“One or two of them. They’ve got a journalist living up there, writing some book about Jett, he’s never out of here normally. I don’t know when he gets his writing done. He’s in here for a couple of hours most dinner times and he gets through half a dozen pints every session. Not that I’m complaining—I’m glad of the custom in the winter months. Sometimes I wonder why we bother opening up in the middle of the day. What we take across the bar hardly covers the electricity,” she grumbled.

“Nice place, though,” I complimented her. “Been here long?”

“Five years. My husband used to be a mining engineer, but we got tired of living abroad, so we bought this place. It’s hard work, especially doing the bed and breakfast, but it’s better than living with a load of foreigners,” she replied. Before I could ask more, the bell from the lounge summoned her.

To ensure her return, I called, “Do you do food?”

“Just sandwiches.”

I ordered a round of roast beef, and when she returned, I said, “It must have been a shock for you, one of your regulars getting murdered.”

“Well, she wasn’t exactly a regular. She’s been in a few times the last couple of days when her friend was staying here. But she’d only been in the once before that, with a crowd of them. The only way

I could believe her. I remembered only too well how the police inspector in one of the nearby Cheshire towns had defended his policy of arresting any blacks he saw on the street by announcing, “None of them live around here so if they’re walking our streets they’re probably up to no good.”

“Her friend must have been in a hell of a state when she heard the news,” I tried, checking the gender of the friend. I was pretty sure it must have been Maggie, but it would be nice to make sure. I took a bite out of the sandwich. Even without the information about Moira’s visit, the trip had been worthwhile. The bread was fresh and crusty, the meat pink, sliced wafer thin and piled thick, with a generous smear of horseradish. I nearly choked on it when I heard her reply.

“I don’t even know if she has heard the news,” the landlady replied. “When I got up this morning, there was an envelope on the hall table with the money she owed and a note saying she’d had to leave early. I knew she was checking out today, but I didn’t expect her to be off at the crack of dawn.” She sounded slightly aggrieved, as if she’d been done out of a good piece of drama.