I didn’t push her on that. Nobody asked what went on up at Kirklinton Hall but it was fun to tilt your head and put an ear to the wind and snatch the few whispers that drifted east. The hall had been a stately home and a private residence for the gentry during its long life. A hotel during the war and then flats that nobody wanted. Then some Londoner with plenty of money got his hands on it. He put in a glass-floored ballroom and turned it into a private casino. Spent a small fortune filling it with the sort of luxuries you would find in a sultan’s palace. Rumour had it there were dancing girls who wore nowt but feathers and that there were no shortage of local farmers had gambled away their children’s inheritance while lasses with lips like a folded quilt whispered in their ears. I had no wish to see the place but I’d have washed all the dishes in Denton to know which locals had crossed the threshold. Rumour had it that the two well-dressed brothers from the newspapers were regular visitors. It was only a couple of years later that the brothers got locked up and the place went out of business. Turned into a wreck within three or four years. Last I heard about it, some lad from Longtown was on the wireless, remembering how he and his mates used to break in and steal the furniture when it was all boarded up. Got a phone-in going on Radio Cumbria. All these reformed bad boys telling the world how they used to use priceless old antique wardrobes as rafts on the Eden.

‘Wonder if Fairfax’s book will be published now he’s gone,’ mused Pat. ‘Would be nice to see what he’s actually been working on all these years though I feel like crying knowing he’ll never see it on a shelf.’

I shivered. Felt somebody walk over my grave. Held my elbows in tighter and clutched my handbag tighter, as if I’d seen a stranger on a country road.

‘The house is full of old papers and scribblings,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘If there is a book among that lot it will be the size of a sideboard when it’s typed up. Loads of notes and mile after mile of handwriting. I don’t know what will become of it all.’

‘Be sad to see it on the fire,’ said Pat.

I shook my head, hard. ‘That won’t happen. I’ll read every word, given time.’

‘Make sure you only glance at my boring old stuff,’ said Pat, laughing. ‘Honestly, it will put you to sleep.’

‘He interviewed you?’