Harper knew that Thrupp wouldn’t authorise that. The case had hit a dead end, with nothing to go on but a fourth-hand account of a girl who might or might not have gone missing, more than a hundred years ago. The lack of a death certificate wasn’t evidence, either: the fact was that Betty Fairweather could have simply left the area, got married and had a happy life, and her death would have been registered under another name in a different county. Without a budget for serious amounts of expensive research, they would never know. Harper went back to the edge of the reservoir, deflated about her chances of solving the case.

From Amy she’d learned a bit about the history of the reservoir itself. “Drowned village” was an emotive term, but really the village would already have been evacuated, half-derelict when the flooding began. The Water Board dropped the dam gates sometime in 1895, trapping the river Selver, but it took a year to fill. The New Riverby crept higher every day, eventually subsuming the remains of the buildings. What was a post office, now a lakebed. Where once the schoolhouse stood, fish began to make their home. A slow drowning. This woman, trapped and buried in the lake, most probably wasn’t killed by the lake itself. She must have been lying dead somewhere in the village before the water rose over her.

Harper approached the black box of remains and took out the skull. Small and delicate, there was a hole at the base which could have been caused by a blow to the head, or as easily by a falling rock at any time in the century it had been under water. She held the skull carefully in her hands, trying to visualise the person to whom it belonged.

The tip of the church caught her eye then, piercing the surface. The only other time that weathervane had been seen since the drowning, another pair of twins had been threatened, those of Victoria Settle. It was almost as if there was something in the lake, that could only get out when the old village was revealed. That something was angry, and it wanted justice. Perhaps it also wanted to be taken care of; to be laid to rest.

“Hello, Betty,” said Harper, and immediately she swore she felt something shift in the air, a release of tension. Soon, it began to rain.

*   *   *

That evening, Harper walked into the pub half-expecting to be stood up, but Amy was already there, immaculately dressed in a fifties-style dress with a full skirt and bodice.

“You look nice,” said Amy, raising half an eyebrow at the box-fresh creases in the black T-shirt Harper had chosen.

“So do you,” said Harper, sitting down and inhaling that floral perfume, telling herself it was too cloying anyway. “Shall I get drinks? I’m buying. I’ve got to thank you for all your help with the research.”