The street ended in a public library, grey stone and firmly shut. The street ran both ways below the church tower which was partly hidden again by intervening roofs.

Rachaela turned to the left and walked along the street. The shops were quaint here with bow windows and jolly holiday wares, painted milk jugs and carved animals, and the first crop of Easter eggs.

A policeman idled along the road. Rachaela mistrusted uniforms but that too would be stupid. She was lucky to find him.

‘Excuse me.’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘Is it possible to get a train from here to London?’

‘Why no, madam. You’d need to change at Fleasham,’ she was sure he said fleas, ‘and then at Poorly, on to the London line. Not a very regular service, I’m afraid.’

Who after all would wish to leave here for a spot like London?

The other station by which she had arrived would have been easier, only one change involved, but it was out in the wilds and she suspected, being unable to give them directions, no car firm would locate it successfully. Unless she found the original car firm which had picked her up, and she could not recall seeing their name. Besides, the Scarabae might assume she would attempt that station. They might send someone to intercept her, as once before. Here, there were the crowds, the out-of-season holidaymakers.

Her eye went back to the Easter eggs. Would it soon be spring? Would spring provide a camouflage?

‘Can you tell me the way to the station?’

‘I can, madam. But I can tell you, too, there’s no train connection at Fleasham to Poorly today. Not until Friday.’

Dare she ask him what day it was? No.

‘Where is the station, anyway?’

‘Top of Wagon Street. Over the river from St Bees.’ She was sure too he said Bees, as if all the names here were toytown names, designed to confuse and ridicule.

‘And that’s the church, there.’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘I’ve been trying to get to the church.’ Did it matter now? Yes, she must find her bearings.

‘You go down there, take a left at The Baker’s Arms and you’ll come to it directly.’

‘Thank you.’

She did not believe him.

But he might watch her, and so she set off the prescribed way.

The manner in which he spoke of ‘Friday’ indicated a long wait. Surely the van would not visit the desolate village on a Sunday, day of rest? Nameless murmurs of a beef dinner were cravings, not symptoms of a Sunday lunch. Was it Monday then? The crowd was thick, female and male, and often sluggish, and it was by now one o’clock, early afternoon. Saturday?