Fry shaded her eyes against the sun in the south-west. ‘What’s that place on the side of the hill up there? It looks like the ruins of a house.’

‘Hob Hurst’s House,’ said Cooper. ‘It isn’t really a house.’

‘And I suppose there was never really anyone called Hob Hurst?’

‘Well, no.’

‘How did I guess?’

‘It’s the name of a character in local folk stories. A goblin or a giant, I’m not sure which. What you can see there is actually the result of a landslip, but it does look like a ruined house from a distance, if you have a bit of imagination.’

‘Whoever built that hotel certainly had a bit of imagination,’ said Fry. ‘Some romantic Victorian, I suppose, fresh from a trip to the Alps.’

‘Probably. You know, when this viaduct was built for the railway line, there was a campaign against it. Everyone said it would ruin the view, just for the sake of getting from Bakewell to Buxton more quickly. Now it’s one of the most popular sights in the area.’

They almost passed the Infidels’ Cemetery without seeing it, although it was right by the roadside. Cooper had driven a few yards beyond it before he braked suddenly and reversed. Part of the wall that had once protected the graveyard had been knocked down. A wire fence was all that barred the gap, though the deep beds of stinging nettles behind it looked pretty hostile.

It was much quieter here than at Monsal Head. Across the valley they heard a shepherd calling to his dog, his voice a high, harsh cry like a moorland bird. Somebody was shooting on the opposite hill. As always in the countryside, the sound of gunfire didn’t seem out of place, let alone worth commenting on.

‘Well, nobody has been in this cemetery for months,’ said Fry. ‘Even I can tell that.’

‘They didn’t venture beyond the first couple of yards, anyway.’

Most of the ancient gravestones had fallen flat and were smothered with tangled goose grass and brambles. The stones that had stayed upright were coated in yellow lichen and shrouded in ivy that masked their familiar graveyard shapes. The only exceptions were the two stones nearest the road. Someone had cleared the ivy from them, revealing their inscriptions.

With difficulty, Cooper read the name and dates on one of the stones.

‘I don’t think this person was much appreciated in his day,’ he said. ‘“Though man’s envy may thy worth disdain, Still conscious uprightness shall fill thy breast.” I might suggest that one to Gavin for his epitaph.’

‘Why? Is he feeling under-appreciated?’

‘I think so.’ Cooper moved a few yards to the side. ‘Diane, look at this one.’

Only a small patch had been cleared in the ivy covering the second stone. It had been done quite recently, too. The broken stems were still shredded and oozing a little sap when Cooper touched them.

‘That’s a bit odd,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Well, I was assuming that whoever cleared the ivy from these stones was an amateur historian, trying to confirm the names of people buried here. Or maybe a relative who wanted an ancestor to be remembered, not just lost in the undergrowth.’