcut jeans and a sweatshirt, came in. She shot Madero what he felt was a quite undeserved admonitory glance.

“Hello again, Miss Flood,” said the old man. “Yes, I’m fine. I happened to have my radio tuned to the police frequency and when I heard them put this shout out…”

“And they mentioned bones, did they?” said Sam anxiously. “But I think you’ll find these are pretty old, isn’t that right, Mr. Madero?”

“I think we’ve established that,” said Mig, wondering why she felt it necessary to reassure the old man who looked perfectly in control of himself and the situation.

“Great,” said Sam, taking the skull out of Melton’s hands and laying it on the table. “Why don’t we head outside and see if Mrs. Appledore can rustle you up a drink?”

She led the old man into the hallway where they saw the landlady coming out of the barroom, which still sounded a scene of lively protest. She looked hot and flustered.

“There you are, Noddy,” she said. “I’d appreciate it if you could have another word with young Starsky back there before he starts a riot.”

“Mr. Melton was looking at the bones we found under the kitchen,” said Sam significantly. “I think a drink might help.”

“Do you now? All right, but not before you get that lot sorted. They see you getting a drink, they’ll all want one.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Melton. Then to Sam he added, “You have been most kind. I hope I can return the favor.”

There was a surge of noise from the bar. He smiled and went through the door.

“I think he thought they might be his Mary’s,” said Sam.

“Told you about that, did he?” said Mrs. Appledore. “Looks spry enough to me. See what a hornet’s nest you two have stirred up! And I’m losing money because of it.”

Sam realized that Madero had made another of his silent sorties and was standing beside her. He looked ready to be contrite in the face of the landlady’s remonstrance, but Sam retorted, “Tell you what, Mrs. Appledore. I’ll give you a night’s takings for your share of whatever the loot back there brings in. Could be nothing, of course…”

A slow grin spread across Mrs. Appledore’s face.

“Think I’ll take my chances, dear. Sounds like things are quietening down.”

She turned and reentered the bar.

“So what was that all about with the old man?” asked Madero.

Quickly Sam filled him in on Melton’s background.

“You seem to have learned a great deal about the locals in a short time,” he said.

“A trick I picked up at uni,” said Sam. “It’s called listening. You should try it.”

They stood in the shady hallway and looked at each other.

He thought, when she is being kind and thoughtful instead of brash and boisterous, she is not unattractive.

She thought, when he is being natural and unguarded instead of pompous and priestly, he’s a bit of a spunk.

Then the bar door opened and the thwarted drinkers spilled out, still protesting in colorful terms about this breach of their native rights, and the moment was past.

Early next morning Sam finally left Illthwaite.

There’d been no question of her leaving the previous evening. It took nearly an hour for the first CID officer to turn up. Unimpressed by assertions that the bones were too ancient for this to be a crime scene, he called in a forensic team to do a full appraisal.

By the time they’d finished and Sam had given her statement for the third time, it was too late to contemplate driving to Newcastle.

Somehow she and Madero hadn’t bumped into each other again that night. From the fact that she didn’t see him being led away by men in white coats, she assumed he’d omitted from his statement any reference to communion with the spirits. Before she went to bed she’d scribbled out the key to the Mary Queen of Scots cipher and pushed it under his door.

The following morning as she started up her car he came out of the pub with a long black sweater pulled hastily over his pajamas, which she was entertained to see weren’t black but striped red and yellow. She bet his mother had bought them.

“You were going without saying goodbye,” he said accusingly.

“Don’t expect we’ll ever meet again,” she said.

“All the more reason to say goodbye,” he protested.

“Nah,” she said with the certainty of one who understands the difference between real and apparent logic. “All the less.”

He shook his head slightly as though to clear his mind and said, “Thank you for writing out the code.”

“Nomenclator,” she said. “No problem.”

She put the car in gear and began to pull away.

“Good luck in your quest,” he called.

“And you. Love the jarmies. If you’re going to buzz around like a bee, you might as well look like one. Ciao!”

And that had been that. Last sight of Madero, followed very shortly by last sight of Illthwaite.

No reason why she should be troubled by either the place or the man again.

The journey to Newcastle took her through lovely countryside, but she was driving eastward into the morning sunlight and, even with her Ray-Bans on, she needed to keep all her attention on the road. On the fringes of the city, she stopped at a service area, bought a street map and checked out the address Betty McKillop had given her in a northern suburb called Gosforth. It was her mother’s flat, the woman had said, sheltered accommodation which was why she had to vacate it so soon after the funeral.

It took another forty minutes to reach what turned out to be a cul-de-sac consisting of four two-story blocks of flats, purpose built for the elderly. They could have looked barrack-like, but the use of a warm red brick with a variety of pastel colors for doors and windows gave them an attractive air, and the lawned areas between them were generously planted with ornamental shrubs. On the whole, not too bad a place to attend death.