The Stranger House

8 a bit bloody late

Mig Madero stared at the door for a while after the strange apparition had vanished. Could he have conjured it up himself? Perhaps. To a man who rarely felt the world of spirits was more than an idle thought away, such a thing was not impossible. But the creature’s slight body had seemed full of life. A child of the house, perhaps? A girlchild, from the luxuriant red hair, though the loose T-shirt had given little hint of breasts…

Firmly he pushed the thought from his mind, finished unpacking, sat down on the bed and stared at the wall.

What was it she had said? I’m next door. A weird thing to say. And that accent, made worse by the high pitch of her voice! Definitely a child and not a very bright one.

He was trying to use the interruption to keep at bay memory of what had happened—or hadn’t happened—to him earlier. He rubbed the palms of his hands, flexed his feet. No pain, but still the echo of pain. He felt he ought to be tired after the long day’s journey. Instead he found he was wide awake.

He’d entered the pub like a fugitive seeking sanctuary. In the bar the landlady had been ringing ‘time’ and trying to persuade her customers to leave. He’d introduced himself briefly from the hallway and followed her directions to his room. After that nightmare drive, perhaps he should have taken a walk first, got some fresh air, but lights and the closeness of human company had seemed essential.

Now he was back in control. Anyway, if God wanted to frighten the shit out of you, He could just as easily do it in a well-lit crowded room. Night and mist themselves held no fears that man didn’t put there. A breath of air would be very welcome.

He stood up, taking care to bow his head so that it didn’t crack against the huge crossbeam. This was the kind of room for a man to learn humility in.

Quietly he opened the door and glided silently down the stairs.

He could still hear voices in the bar. The landlady’s persuasions must have fallen on stony ground. Or, rather, saturated ground! He went down the narrow lobby and out into the night, pulling the door to behind him.

Little light escaped through the heavily curtained barroom windows and out here it was almost pitch-black till you looked up and saw the breathtaking sweep of stars across the now cloudless sky. The time might come when, either through the inevitable decay of energy, or perhaps because someone had counted all the names of God, one by one the stars would go out.

But here and now, even though his here and now was millennia out of step with some of the stars he was looking at, all he could do was gaze up and feel gratitude for being part of this beautiful creation, and fear at the thought of just how small a part.

Across the road he could hear the tumult of the invisible river. Trees rustled in the still gusting wind. Something moved between him and the stars, a bird, a bat, he could not tell. Nor could he tell whether the distant screech he heard somewhere up the dark bulk of rising ground beyond the river was the sound of birth or the sound of death.

Probably neither. Probably just the noise made by some inoffensive creature going about its inoffensive business. Certainly, for which he gave many thanks, there were no voices in the wind.

Behind him the pub door opened, spilling light on to his darkness, and a trio of men came out. They stopped short as they saw him. Two of them were almost identical, broad and muscular, with heads that looked as if they’d been rough-hewn by a sculptor’s apprentice whose master hadn’t found time to finish them. They stared at him with an unblinking blankness which, if encountered in certain dubious areas of Seville, would have had him running in search of light. The third, however, a tall man with a shock of vigorous grey hair and a merry eye, addressed him in a reassuringly cheerful tone.

‘Good evening to you, sir. A fine night to be taking the air.’

‘Fine indeed,’ said Madero courteously. ‘And a good evening to you too.’

‘You are staying here, are you, sir? Let me guess. You are the Spanish scholar come to discover why we are the way we are.’

‘You have the advantage of me,’ said Madero.

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude, but two interesting strangers in one day is enough to distract our simple minds from courtesy. Thor Winander, at your service.’

He offered his hand. Madero took it and found himself drawn closer.

‘Michael Madero,’ he said.

‘Madero. Like the sherry firm?’

‘Not like. The same.’

‘Indeed! Ah, el fino Bastardo, delicioso y delicado.’

He smacked his lips as he uttered this rather poorly pronounced version of an old advertising slogan.

Madero withdrew his hand and bowed his head in silent acknowledgement and Winander continued, ‘It will be a blessing to have some intelligent conversation and news of the outside world. My companions, though excellent fellows in their way, are not famed for their taste or wit. But if you want a ditch cleared or a grave dug, they are nonpareil. Goodnight to you, Mr Madero.’

‘Goodnight,’ said Madero.

The men went on their way, talking in subdued voices and occasionally glancing back at him. One of them had a torch and its beam dipped and danced across the road and over the bridge till finally it vanished in the mass of land rising on the far side.

The light from the still open door made the darkness all around seem even denser now and the stars were nothing but a smear of frost across the black glass of the firmament. He shivered and went inside.

As he reached the foot of the stairs, Edie Appledore appeared.

‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Found your room all right, did you, Mr Madero?’

‘Yes, thank you. And by the way, it is Mathero,’ he said gently, correcting both stress and pronunciation.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I knew that because that’s the way Gerry Woollass says it. Which was what I wanted to catch you for. I forgot earlier, I was so busy, but he left a message asking if you could make it ten o’clock at the Hall tomorrow, not half nine as arranged.’

‘Thank you. It will suit me very well to have an extra half-hour in bed.’

‘Been a long journey, has it?’

‘From my mother’s house in Hampshire.’

‘That’s a right trip. You’ll need your rest. Care for a nightcap? Not always easy to sleep in a strange bed, not even when you’re tired.’

‘Thank you. That would be nice.’

‘Right. No, not in there,’ she said as he made to step into the bar. ‘I’ve seen enough of that place for one night.’

She led him down the corridor into a kitchen.

Madero glanced from the huge table to the small windows and the narrow door and said, ‘How on earth did they get this in here?’

‘Didn’t,’ said Mrs Appledore. ‘Built it on the spot, they reckon, so it’s almost as old as the building. I’ve been offered thousands for it, and the guy was going to pay for having it dismantled and taken out. I was tempted. Sit yourself down. Brandy OK?’

‘That would be fine,’ said Madero, seating himself on a kitchen chair whose provenance he guessed to be Ikea. ‘But you resisted the temptation out of principle?’

‘No. Superstition. Round here they think you change something, you pay a price.’

She opened a cupboard, produced a bottle and two glasses, filled them generously and sat down alongside Madero.

‘Your health,’ he said. ‘Ah, I see why you don’t keep this stuff in the bar.’

‘They’d not pay what I’d need to ask, and if they did, most of ‘em wouldn’t appreciate it.’

‘But they appreciate some old things, it seems,’ said Madero, running his hand along the top edge of the table then beneath it, tracing the ancient cuts and scars. It was like touching the corpse of a battle-scarred warrior. He got a strong reminder of that pain and fear he’d experienced earlier and withdrew his hand quickly, suppressing a shudder.

‘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 travellers 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 neighbour’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 questionshow 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 enquiries. 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 colours!

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 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.