‘There were all sorts of funny stuff in his house,’ I said, and it was out before I could stop it. I suddenly heard myself speaking. Opening up. And it felt like I were getting lighter as I did so.

‘Funny stuff?’ asked Cordelia and John, as one.

‘You know he liked writing. Well it were no secret he’d scribbled all these stories down and had most of the village’s memories on paper. But I had no idea how hard he’d worked at it. Honest to God there were boxes and boxes full of scribblings and gibberish. No system to it. Just chaos. I’m good with handwriting and I could barely make much sense of it but it was like he had the whole village’s thoughts pinned down on paper. And Keith’s wife Pat said he had one of those recording things. I’ve nivver seen him with that, have you, John?’

Cordelia whipped her head in my direction. ‘A recording device? Like a Dictaphone?’

‘If that’s what you call them. I never seen him with one. John?’

John shrugged one shoulder. ‘He liked his toys. I mebs thought it were a music machine. I’ll ask. Graffoe’s into all that lot.’

‘Graffoe?’

‘Sorry love, friend of mine. Gives me my lift in. He knows about that stuff.’

‘Did he know Fairfax.’

‘Doubt it. Can’t see as how they’d have crossed paths.’

Cordelia looked angry now, as if she couldn’t work out how the conversation was supposed to flow.

‘John works in Carlisle,’ I said, filling in the gaps. ‘Plumber for the council. Graffoe comes in daily from Haltwhistle and picks John up on the main road. You might know his car. Passes you daily.’

She didn’t seem any less tense. Just sat, waiting for more.

‘Aye, well, mebs it’s no help,’ said John, a little sniffily. ‘What were you wanting our Felicity for any road?’

I passed her a cup of tea, complete with saucer. She took it without a word. She looked at its surface as if reading the leaves.

‘I was up at the camp today,’ she said, suddenly. ‘By the castle. Mr Nixon told me about its history and I suddenly wanted to see it. A man called Loz picked me up. We talked. I wanted to tell Felicity what we spoke about.’

For a moment the only sound in the kitchen was the shifting of coals in the stove and the soft rhythm of rain on glass. Then John cleared his throat and extinguished his cigarette.

‘Spit it out then, love,’ he said, sitting forward. He would normally be reading the paper at that time. He was going to be entertained come what might.

‘I tells John everything any way,’ I said, and at the time, it was still true.