Strange stuff, Will thought, as he laid the sheets back on the blotting pad. Though the word spiritual had been very severely ousted from the text, its presence lingered. Despite the dry humour, and chilly vocabulary of the text, it was the work of a man feeling his way towards a numinous vision; sensing, perhaps reluctantly, that his philosophies were out of breath, and it was time to let them die. Either that, or he'd written it dead drunk.

Will had lingered long enough. It was time he got on with the business of the day, the first portion of which was contacting Frannie and Sherwood. They needed to be told of events at the hospital, in case Steep came looking for them. Unlikely, perhaps, but possible. Returning to the living-room, Will found Adele busy on the phone, talking, he surmised, to the vicar. While he waited for the conversation to finish, he juggled the relative merits of delivering his message to the Cunninghams by phone or going down to the village to talk with them in person. By the time Adele had finished, he'd made his decision. This was not news to be delivered down the line; he'd speak to them face to face.

The funeral had been arranged for Friday, Adele told him, four days hence, at twothirty in the afternoon. Now that she had the date set she could start to organize the flowers, the cars and the catering. She'd already made a list of people to invite; was there anybody Will wanted to add? He told her he was sure her list was fine, and that if she was happy to get on with her arrangements he would take himself down to the village for an hour or so.

'I want you to bolt the front door when I'm not here,' he told her.

'Whatever for?'

'I don't want any ... strangers coming into the house.'

'I know everybody,' she said blithely. Then, seeing that he wasn't reassured, said: 'Why are you so concerned?'

He had anticipated her question and had a meagre lie prepared. He'd overheard a couple of nurses talking at the hospital, he told her: there was a man in the area who'd been trying to talk his way into people's homes. He then described Steep, albeit vaguely, so that she didn't become suspicious about the story. He was by no means certain he'd succeeded in this, but no matter: as long as he'd sowed sufficient anxiety to keep her from letting Steep in, he'd done all he could.

i

He didn't go straight to the Cunningham house, but stopped off at the newsagent's for a pack of cigarettes. Adele had apparently spoken to others besides the vicar while Will had been in the study, because Miss Morris already knew about Hugo's demise. 'He was a fine man,' she said. 'When's the funeral?' He told her Friday. 'I'll close up shop,' she said. 'I want to be there to pay my respects. He'll be missed, your father.'

Frannie was at home, in the midst of housework, apron on, hair roughly pinned up, duster and polish in hand. She greeted Will with her usual warmth, inviting him in and offering coffee. He declined.

'I need to talk to you both,' he said. 'Where's Sherwood?'

'Out,' she said. 'He disappeared early this morning, while I was still getting up.'

'Is that unusual?'

'No, not when he's feeling unwell. He goes up into the hills, sometimes stays out all day, just walking. Why, what's happened?'

'A great deal, I'm afraid. Do you want to sit down?'

'That bad?'

'I don't know if it's bad or good right now,' he said.

Frannie untied her apron and they sat in the armchairs either side of the cold hearth. 'I'll keep this as short as I can,' he said, and gave her a five-minute summary of events at the hospital. She offered a few words of condolence regarding Hugo, but then kept her silence until he reported on the effect the name Rukenau had had upon Rosa and Jacob.

'I remember that name,' she said. 'It's in the book, isn't it? Rukenau was the man who hired Thomas Simeon. But how does that all fit with the happy couple?'

'They're not a happy couple any more,' Will said, and went on to tell her the rest. Her expression grew more astonished by the moment.

'He killed her?' she said.

'I don't know if she's dead. But if she isn't it's a miracle.'

'Oh my Lord. So what happens now?'

'Eventually Steep's going to want to finish what he started. He may wait until dark, he may

'Just come knocking.'

Will nodded. 'You should pack up a few things and get ready to leave as soon as Sherwood comes home.'

'You think Steep'll come here?'

'He may. He's been here before.'

Frannie glanced towards the front door. 'Oh ... yes ...' she said softly ... . I still dream about it. Dad in the kitchen, Sher on the stairs; me with the book in my hand, not wanting to give it to him-'she had visibly paled in the last few moments. 'I have a horrible feeling, Will. About Sherwood.' She got to her feet, wringing her hands. 'What if he's with them?'

'Why are you even thinking that?'

'Because he never quite let go of Rosa. In fact he thought about her all the time, I'm pretty sure. He only admitted to it once or twice, but she was never far from his mind.'

'All the more reason you should pack and be ready to go,' Will said, getting to his feet. 'I want us out of here the moment Sherwood comes back.'

She headed out into the hall, talking as she went. Will followed. 'You said earlier you weren't sure whether the news was good or bad,' she remarked. 'Seems to me, it's all bad.'

'Not for me it isn't,' Will said, 'I've been living in Steep's shadow for thirty years, and now I'm going to be free of him.'

'If he doesn't kill you,' Frannie said.

'I'll still be free.'

She stared at him. 'It's as desperate as that?' she said.

'It is what it is,' he replied, with a little shrug. 'You know, I don't regret knowing him: he made me who I am, and how can I regret being me?'

'I'm sure a lot of people do. Being who they are, I mean.'

'Well, I'm not one of 'em,' he said. 'I've got a lot more out of my life than I ever thought I would.'

'And now?'

'Now I've got to move on. And I can feel it happening. Things moving in me.'

'I want you to tell me.'

'I don't think I've got the words,' he said. He smiled. Then, seeing the quizzical look on her face, he said: 'I'm ... excited. I know that sounds weird, but I am. I was afraid there wouldn't be closure to all of this. Now I'm going to have it, one way or another.'

She broke her gaze, and hurried upstairs, calling back down to him as she reached the landing. 'Have you got any way of defending yourself against him?'

'Yes I have.'

'Are you going to tell me what?'

'Just something,' he said, reaching inside his jacket and touching the knife, which he had not done since picking it up. He felt the thrill of its history in his fingers, and knew he should let it go. But his flesh refused. His fingers tightened around the gummy hilt, instantly addicted to the rush it supplied. Oh the harm this knife could do-lt would not be hard to kill Steep; to slide the blade deep into his unhappy flesh and stop his heart. And if he had no heart to stop, then the knife would just go on cutting holes in him, until he was a thing of scraps, with the life pouring out everywhere.

'Will?'

Frannie was calling from upstairs.

'Yes?'

'Didn't you hear me? I've been yelling.'

Lost in the blade's brutalities, he hadn't heard a word. 'Is there a problem?' he called back, opening his jacket as he did so. His hand was still clamped to the hilt of the knife, his knuckles white.'I'd just like a cup of tea!' Frannie yelled back.

It was such an absurd contrast - the knife in his hand, filthy with Row's juices, and Frannie's thirst for tea - that it snapped him from his reverie completely. He pulled his knife-hand free, and closed his jacket as though he were slamming Pandora's Box.