Wide and low, the building before me was an inn of the oldest type: a rest-stop for travellers in need of a simple bed. The sign overhead said it was the Bell, and this was where I had telephoned to arrange a room for the night. Feeling relieved, I pushed through the heavy oak door to feel a wall of warmth wrap around me. Raucous laughter seemed to bounce off the brick walls and I struggled to see what the joke was until I caught sight, through a line of heavyset backs, of a little man attempting to drink a yard of stout as another timed him. Most of it was ending up on his collarless shirt rather than in his stomach but that didn’t seem to put any of them off the game, least of all him.

Behind the bar a fat publican was laughing hard. ‘Oh, Sam, Sam, you’ll drown!’ he shouted over. ‘And none of us’ll give you the kiss-a-life!’ The party cheered as Sam finished his drink. The publican steadied himself on the bar as he shook with hysterics, and then brought himself up short when he saw me. ‘Oh, beg your pardon, miss,’ he said, looking me up and down. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’ll have what he’s having,’ I said. ‘But I’ll just have a glass of it.’

The barman guffawed and handed me a smeared glass full of the treacly black liquid. ‘There you go, miss. Eightpence.’

I took a swig of the stuff. It was thinner than I had expected, a cheap home brew. ‘I telephoned about a room. My name is Lorelei Cawson,’ I said, putting the money on the bar. Saying it to someone who could meet my eye felt unnatural, but not as unnatural as I had thought it would.

‘Oh, that’s you, is it?’ he said.

‘That’s me.’

One of the men, with dirty black hair and strong gypsy features – a farmhand by the look of his frame – wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and ambled over to me. ‘What brings you to Fetcham?’ he asked in a low, guttural tone that suggested he didn’t speak much day by day.

‘I’m going somewhere.’

‘Going somewhere, aye? Everyone’s going somewhere.’

‘I expect that’s true. My name’s Lorelei.’ I held out my hand. He shook it warily.

‘Pete. So where’re you going?’

‘Just a house.’ I was beginning to enjoy the feeling of making other people hang on my words.

‘Which one?’

‘Mansford Hall,’ I said.

His voice went cold. ‘Mansford.’