Swinebank was still desperate to compound confession with explanation.

He said, “I’ve tried to atone. I’ve devoted my life since to giving this parish the loving side of my faith that my father chose to ignore – ”

“You’re bringing the tears to my eyes,” interrupted Sam. “You’ll be telling me next Gerry Woollass has been devoting his life to good works too.”

“In fact, he has,” said Swinebank. “And in face of much personal grief. His wife left him, and his daughter has turned her back on his faith in every way possible. If atonement isn’t possible, there’s not much point to the existence of either of us. After your revelation last night, I cannot imagine how he’s feeling now.”

“You can’t? You think the news that when he raped a kid all those years ago he not only got her pregnant but caused her death too might have put him off his breakfast?”

She glared at him, promising herself, if he says anything more about atonement I’ll nut him!

He said, “Gerry must answer for himself. No man can read another’s heart. We all must make our own decisions.”

“And what decision were you going to make if I hadn’t turned up?” she demanded. “Public confession? Even though the Gowders were putting the silencers on you again? That’s why they were here, wasn’t it?”

He said, “They are worried. They reacted. Action, reaction. That sums up the Gowders, morally, intellectually. Judging them by normal standards doesn’t work. But they’re not altogether bad.”

“That’s very Christian of you, Pete,” she said. “It’s up to you if you want to forgive them for breaking your wrist when you were a kid and shoving you around this morning to make sure you continued to keep quiet. But when it comes to forgiving them for making my gran strip and egging on Woollass to rape her, I don’t think it’s your call. Where’ve they gone now? To give Gerry Woollass a kicking to make sure he doesn’t talk?”

“I doubt it,” he said wearily. “They rely on old Dunstan to keep Gerry in order. Of course, what happens when the old man dies is something else. I think Gerry really hates them, for what they made him do…”

“Made him? You don’t make someone commit rape!” she burst out indignantly.

“Without them it wouldn’t have happened,” he said. “But he hates it also that, because of him, his father has taken care of them over the years. Gerry has devoted himself to charitable works, but as far as the Gowders are concerned if the workhouse and the treadmill still existed, he would happily see them consigned there.”

“And he’d be with them if I had my way,” said Sam. “And that would still be charity.”

She turned on her heel and walked away, taking the direct route through the Devil’s Door. It felt right.

She didn’t look back. She felt some sympathy for Pete Swinebank. He’d been a child. Twice he’d looked to an adult for guidance. First the curate, then Dunstan Woollass. Both times things had gone wrong. So, she could admit sympathy but she couldn’t offer absolution. He’d stopped being a kid long ago and had still kept quiet. But the bottom line for Sam was, he’d been there when it happened, it had been within his power to tell them no, they shouldn’t be doing this, to threaten to tell his father, their fathers.

OK, he’d been very young and he’d been very scared.

But she knew beyond any shadow of doubt, and with no sense of self-righteousness, that in the same circumstances at the same age, she herself would have screamed and yelled and done everything in her power to bring things to a halt.

Her mind was in a turmoil as she strode along. Conflicting ideas spun round and clashed… head straight up to the Hall for a confrontation… find somewhere quiet to sit and work things out… talk to Mig (where did that one come from?)… get in her car and drive far away from Illthwaite…

It occurred to her that her namesake, Saint Sam, must have trodden this same road with his mind in a similar whirl. He’d opted for talking with the person he felt closest to, and look where that had got the poor bastard!

By the time she reached the pub she was no nearer resolution. Through the window she glimpsed people in the bar. She didn’t want convivial company, she didn’t want to sit in her tiny room alone. If Mig had been there, upstairs or downstairs, she might have gone in, but he was up at the Hall. Talking to Dunstan Woollass.

Her great-grandfather. The great god of Skaddale who’d used his power to banish little Pam and despatch her on her fatal journey.

She crossed the road to the bridge, and looked down into the dimpling waters of the Skad. The shadow. The corpse. This was a place with its roots deep in a mysterious and mythical past. But no more so than back home. When it came to mumbo-jumbo, Ma and her people could run rings round this lot. And, so far as she knew, the mythologies of Australia had proved pretty resistant to any attempts to work them into this Johnny-come-lately Christian stuff. Things seemed so much more clear-cut back home. Even the light was clearer. Here the sun still shone unchallenged as it approached its zenith, but all around, the sharp edges of the heights were being blunted by a translucent haze that threatened change.

She longed for some clear Australian light so she could see her way forward. Things here were so messy. Wrongs had been done, compounded by other wrongs, cover-ups, lies. She needed to get a grip. First rule of any problem was assemble your data. Who had suffered here? Pam Galley, total victim in every respect. Saint Sam the curate, who’d done his best for Pam, but whose best hadn’t been good enough. Some might say that Rev. Pete too had suffered, and even Gerry Woollass, but any pain they felt was self-inflicted and, in the case of Gerry, she assured herself, far short of what he deserved.

And who had benefited? The ghastly Gowders. They’d orchestrated the rape and the only consequence for them was that they’d come under Dunstan Woollass’s protecting hand. He’d probably assured them they’d go to jail if they blabbed and they’d survive in comfort if they held their tongues. No contest.

Which left Dunstan. The old man whom she only knew by report and reputation. Like God. Only this one really existed, and knew everything, and controlled everything. Except the future. He’d done everything to protect his family, and now, if Edie Appledore was right, his family was coming to an end. Perhaps there was a higher God who didn’t care for a rival and chuckled to think, as he watched Dunstan’s machinations, that Frek the lez would be the last of the Woollasses.

Except for me.

The realization came into Sam’s mind the way the answer to a math problem often did. Simple, complete, as if someone else had spoken it.

Except for me.

A horn blew. She looked up to see a VW Polo half turned on to the narrow bridge.

Frek Woollass leaned out of the driver’s window and called, “Morning. Sorry to disturb your meditations, but even with your figure it’s going to be hard to squeeze by.”

Sam stood up and made her way to the other end of the bridge. When the vehicle came alongside, Frek brought it to a halt again.

“Thanks,” she said. “Are you all right? You look rather pale.”

Sam looked into those calm gray-blue eyes. She knew now where she’d seen them before. They were her pa’s eyes. Her own eyes. If there’d been any doubt about what Swinebank had told her, it fled. This woman was her… what? Her aunt! Jesus!

“I’m fine. Yourself?”

“Fine too. Are you just lingering on the bridge, or were you crossing it with a view to going up the Bank? If so, jump in.”

Sam didn’t have to think.

“Yes, I’m going up to the Hall,” she declared. “A lift would be good.”

She slid into the passenger seat.

“No gas guzzler today then?” she said as the Polo moved forward.

“The 4x4, you mean? That’s Daddy’s. He claims he needs it round here. For Cambridge, however, the smaller the better, as I gather you will shortly find out for yourself. Mig Madero mentioned you were going up. Something to do with math?”