‘I thought it was you. I reckon I still know your walk after all these years.’ A long brown hand went up to the mass of disguising beard, the curly hair. ‘You don’t know me, do you, under all this? Peter. Peter Naulls.’

19

They sat on the Altar, watching the sun go down. It lay like a crimson ball on the horizon but only after it had sunk did the sky turn red, as red as the heart of a fire. Peter lit a cigarette, pushed the wooden matchstick deep into the earth.

‘I used to dream about Vangmoor while I was on my travels,’ he said. ‘It gets you that way if you’ve been brought up here. I’ve been all round the world, walking mostly, going on buses, getting lifts, but the longer I was away the more I got to thinking about the moor and — well, missing it.’

‘How long were you away?’ Stephen asked.

‘Years. I lived in Kathmandu, in the place they call Freak Street, for two years. I was a freak, I was all spaced out, I can tell you. There was a doctor there, he reckoned I’d die if I went on the way I was, so I came home. I’ve even got a job.’

‘Here?’ Stephen hazarded.

‘In London. Hospital porter. Christ, Stephen, I sometimes wish I’d been bred up to a trade like you. What use is an English degree?’

Stephen looked at him in wonder. ‘When did you come back from — Kathmandu?’

‘Christmas, it must have been.’

‘They’ve taken your picture away at Uncle Leonard’s. Last time I was there it was gone.’

‘Like I’m dead to them? You didn’t think I stayed with them when I came up here, did you?’

‘You could stay with me,’ Stephen said.

‘You’re married, aren’t you?’

Stephen shook his head vehemently. ‘I’d like you to stay with me. I’ve got a big empty house, all those empty rooms. Whenever you want to come up to the moor you can always stay with me.’

It was a sidelong glance Peter gave him, one eyebrow raised. ‘I’ve got a place to stay.’

‘With me it wouldn’t cost you anything. You could come and go as you liked, you’d be free.’

Peter didn’t really answer that. He said, ‘There’s a girl I know in Loomlade, we’ve known each other since we were kids. It’s her I come up to see.’ He got up. ‘Let’s go. It’ll be dark soon and I’ve got a long walk ahead of me.’

‘But we’ll meet again, won’t we?’

‘Sure. Why not?’

They walked along the avenue together. Stephen asked when Peter was going back. Sunday, not till Sunday. He wanted to ask about the girl, he wanted to ask if she had long fair hair, but he didn’t quite dare so he asked her name instead.

‘Stella. Stella Crane. Her dad keeps the electrical shop. You and me, when we were kids, we went in there once and bought a torch battery. Remember?’

Did he remember! Stephen’s heart was full. He began to laugh with joy. He had to stand still and hold his sides, he was laughing so much.

‘What’s so funny?’ Peter was looking at him oddly again, looking him up and down.

‘I’m so happy,’ Stephen gasped. ‘Lord, I’m so happy it just makes me laugh, I don’t know why. It’s so terrific to see you, it’s amazing. It’s what I needed, d’you understand me?’

‘I don’t know that I do.’ Peter closed the gate, stood at the point where the path divided, one branch descending the fell to Chesney, the other curving away over Foinmen’s Plain. He said rather awkwardly, ‘It’s been good seeing you, Stephen.’

‘Ring me before you go back? Say you will. I’m in the book.’

‘Sure. Sure, I will, Stephen.’

‘We mustn’t lose sight of each other again.’ Stephen put out his hand. He didn’t know quite why he had done this, whether he expected Peter to shake it or hold it, and perhaps it was as well Peter didn’t seem to see that outstretched hand in the gathering dusk. For a moment, though, it seemed to him that he had put out his hand in order to hold onto Peter and stop him going away. ‘Good night,’ he said, and wistfully, repeating himself, ‘We’ll meet again?’

Walking away, Peter laughed. His voice came very clear in the windless twilight. ‘You know where to find me. Good night.’ He looked back once and gave Stephen a wave. Stephen watched him until he was out of sight, and that was for a long time, for the Plain stretched more or less fiat to the east of Ringer’s Foin and in the dusk Peter’s white sweater showed up as a moving glimmer.

They hadn’t mentioned the mine or Apsley Sough. That was because they hadn’t needed to, Stephen thought, or because what it meant to both of them was too deep for words at this their first meeting. Besides, Peter had referred to it. He couldn’t have done so more delicately and subtly than by speaking of the day they had bought that torch battery in Crane’s shop, the very day, Stephen remembered and knew Peter remembered too, when they had found the entrance to the mine. Perhaps Peter had been wise in refusing to come and stay in his house. Houses only trammelled people like them. It was up here in the open that such as they must meet. Probably Peter would phone him tomorrow. He would phone and then they would go to the mine together.

With nightfall the rain began again. It was a slow steady fine rain. Stephen went up to his bedroom, remembering that ‘first thing’ in the morning the police were due to search the house. On the foot of his bed, on the turned-back covers, was Harriet Crozier’s handbag.

Slowly he emptied everything out of it onto the sheet. Every object was quite small, the largest item being Harriet’s notebook and that was no more than six inches by four. Stephen reflected. He couldn’t burn the things, there were no fireplaces in the house. Nor would he dare put the things in his dustbin. Lyn had probably asked her mother to send the rest of her clothes on to her but as yet Mrs Newman hadn’t put in an appearance to do this and a great many of Lyn’s possessions remained in the house. Stephen hesitated for a moment longer and then he put the empty handbag with Lyn’s three handbags, the lipstick and eye liner in the drawer with Lyn’s make-up, and the coins with the loose change in his own trouser pocket. Why not carry the rest of the things on him tomorrow? They would search the house but they wouldn’t search him.

He slept soundly but he was awake early and up by seven. The police’s ‘first thing’ was 8.30 and Stephen thought Troth seemed impressed by the sight of him standing at the sink washing up his breakfast dishes. A guilty man wouldn’t be washing up when the police came to search his house for evidence to convict him of murder. From time to time, though not in the presence of Troth and the others, he patted his pockets and nearly giggled when he felt there Harriet Crozier’s purse and notebook and cheque book and credit card.

But after an hour or two he felt so triumphantly certain they hadn’t found anything and weren’t going to find anything — after all, what was there to find? — that when he watched them poking about with his clothes and crawling about the floors it made him start giggling. Troth, picking at a pustule with the fingernail of his little finger, asked him where his wife was and Stephen said he didn’t know, she had left him.

Troth’s wedge face sharpened and his eyes came even closer together. It was all Stephen could do to suppress his amusement. He could see the way Troth’s mind was working, the conclusion he was fast jumping to.

‘I don’t know where she is,’ Stephen said, ‘but my mother-in-law does. You’ve only got to go across the road and ask.’

The look on Troth’s face, guarded disappointment, was such as to make Stephen let out a roar of laughter. It was very satisfying that Troth didn’t seem to despise him any more. He looked as if he were scared of him or at least wary. They finished with the house by half past twelve and more or less put things back where they had found them. Troth said nothing about wanting to see him again or to expect a visit later in the day. He went into the Newmans’ house but he was only there ten minutes.