‘Gilsland. The river. The way things were.’ He said it without sentiment and it seemed wrong to press him. I thought he would leave it there but abruptly he spoke again. ‘Things change and they stay the same. Fairfax said he’d found that out. That’s why he wrote our stories down, you know? Wanted a record of this place and this time. He knew better than anybody what this little part of the world has seen. All the blood and bones beneath our feet. But happiness too. Laughter. Think of all the love that’s sunk into the ground and you can almost trust it to stop the hate. We’re built on more than our dead. He told me that. He missed his son. That’s all there is to say on that. But he loved Gilsland and its people. It were a sadness for him to die like that. Seems wrong to think of him laying in a drawer somewhere, cut up and lonely. Wish I could lay him in the ground and pull the earth over him like a blanket. That’s what he’d want. Took death serious did Fairfax. Knew where we belong and where we go.’

I stayed silent as he spoke. When he finished I didn’t know what to say. I felt an overwhelming urge to thank him again. He gave me a smile, and raised his knuckles to his forehead as if saluting the lady of the manor. I watched him turn. Was still watching when somebody called my name.

I spun at the sound. A man was walking towards me from the parked car. He wore a grey suit and a brown hat and his collar and tie were fashionably modern. For all that he was well dressed, his face was nothing special. His features were gathered together in the middle of his round countenance, the way posh restaurants serve fancy meals.

‘Mrs Hemlock,’ he said, again.

I felt the absence beside me. Heron had disappeared down the track. Was he watching? Was I alone?

‘I’m Cordelia,’ I said, stiffly, as he came to a halt a little closer to me than I felt comfortable with. ‘Can I help you?’

He looked me up and down. He made no attempt to disguise it. I could see the wheels turning in his head as he worked me out. I couldn’t tell whether he would make a good poker player or a poor one. Perhaps that was the intention all along.

‘Been for a stroll, have you?’ he asked. He had no accent. Kept his hands by his sides as he spoke. He had schooled himself in giving nothing away. ‘That would be your bodyguard, I presume.’

I didn’t turn my head as he glanced at the path down which Heron had disappeared. I took an instant dislike to the man and refused to give him any information.