Despite this, Lu needed more reassurance, asking after a while, “Sam, you sure you’re OK?”
“I told you, Ma. Fit as a butcher’s dog.”
“It’s just that a couple of times recently I got this feeling…”
“Ma, is this some of your my people stuff?”
“Mock my people, you’re mocking yourself, girl. I’m just telling you what I’ve been told. You watch out for a stranger, Sam.”
“Ma, I’m in England. They’re all bleeding strangers!”
Mrs. Appledore had left the kitchen to give her some privacy. When she finished her call, Sam blew her nose, then headed for the door. The winding gear to raise the hams caught her eye and she paused to examine it. Instead of a simple wheel-and-axle system, it had three gearing cogwheels. Between two blinks of her eye, her mind measured radiuses, turned them into circumferences, counted cogs, and calculated lifting power.
“Real antiques those. As old as the house, they say. Ropes been changed of course, but ’part from a bit of oiling, they’re just the same as they were when some old monk put them together,” said Mrs. Appledore from the doorway.
“Clever old monk,” said Sam. “This is real neat work. Did they have bigger pigs in those days? With this gearing you could hoist a whole porker, if the rope held.”
“Bigger appetites maybe. Talking of which, you left your sandwich on the bar. I’ve wrapped it in a napkin so you can eat it as you walk to the church. And here’s a front-door key in case I’m out when you get back. And I thought this old guidebook might help you if you’re looking round the village. Better than that useless leaflet.”
She proffered a leather-bound volume, almost square in shape.
“That’s kind,” said Sam, taking the book and opening it at the title page.
A GUIDE to ILLTHWAITE and its ENVIRONS being a brief introduction to the history, architecture, and economy
of the parish of Illthwaite in Skaddale in the
County of Cumberland,
with maps and illustrations,
prepared by the Reverend Peter K. Swinebank DD
Vicar of St. Ylf’s Church, Illthwaite,
assisted by Anthony Woollass Esquire of Illthwaite Hall.
Printed at the Lunar Press, Whitehaven mdcccxciv
“Eighteen ninety-four,” she worked out. “Isn’t this valuable? I’d love to borrow it, but I’m worried about damaging it.”
“Don’t be daft,” said the woman comfortably. “I’ve loaned it to worse than you and it’s come to no harm.”
Worse than you. Had to be a compliment in there somewhere, thought Sam.
“Then thank you so much.”
“Think nowt of it,” said the woman. “Enjoy the church. See you later. Don’t forget your sandwich.”
“Won’t do that in a hurry. See you later!”
Outside, she found the drizzle which had accompanied her most of the way from London seemed at last to have given up. She reached into her hired car parked on the narrow forecourt and opened the glove compartment. There were three Cherry Ripes in there. She’d been incredulous when Martie, whose gorgeous looks had earned her more air miles than most Qantas pilots by the time she left uni, had told her you couldn’t get them outside of Oz. Life without a daily injection of this cherry-and-coconut mix in its dark chocolate wrapping had seemed impossible and she’d stuffed a month’s supply into her flight bag. Unfortunately the ravages of Heathrow Customs had been followed by the rapine of the Aussie friends she’d stayed with in London, and now she was down to her last three. She slipped two of them into her bumbag, one to eat on her walk to the church, one for emergencies.
Then she took one of them out and replaced it in the compartment.
Knowing yourself was the beginning of wisdom, and she had still to find a way of not consuming every bit of chocolate available once she started.
The landlady had followed her to the front door. In case she’d noticed the business with the Cherry Ripes, Sam held up the cob and nibbled appreciatively at one of the dangling skirts of ham. Then with the Illthwaite Guide tucked under one arm, she set off along the road.
Mrs. Appledore stood and watched her guest out of sight, then turned and went back into the Stranger House, slipping the bolt into the door behind her. In her kitchen she lifted the telephone and dialed. After three rings, it was answered.
“Thor, it’s Edie,” she said. “Something weird. I’ve got a lass staying here, funny little thing, would pass for a squirrel if you glimpsed her in the wood, skin brown as a nut, hair red as rowan berries. Looks about twelve, but from her passport she’s early twenties… Don’t interrupt, I’m coming to the point. Her name’s Sam Flood… That’s right. Sam for Samantha Flood, it’s in her passport. She’s from Australia, got an accent you could scratch glass with, and she thinks her grandmother might have come from these parts… 1960, spring… Yes, ’60, so it’s got to be just coincidence, but I thought I’d mention it. She’s off up to the church to see if there’s any records… Yes, I’ll be there, but not till he’s well screwed down. I’ll take your word the little bugger’s dead!”
2. A turbulent priest
Sam Flood and Miguel Madero saw each other for the first time in a motorway service café to the west of Manchester but neither would ever recall the encounter.
Sam was sitting at a table with a double espresso and a chocolate muffin which was far too sweet but she ate it anyway. She glanced up to see Madero passing with a cappuccino and a cream doughnut. Though he wore no clerical collar, there was something about him – his black clothing, the ascetic thinness of his face – which put her in mind of a Catholic priest, and she looked away. For his part all he registered was an unaccompanied child whose exuberance of red hair could have done with a visit to the barber, but most of his attention was focused on maintaining the delicate relationship between an unreliable left knee and an overfull cup of coffee.
She left five minutes before he did and they spent the next hour only a couple of miles apart in heavy traffic. Then a van blew a tire a hundred yards behind her and spun into a truck. Miraculously no one was seriously hurt, but as Sam’s Focus sped merrily north, Madero and his Mercedes SLK fumed gently in the accident’s tailback.
From having time to spare for his two o’clock appointment in Kendal, he was already half an hour late as he reached the town’s southern approaches.
On the map Kendal looked to be a quiet little market town on the eastern edge of the English Lake District, but there seemed to be some local law requiring all traffic in Cumbria to pass along its main street, which meant it was after three when he drew up before the chambers of Messrs. Tenderley, Gray, Groyne, and Southwell, solicitors.
Knowing how highly lawyers price their time, he was full of apology as he was shown into the office of Andrew Southwell.
“Not at all, not at all, think nothing of it,” said Southwell, a small round man in his early thirties who pumped his hand with painful enthusiasm. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Professor Coldstream speaks very warmly of you. Very warmly indeed.”
“And of you too,” said Madero.
In fact what Max Coldstream had said when he mentioned Kendal was, “You’re in luck there, Mig. Chap called Southwell, Kendal solicitor, and mad keen local historian. OK, so he’s an amateur, but that can be an advantage. Professional historians on the whole are a deceitful, distrusting, conniving and secretive bunch of bastards who would direct a blind man up a blind alley rather than risk giving him an advantage. Enthusiastic amateurs on the other hand may lack scholarship but they often have bucketloads of information which they are eager to share. Painfully eager, if you’re in a hurry!”
It only took a couple of minutes for Madero to appreciate Coldstream’s warning.