The Stranger House

by Reginald Hill

  “You OK, Mr. Madero?” said the woman.

  “Fine. A little tired perhaps. What an interesting old building this is. Was it always an inn?”

  “No. There used to be a priory hereabouts and this is what’s left of the old Stranger House — that’s where visitors and travelers could be put up without letting them into the priory proper.”

  “And it became an inn after the priory was pulled down by Henry’s men?”

  “Know a bit about history, do you? I suppose you would. Not right off, I don’t think. But it was so handy placed, right alongside the main road, that it made sense. It’s all in the old guidebook the vicar wrote back in the eighteen hundreds. I’ve got a copy. I loaned it to Miss Flood when she arrived, but you can have it soon as she’s done.”

  “Miss Flood?”

  “My other guest. In the room next to yours.”

  “Oh yes. The red-haired child. I saw her.”

  Mrs. Appledore laughed.

  “No child. She’s a grown woman. OK, not much grown, but she’s over twenty-one. Says she’s looking for background on her grandmother who emigrated to Australia way back. I think she’s been steered wrong, so she’ll probably be on her way soon. You know how restless young women are these days.”

  “Are they?” he said. “I haven’t noticed.”

  “No, you’ll not have been around them much, I daresay. Whoops. Sorry.”

  Madero studied her over his glass then said pleasantly, “You seem to know quite a lot about me, Mrs. Appledore.”

  She said, “All I really know is you’re writing a book or something about the old Catholic families, right? No secrets in a village, especially not if it’s called Illthwaite.”

  “So I see. But if you know all about me, it is perhaps fair if I get some inside information in return to prepare myself. What kind of man is Mr. Woollass, for instance?”

  “Gerry? He’s a fair man, I’d say. Not an easy man, but a good one certainly. There’s not many folk in Skaddale won’t bear testimony to that. But he’s not soft. You’ll not get by him without an inquisition.”

  He noted her choice of word.

  “Is there a Mrs. Woollass?” he asked.

  She hesitated then said, “Probably best you know, else you could put your foot in it. There was a wife. In fact, there still is in his eyes, him being a left-footer, sorry, Catholic. She ran off a few years back with the chef from the hotel down the valley.”

  She suddenly laughed and said, “Come to think of it, if I remember right, he was Spanish, so I’d definitely keep away from the subject!”

  Her laugh was infectious and Madero smiled too, then asked, “Children?”

  “One daughter. She was at university when it happened, but it seems like she sided with Gerry.”

  “You call him Gerry,” he said. “You are good friends?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice,” she said. “But what should I call him? Sir, and curtsy when he comes into the bar?”

  “So you are all democrats in Cumbria? It’s not quite the same in Hampshire.”

  “Oh well, but Hampshire,” she replied as if he’d said Illyria. “It’ll be nobs and yobs down there. Don’t mistake me, we’ve got a pecking order. But we’ve all been to the same school, up till eleven at least, and most families have been around long enough to have seen everyone else’s dirty linen. It’s not whether you’re chapel or Catholic, rich or poor, red or blue that matters. It’s what you do when your neighbor’s heifer gets stuck in Mecklin Moss on a dirty night or his power line comes down on Christmas Day.”

  “You make it sound like an ideal community,” he said.

  “Don’t be daft,” she said. “We’re all weak humans like anywhere else. But for better or worse, we stick together. And Gerry Woollass is part of the glue.”

  He smiled and finished his drink.

  “I too am a weak human, and I think I’d better get some sleep. By the way, I couldn’t find a phone point in my room.”

  “Likely because there isn’t one,” she said. “Is that a problem?”

  “Only if I wanted to get online with my laptop. No problem. I’ll use my mobile.”

  “Not round here you won’t,” she said. “Had to tell Miss Flood the same. No signal. But feel free to use my phone here whenever you want, no need to ask.”

  “Thank you. And thanks also for the drink and the conversation. I look forward to talking with you again.”

  He meant it. She was a comfortable companion.

  “Me too, Mr. Madero,” she said, carefully getting it right this time. “Sleep well.”

  “Thank you. Goodnight.”

  She watched him leave the kitchen, noting his careful gait. But despite what she perceived as a slight stiffness in his left leg, he moved very lightly, passing up the stairs with scarcely a telltale creak.

  Two interesting guests in one day, she thought. The girl she’d be glad to see the back of, but this one was rather intriguing, and sexy too in that mysterious foreign way. Talking to him would make a change from the usual barroom fare of local gossip and tales she’d heard a hundred times already.

  She wondered if the monks had felt like this about the strangers who sought shelter here, eating their simple food perhaps at this very same table. Or had they blocked their ears to news from the great world outside, doubting it could be anything but bad? In the long run, they’d been right. Fat Henry’s men from London had come riding up the valley and made them listen and told them their way of life was all over. Nowadays they didn’t come on horseback. In fact usually they didn’t come at all, just sent directives and regulations and development plans. But the message was still the same.

  She poured herself another glass of brandy and pulled her chair closer to the fire. The heat had almost died away, only a hollow dome of coal remained, at the heart of which a thin blue flame fluttered one of those membranes of ash which in the old stories always presaged the arrival of a stranger.

  “Bit bloody late, as usual,” said Edie Appledore, sipping her drink. “Bit bloody late.”

  PART THREE

  THE DEATH OF BALDER

  This was the greatest woe ever visited on men or gods, and after he fell, everyone there lost the power of speech.

  Snorri Sturluson Prose Edda

  If you want to be clever learn how to ask questions how to answer them also.

  “The Sayings of the High One” Poetic Edda

  1

  The last prime number

  NEXT MORNING SAM WOKE TO SUNLIGHT, the first she’d seen since dropping through the clouds over Heathrow four days earlier.

  She opened her window wide. What she could see of Illthwaite looked a lot more attractive in the sunshine. In front of her across the Skad the ground rose unrelentingly to a range of hills which looked so close in the clear air that she felt she could trot up there before breakfast. But a glance at her map told her they were four miles away.

  She found Winander’s house, the Forge, marked on the map. It was on a narrow road, presumably Stanebank, snaking uphill from the humpback bridge almost opposite the pub. Half a mile further on Illthwaite Hall was marked. She raised her eyes again and finally managed to spot an outcrop of chimneys. Their size gave her a proper sense of scale and put paid to any residual notion she might have of a quick walk up to the ridge.

  Of the Forge she could see nothing, but a column of smoke rising into the morning air seemed likely to mark its presence.

  In the bright light of morning, her discovery of the churchyard inscription felt far less sinister and significant. There was probably a simple explanation and all she had to do was ask. She’d start with Winander. Did his invitation have a more than commercial motive? Then there was the impish little Mr. Melton who’d hinted he might be able to assist her with her inquiries. Finally there was Rev. Pete who’d looked ripe to have any hidden info shaken out of him.

  She leaned out of the window and took a deep breath. The air still retained its night coolness, but there wasn�
��t a cloud in the sky and things would surely warm up as the sun got higher. She backed her judgment by putting on shorts. She thought of topping them with her skimpiest halter but decided maybe Illthwaite wasn’t ready for that. Also she didn’t want to flaunt her bruised shoulder, so she opted for a green-and-gold T-shirt. Might as well fly the colors!

  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 neighbor 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 anymore. 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 offense.”

  “No I’m not. And you can mean all the offense you like,” said Sam.

  “All I’m saying is, them drafty 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 rearview 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 rain forest.” 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 pussyfooted Madero had contrived to follow her without making any noise. He was carrying a black briefcase and standing by the Merc, looking dubiously toward the humpback bridge.

  Very fond of black, our Mr. Madero, thought Sam. Or perhaps he’d just made a big investment in the color 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 brown coffee flecked with milky foam, but moving much more smoothly with nothing but sun starts breaking its surface. She watched for a moment then turned to walk on. There he was again, right behind her.

  “You following me, or something?” she said.

  “No,” he said, surprised. “This is Stanebank, I believe, which I’m reliably informed I need to ascend to reach my destination. It doesn’t look a sensible road to take my car up, even if it got over this bridge without scraping the exhaust.”

  “Why’d you want to drive anyway?” said Sam. “It’s only a step.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  He nodded at her rather curtly and set off. After a few moments, Sam follow
ed, already nibbling her chocolate. He was moving quite quickly but she didn’t doubt her ability to overtake him. Bleeding townie, probably doesn’t feel safe being more than a few yards from his car, she thought.

  But as the track steepened and she came up close behind him, she detected a slight unevenness in his gait. Mrs. Appledore said he’d been ill and the poor bastard was definitely favoring his left leg. Her own bruised hip gave a twinge as if in sympathy. She saw him switch the briefcase, which looked quite heavy, from one hand to the other as if to adjust his balance. All at once her plan to move smoothly by him, offering a nod as curt as his own, seemed pretty mean-spirited.

  She fell into step alongside him and said, “Great to see the sun, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” he said.

  He spoke evenly but she thought she detected an effort not to let her see he was breathing hard.

  She said, “Like a bit of choc?”

  He glanced at the bar and said, “You did not get enough toast for breakfast?”

  “Yeah, plenty. You were counting?”

  “I tried but I lost count,” he said gravely.

  The bastard was taking the piss! At least it meant he was human.

  As if regretting the lapse, he went on quickly, “But thank you, no. It looks too dark for me. I prefer milk, English style.”

  “You do? I’d have guessed you’d have gone for black and bitter.”

  “Why so?”

  “I don’t know. The car. The gear you wear.”

  “I see. By the same token you should perhaps be eating a half-ripe lemon.”

  Another joke?

  Before she could pick her response he went on, “I’m sorry. I did not mean to imply your garments are anything other than attractive. Perhaps however we both err toward the episematic.”

  “Sorry, you’ve lost me.”

  “A zoological term referring to the use of color or markings to enable recognition within a species.”

  “Like I’m telling the world I’m Australian? Why not? And what are you telling the world? That you run errands for God?”