“Pay him no heed, Miss Flood,” said the landlady. “ Ill ’s nowt to do with sick or nasty. It comes from St. Ylf’s, our church, and thwaite’s an old Viking word for a bit of land that’s been cleared.”

“So how come the old boy bad-mouths his own village?”

“Old Noddy Melton’s not local,” said Mrs. Appledore, as if this explained everything. “He retired here a few years back to follow his hobby, which is getting up people’s noses. Poor old pensioner indeed! What he gets now is more than most ordinary folk take home while they’re still working. And you need plenty to pay the Powderham’s fancy prices, believe me!”

Sam had noticed the Powderham Arms Hotel as she turned into Skaddale. In fact, not knowing what Illthwaite might offer by way of accommodation, she’d tried to get a room there but found it was booked up. The Stranger House on the other hand, despite its unfancy prices, had been able to give her a choice of its two guest rooms, though not before she and her passport had been subjected to the same kind of scrutiny she’d got from Heathrow Immigration who had broken open five of her Cherry Ripes before being persuaded they weren’t stuffed with crack.

She must have passed some kind of test because Mrs. Appledore had become quite voluble as she led the way upstairs. Wayfarers had been stopping here at the Stranger for more than five hundred years, she’d proclaimed proudly. Its curious name derived from the fact that it had once been the Stranger House of Illthwaite Priory, meaning the building where travelers could enjoy the monks’ hospitality for a night or two.

“That’s fascinating,” said Sam without conviction as she inspected the bedroom. For once she was glad she wasn’t any bigger. Even at her height, if she’d been wearing her Saturday-night heels, the central low black beam would have been a real danger.

“It’s a bit spooky, though,” she went on, looking out at the mist-shrouded landscape through the one small window.