She strolled around the kitchen, looking at the pulleys, running her hands underneath the table edge to feel the holes.

“Was it Mrs. Appledore you wanted to see?” he asked, reluctant to make the assumption that he was the object of her visit. “I think she went into the bar.”

“No. Just idle curiosity. We didn’t hear anything at the Hall about the excitement here last night, but this morning I happened to be talking to a friend on the County Museum staff and she was full of the find. You could be rich if it turns out you’re entitled to a share of the value once they work out who owns what.”

Was that a pointed comment? Had she overheard his conversation? Looking at her, he didn’t think so, she seemed so relaxed and friendly.

“I would guess the Church has the best claim,” said Mig.

“Indeed. But which church?” said Frek. “If the cross is worth as much as my friend guesses, I can’t see the holy accountants of either Rome or Canterbury letting it go without a fight. The bones are another matter. The Anglicans probably won’t compete there, even if they are confirmed as the lost relicts of St. Ylf. What did your ghostly antennae signal, Mr. Madero?”

He said, “I only know for certain they don’t belong to any member of my family.”

Faintly surprised, she said, “But why on earth should you think they might?”

He felt himself flushing under her coolly assessing gaze that seemed capable of cutting through to the innermost chambers of his mind and discovering Father Simeon’s journal hidden there.

“It’s a lovely day,” he said, ignoring her question. “I thought I might take a walk and enjoy it while it lasts.”

It was as near as he dared come to an open invitation.

She said, “That’s a very English view of weather. Your mother’s influence, I would guess, and therefore preeminently reasonable. May I join you?”

“Of course.”

“So where shall we walk? A quiet stroll along the river, or did you have in mind something a little more adventurous?”

She smiled as she spoke the last word. Could he read anything into that?

He said, “The river sounds fine, though I’m not averse to a bit of adventure.”

“We must see what we can do then,” she said.

Outside, the autumn sun kept its promise, falling as pleasantly on Mig’s skin as it had on his eye through the window.

As they strolled across the humpback bridge, Mig said, “If it were always like this, your Lake District would truly be a landscape without equal.”

“Nonsense,” she said briskly. “It would be very dull. The best landscapes remain beautiful whatever the weather. Flood, drought, frost, blizzard, it makes no difference here. Why, it’s even beautiful in mist when you can hardly see it at all.”

“You don’t hanker after those icy lands where your northern gods live, then?”

“But they live here too, didn’t you realize that? This is why the Vikings settled here. Rivers and lakes filled with salmon and trout, forests full of wild beasts and deer, broad fertile meadows and steep mountains running down to the great western sea. It must have seemed a land fit for the gods, and if you can’t be a god yourself, the next best thing is to choose to live where they would surely have chosen to live. The Wolf-Head Cross was the flag those settlers planted here to establish possession. I sometimes think they’re still here.”

“Really? I haven’t noticed a lot of horned helmets hanging up in the Stranger.”

“Why would you? The Vikings had a culture of heroism but a mythology of deceit. A large proportion of the stories in the Poetic Edda are based on deception and mischief, and the first part of Snorri’s Edda is called ‘Gylfaginning’ – the Deluding of Gylfi. But you’re looking blank. I thought you had a nodding acquaintance with the Norse myths.”

“The kind of acquaintance where you half recognize a face but can never recall a name,” he said jokingly. “When I see an edda approaching, I cross the street to avoid embarrassment.”

Frek didn’t look amused.

“Edda is semantically obscure and variously interpreted as a poetic anthology or random jottings,” she said in a schoolmarmish voice. “The Poetic Edda consists of a collection of mythological and heroic poems. The Prose Edda is a combination of historical analysis, anthology and treatise on poetics, written by Snorri Sturluson. Dare I hope you’ve heard of Snorri?”

“Sorry. No,” he said. “Though I’m glad to see you’re on first name terms with him.”

Again his attempt at lightness fell like a snowflake on to a griddle.

“Sturluson isn’t a surname, it’s a patronymic. In Iceland first names have always been used for identification. As for Snorri, he was a thirteenth-century Icelander. He was a top politician, legislator, historian, poet, and activist. He makes most of the so-called Renaissance men you probably do know about look like kids with a hatful of GCSEs and attitude.”

“I apologize for my ignorance, which I shall begin to rectify as soon as I get within striking distance of a library,” he said, taking care to keep any hint of levity out of his voice.

She nodded approval, then smiled a smile which was worth a bit of pain.

“Good,” she said. “I’ll test you later. And you should know that us Vikings are pretty hot stuff when it comes to tricky questions.”

On the far side of the bridge they had turned to walk upstream, following a sun-dappled path sometimes on the riverbank, sometimes curving away beneath close-crowding trees, mostly alders and willows, with here and there a rowan on which the berries were already turning bright red, and silver-columned birches with bark flaked like gimcrack, and now a pair of ancient oaks whose roots exposed by the crumbling bank bent over the water like a mountain troll’s knees. Though they still looked massively solid, there was little sign of living growth on these two trees, and most of what there was belonged to a narrow tortuous plant which held the oak in a close embrace.

“Mistletoe,” said Frek, following his gaze. “Balder’s bane.”

“Which the English now use as an excuse for kissing,” he said daringly.

“Kissing, killing, it’s all connected,” she mocked. “Hod, who threw the fatal dart, is blind. As is the Roman Cupid, a wayward child who fires his arrows off indiscriminately. Where they strike, they may not kill, but they can render men who had felt themselves invulnerable slaves of a destructive passion.”

Was she warning him off or egging him on?

Whichever, she now led him away from the temptation of the oak trees. A little beyond them, the path divided, one branch turning away from the river and mounting the steepening fellside.

“Where does that go?” he asked.

“Up to Foulgate, the Gowders’ farmhouse. Beyond that, it turns into Stanebank, which curves round the edge of Mecklin Moor and drops down past the Hall. Do you feel up to such a physical challenge?”

Again the mocking ambivalence.

He said, “I’m in your hands.”

“Let’s take things easy then,” she said. “In fact, why don’t we take a rest?”

Just past the bifurcation, a rough bench had been created by setting a length of wood onto two logs beneath a tall tree whose elegant leaves were freaked with crimson and amber. Across the river they could see the stumpy tower of St. Ylf ’s. Something moved on it, then vanished. A big bird, perhaps. Maybe a raven.

She sat down. There was scarcely room for two and Mig remained standing, but she looked up at him with a smile and said, “Don’t just stand there like Alexander, blocking the sun. Come on, there’s plenty of room.”

He squatted down beside her, their flanks pressed close. He could feel her warmth through her thin dress and his light cotton trousers. He even imagined he could feel the pulse of her blood through the veins of her thigh. He sought for words to break the silence which seemed to be wrapping itself around them, pressing them ever closer.