She picked up the Guide and ran lightly down the narrow stairs which nonetheless squeaked their tuneless tune, reminding her that she hadn’t heard a thing when her mysterious neighbour ascended the previous night. Perhaps he was a ghost after all.
If so, he was a ghost with a good appetite. She found him sitting in the bar tucking into the breakfast version of last night’s supper.
She gave him a nod but he didn’t even look up.
Mrs Appledore appeared almost instantly with coffee, cornflakes, and a mountain of thick-cut toast alongside half a churnful of butter and a pint of marmalade.
‘Round here, even foxes get hungry,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’s a grand morning.’
‘Yeah, a real beaut,’ said Sam.
She glanced again at the stranger, giving him a last chance to join the human race, and surprised a moue of distaste. Something in his breakfast? Or something in the way she spoke, more like. Well, stuff him!
‘So what are you planning to do?’ asked the landlady.
Her decision to be more upfront didn’t mean she had to lay out her plans, so she answered, ‘Thought I’d stroll down to the post office and buy some cards to send home.’
And dig for a bit of info as well as stocking up on chocolate supplies.
‘You’ll be lucky. It’s shut,’ said Mrs Appledore.
‘All day, you mean?’
‘No. I mean permanent. Since last year. It’s happening all over. Government!’
She uttered the word with a weary disdain that was more telling than ferocity.
‘Don’t like the government then?’ said Sam. ‘Shouldn’t have thought you’d have been much bothered up here.’
‘Once maybe, but not any more. Now you need to move fast as our Dark Man to keep ahead of them. Difference is, if they catch up, it’s likely you that dies. Just shout when you want more toast. How are you doing, Mr Madero?’
She was still careful with the pronunciation.
Mathero, thought Sam. More than just a mysterious stranger, a mysterious foreigner, which somehow made his response to her accent even more offensive.
But his voice when he replied was pure English, purer than hers anyway!
‘I’m doing very well, Mrs Appledore,’ he said with grave courtesy.
‘Good lad. We’ll soon get you fattened up.’
She left. Sam glanced at Mr Madero once more and this time caught his eye. She gave the small sympathetic smile of one who was often herself the object of other people’s fattening-up ambitions. He returned her gaze steadily but not her smile.
Determined not to risk another rebuff, Sam opened the Guide at random and began to read a passage about Illthwaite Hall and the Woollass family. The Reverend Peter K. clearly enjoyed the benefits of their influence and their board and was at pains to stress that, though they were Roman Catholics, this in no wise interfered with the pursuit of their many social and charitable duties as the chief family of the area.
Sam read at her usual rapid pace, her eye devouring the pages as fast as her mouth devoured toast, until her reaching hand encountered emptiness.
She raised her head and became aware of two mysteries. One was that Madero had somehow moved from his table to a stance by her left shoulder without attracting her attention. The second, equally unobserved and therefore far more worrying, was that the mountain of toast had somehow moved from the plate, presumably into her stomach.
‘Help you?’ she said.
He said, ‘Mrs Appledore mentioned the Guide to me and I wondered if I could have a look at it, when you’re finished, of course.’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘When I’m finished.’
She stood up and, tucking the book firmly beneath her arm, went through the door. In the hallway she met Mrs Appledore.
‘All done, my dear? Sure you don’t want something hot? Always start the day with a hot breakfast, my mam used to say. Never know when you’ll need your strength.’
‘I’ll just have to take my chances, I guess,’ she said. ‘Anyway, your other guest looks like he’s eating enough for two.’
‘Mr Madero? Well, he needs feeding up. I think he’s been ill, poor chap. And I doubt if they feed them much solid grub in them foreign seminaries.’
‘Seminaries?’
‘Oh yes. He was training to be a priest or something afore he got ill. Left-footer, like the squire,’ said Mrs Appledore confidentially.
‘Catholic, you mean?’
‘That’s right. You’re not one, are you, dear? I mean no offence.’
‘No I’m not. And you can mean all the offence you like,’ said Sam.
‘All I’m saying is, them draughty cloisters and all that kneeling on cold stones can’t do a man much good. At least in the C of E they appreciate a bit of comfort. Even old Reverend Paul—that’s our Rev. Pete’s dad, who was big on prayer and fasting, and salvation through suffering—kept the vicarage larder well stocked and the boilers well stoked. Rev. Pete likes his grub and his coal fire too.’
So, thought Sam. A wannabe priest. No wonder she hadn’t liked the look of him.
‘Will you be leaving today, dear?’ Mrs Appledore went on.
‘Not sure,’ said Sam. ‘Can I let you know later? Or do you need the room?’
The woman hesitated, then said, ‘No, not yet. But if you could let me know soon, in case someone turns up. I’d appreciate it.’
‘Sure,’ said Sam. ‘That’s great.’
She went outside. A black Mercedes SLK with a small crucifix and a St Christopher medallion dangling from the rear-view mirror was parked alongside her Focus. No prizes for guessing whose it was. She looked across the bridge to Stanebank. That track looked pretty steep. Best to take some provisions in case she walked off the toast too quickly.
She went to her car, unlocked the door and took her last Cherry Ripe out of the glove compartment. Her Ray-Ban Predators with the red mirror lenses were there too. These were a present from Martie which Sam had accepted with the ungraciousness permitted between friends, saying, ‘Thanks, but it’s Cambridge England I’m going to and they say you’ve more chance of seeing the sun in a rainforest.’ To which Martie had replied, ‘It’s not the sun I’m worried about, girl, it’s those basilisk eyes of yours. How’re you going to try out the Pom talent when a single glance from you reminds most men they’ve got an urgent dental appointment?’
What the hell? she thought. This may be the only time I really need shades.
She put them on and straightened up to discover that once again the pussy-footed Madero had contrived to follow her without making any noise. He was carrying a black briefcase and standing by the Merc, looking dubiously towards the humpback bridge.
Very fond of black, our Mr Madero, thought Sam. Or perhaps he’d just made a big investment in the colour when he was trying for the priesthood.
She strolled across the road on to the bridge where she paused to peer over the parapet. The Skad was no longer tumbling along like