Fry looked at the credit-card receipt. She noticed for the first time that Patrick Rawson had, indeed, been a good tipper. He’d added a hefty gratuity to the bill, rather than leave cash in hand.

‘It seems Mr Rawson paid the bill at five minutes past ten. I imagine he and his companion left together shortly afterwards?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Can you remember whether they arrived together?’

Connelly tapped the photograph dramatically with a long, pale finger. ‘I believe this gentleman arrived first, by a few minutes. But not much.’

‘Did you see a car outside? Or did they ask you to send for a taxi when they left?’

‘No. Neither. Their clothes weren’t wet, but I don’t think it was actually raining at the time. Just a moment now . . .’

‘Yes?’

The manager pointed towards the exit, a smoky glass door looking out on to the market place. For a second, Fry felt disorientated. Her eyes had become accustomed to the dim lighting of the restaurant, her concentration had been on Connelly and what he was saying. This sudden glimpse of blue-and-white market-stall awnings, crowds of people passing by, the brake lights of cars queuing at the traffic lights – they all seemed like an intrusion.

‘I do recall them looking out to see what the weather was doing before they left,’ said Connelly. ‘Customers often do that, spend a few moments deciding whether to wait, or to make a dash for their cars. People who dine here don’t like to get wet.’

Fry felt a bit disappointed that Connelly hadn’t come up with anything more. He had seemed so promising in the beginning. But perhaps she just wasn’t asking the right questions.

‘I know your memory is good, sir,’ she said. ‘So if you do recall anything else about either man, anything at all, please give me a call, won’t you?’

She handed him her card, which he glanced at and slipped into his apron pocket.

‘Detective Sergeant, it would be a pleasure. And do make a reservation for dinner some time. Would you like to take a menu with you?’

‘Not just now, thank you.’

‘Well, don’t forget. I’ll make sure you’re given a special table.’

Chapter Eleven

THEY CALLED IT the Plague Village. Nice name, thought Cooper. Not the sort of thing you’d expect to be used as a selling point for your house in an estate agent’s brochure. Who would want their home to be remembered for an intimate connection with an outbreak of Black Death?

But the name for Eyam must have well and truly stuck by now, since it was still in use more than three and a half centuries after the event. Five-sixths of the village’s population had been wiped out, most of them during one deadly summer in 1666. Along the main street, picturesque little stone cottages displayed plaques in their front gardens, listing the names of people who’d died there, killed by the bubonic plague.