The chapel was a square, unpretentious building standing between two farms. Primitive Methodist, according to the noticeboard. The name was a bit unsettling, but remarkably apt.

The fact that there was no parish church in Rakedale told Cooper something about the village. He was reminded of the old social division in rural communities – chapel for the workers, church for the squire. These non-conformist chapels were where the working classes had first learned to speak for themselves, to educate themselves, and to organize. They’d been a natural breeding ground for trade unions. Once working people had tasted religious freedom, they wanted political and social freedom, too. In some of these ancient villages, the parish church was still associated with the power wielded by the lord of the manor, a symbol of servitude. The priest took the squire’s money, and he preached what the squire wanted to hear.

But not in Rakedale. The nearest parish church must be in Biggin or Hartington. Villagers here were out of the gaze of any squire or landowner. And if the priest tried to visit, he would have been seen coming for miles.

Fry had made a deduction. Mud must be a perfectly normal occurrence in Rakedale. She had found brushes and scrapers by every front door for visitors with muddy boots. Not that she was allowed across the mat very often, but the possibility was at least hinted at in the provision of a scraper.

In other ways, too, everyone she spoke to seemed unsurprised to see her, as if they’d been warned in advance.

So it was a relief to come across the Dog Inn, a small pub set so far back from the road that it was almost hiding. For once, Fry didn’t have to expect some sour-faced woman in a baggy sweater blocking her way. It was a public house, and she was a member of the public. So she must be welcome, right?

The Dog Inn was entered through a tiny porch, its door at right angles to the main entrance to face away from the prevailing wind. The porch door was red, matching the Russian vine covering the walls and a row of three brick chimneys on the roof, and a horseshoe was nailed to the centre panel.

Inside, Fry found a small L-shaped bar with a settle against one wall, and an open fireplace with real logs burning in it and a stone chimney breast. A tiny side room held a pool table and a battered dartboard. A man with a long, grey beard was rolling cigarettes from a battered tobacco tin and brushing the remains of his tobacco off the racing page of the Daily Mirror. A few other men sat at tables further down the bar, all in complete silence. She felt sure it hadn’t been quite so silent before she walked in.