“That he was none of these things must have been evident to his interrogator within a very short time,” said Mig.

“Shorter than you think,” said Dunstan. “He was said to have died under examination. It’s clear that Tyrwhitt was far too expert to torture people to death. No, I suspect that the poor lad was almost dead already when he was taken. He’d been crucified, for God’s sake, and the journey to Lancaster had probably undone any progress he’d made while in Alice ’s care. My guess is he died almost immediately, might even have been dead when taken, so Tyrwhitt claimed what kudos he could by fabricating a vague confession, adding weight to the case against other known suspects.”

The old man shook his head as if to dislodge the images crowding in on his imagination, then rose abruptly and went to the window, thrusting it open to admit birdsong and a warm breeze which rustled the papers on the desk.

“Fresh air,” he said, breathing deeply. “Beware drafts, my doctor says. They can blow you to heaven. But what can heaven be, compared to this? How I love this place, especially at this time of year with the whole valley changing beneath me. You can keep your New England tints, they’re for the eye. Old England ’s palette lays its colors on the heart. Change and renewal. Ever changing, ever the same. Sorry, Madero, sometimes sensibility gets the upper hand over sense, even in a dry old stick like me.”

He turned to face into the room and said, “So what do you, the outsider, think of our little valley, now you’ve been here a couple of days?”

“I like some of it very well,” said Madero, wary of this change of direction.

“Good. We have a lot in common. Devotion to the faith. Love of family. Appetite for scholarship. Respect for truth. All most praiseworthy, but when we find two or more of them in opposition, what then? Personally, where my family is concerned, I have too great a sense of pride to want the world picking over our bones. What say you?”

“Let us be precise,” said Madero. “You are suggesting we should repress both these documents?”

“What would suffer if we did? Scholarship? We both know a great portion of the scholar’s life is spent dropping buckets into empty wells and drawing nothing up. So we add a little nothing to the nothing. Where’s the harm?”

“What about truth, respect for which you claimed we hold in common?”

“What is truth?” demanded Dunstan. “That Simeon broke under torture? Or that in fact Tyrwhitt got very little out of him? Turning him loose wasn’t a reward for betrayal but a psychological ploy to make the world think he had utterly betrayed his religion. A priest executed is evidence of the strength of faith. A priest released implies its weakness. It worked, though nothing was ever directly proven against Simeon. It took three centuries for my family to clean away the muck that Tyrwhitt smeared across our name. What will happen now if another hack like Molloy gets hold of this?”

“I hardly think it will make headline news in the national press,” said Mig dryly.

“It will make news in places that matter to me and my family,” said the old man. “Well, another half-century and that will probably matter no longer. The Woollass name will have vanished from the earth. Let them say what they will then, but for the present, I will fight with all my strength against such a manifest injustice.”

“Injustice? He told them where they would find my namesake,” said Mig.

“Who had been saved and succored by my family, by Simeon’s family. Who had been carried down to Lancaster by Simeon at what must have been great risk to himself. Who he probably thought would have been smuggled out of the country long since! It can only have been his increasing debility which made it impossible to move him. There is little to reproach Simeon with here.”

“He reproached himself,” said Mig. “He could not face my family and give them news of their loved one’s fate.”

“He attempted to approach you, according to the story you told Frek,” said Dunstan. “If you truly believe his spirit has been in torment all these years, then let him now at last have his peace, forgiven by you and forgotten by the world.”

It was an appeal which fell on receptive ground. The passionate need to know which had been Mig’s emotional dynamic since his first involvement with Illthwaite seemed to have faded. He had felt its absence yesterday morning up at Mecklin Moss. Was this what all those years of pain and vision and misunderstanding and misdirection had been about? There must have been easier ways for him to be directed toward the truth! And what was he going to do with this truth now he had reached it? There was no one to punish, unless perhaps the Gowders for being descendants of the dreadful Thomas and Andrew. What kind of justice was that? And even if he did feel like visiting the sins of the forefathers on their very distant children, did not that mean that by the same token he should be thanking Dunstan Woollass rather than arguing with him?

He surprised in himself a longing to sit down with Sam and discuss these things. What on earth did that signify? He’d known her in the social sense for just three days and in the biblical sense for a single night, yet here she was, the one person in all the world he wished to share his innermost feelings with! Was this what was meant by sexual obsession? No, there had to be more than that. If he felt himself at sea intellectually, it was in part because his emotional world now had a new center to which all his energies were drawn. Could it be that it was to this that all the signs and portents of his life had been directing him? To his encounter with Sam?

It was an absurdity. Perhaps, because it put his own pleasure and happiness before anything else, even a blasphemy.

Dunstan, as if to give him space to pursue his internal debate, had turned to look from the window again.

“Ah, here comes Frek,” he said, waving. “That’s nice. She wouldn’t want to miss you, I’m sure. And I think she’s brought your friend.”

Mig’s heart leapt but he refused to be diverted. He said, “Is there any indication where my ancestor’s body was buried?”

Dunstan looked over his shoulder and said, “I’m sorry, no. The only consolation must be that, as he was not a priest and was never condemned by trial, he would not have suffered the customary mutilations. But I doubt if he received an individual burial. Probably he would have been thrown into the common pit to which the bodies of criminals and paupers were committed. But do not worry. You of all people must be sure that God knows where he rests.”

Mig stood up. His mind told him it was over even though he felt no sense of completion.

He tossed the Tyrwhitt document on to the desk.

“Do with it what you will,” he said.

“You are sure of this?” said Dunstan, turning from the window. “You do not want to show it to Dr. Coldstream and discuss it with him?”

He’s playing with me, thought Mig. Just as Frek did. It must be in the blood.

He wasn’t sure of anything except that he wanted to be out of here.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he said.

He picked up his briefcase and headed for the door.

Before he could reach it, it was flung open and Sam burst into the room.

He felt joy. No puzzlement, no doubt, no uncertainty, just sheer unadulterated joy which for that moment banished all those other negative emotions. If she had run to his arms he would have embraced her without reserve.

But she didn’t even acknowledge his presence.

Behind her stood Frek, looking for the first time in their acquaintance slightly flushed and out of breath.

Sam advanced till she was only a couple of feet in front of the old man she’d seen looking from the window.

“You’re Dunstan Woollass?” cried Sam. “Of course you are. I recognize the eyes. You know who I am?”

She ripped the hat off her head as if the sight of her disfigured skull would aid identification.