Gabriel opened his mouth to respond, but possibly fortunately, they were interrupted.

“Excuse me, Gabe.” A tall gray-blonde woman of about sixty had appeared at the top of the stairs to the upper story, waving to get their attention. She was swathed in shapeless clothes and various floating scarves, and smelled of a mixture of stale cigarette smoke and strong perfume.

“I’m so sorry, but I’ve got a problem with my easel—could you come and help me out?” She smiled at Lucy. “Apologies for barging in on the conversation.”

“Not at all,” Lucy said, with feeling.

“I’m Marilynne,” the woman continued, “Marilynne Redfern. The artist.” She paused.

“How do you do?” Lucy said.

Marilynne waited, as though expecting Lucy to say that she recognized her, or had heard about her art, or something to acknowledge her importance, and when Lucy didn’t, she smiled a little tightly. “I assume you’re Lucy Brown, Verity’s niece?” she said. “I do hope you’ll be happy staying at Gunpowder Barn although I think it quite unlikely. It’s not a happy place. Not at all.” And with that she whisked back out of sight, snapping, “Gabriel, come!” over her shoulder, rather as though her nephew was a dog.

“Excuse me,” Lucy said to Gabriel. “I must be getting back. Thanks for the history lesson.”

“Anytime you’d like to learn more, give me a shout.” Gabriel said, missing the sarcasm. “I’m a qualified blue badge guide and I take tours and trips around the village on a regular basis.”

Lucy could think of few things that would be worse. “That’s very kind,” she said, “but I’ve only a passing interest in the village’s history and I won’t be staying here long.” She gave him a brief smile. “Thanks very much—don’t let me keep you.”

She stepped out into the sunshine and it felt like a blessing as the warmth wrapped around her. The Redfern family, she reflected, were all rather odd in their own ways. Marilynne had a faintly sinister air about her, Persis’s mood seemed to turn at any moment and Gabriel was as pompous as a stuffed museum piece. But then every family had their own idiosyncrasies and she could hardly accuse anyone else of being moody.

On impulse, rather than turning back into the village, she took the footpath that led up past the pub and to the iron gates of the churchyard. They swung open at the touch of her hand and she followed the cobbled path to the church door, turning when she was in the shade of the porch to look back down the hill onto the village roofs, thatch and tile, clustered below. She hadn’t noticed before that the church was directly above the Knights of Old Pub As Gabriel had said the pub was built on the site of the Knights’ presbytery, she wondered whether the church grounds had also been linked to the monastic grange at one time. Perhaps some of the Knights had even been buried here...