The Stranger House (12 page)

She picked up the
Guide
and ran lightly down the narrow stairs which nonetheless squeaked their tuneless tune, reminding her that she hadn’t heard a thing when her mysterious neighbour ascended the previous night. Perhaps he was a ghost after all.

If so, he was a ghost with a good appetite. She found him sitting in the bar tucking into the breakfast version of last night’s supper.

She gave him a nod but he didn’t even look up.

Mrs Appledore appeared almost instantly with coffee, cornflakes, and a mountain of thick-cut toast alongside half a churnful of butter and a pint of marmalade.

“Round here, even foxes get hungry,” she said, smiling, “It’s a grand morning.”

“Yeah, a real beaut,” said Sam.

She glanced again at the stranger, giving him a last chance to join the human race, and surprised a moue of distaste. Something in his breakfast? Or something in the way she spoke, more like. Well, stuff him!

“So what are you planning to do?” asked the landlady.

Her decision to be more upfront didn’t mean she had to lay out her plans, so she answered, “Thought I’d stroll down to the post office and buy some cards to send home.”

And dig for a bit of info as well as stocking up on chocolate supplies.

“You’ll be lucky. It’s shut,” said Mrs Appledore.

“All day, you mean?”

“No. I mean permanent. Since last year. It’s happening all over.
Government!”

She uttered the word with a weary disdain that was more telling than ferocity.

“Don’t like the government then?” said Sam, “Shouldn’t have thought you’d have been much bothered up here.”

“Once maybe, but not any more. Now you need to move fast as our Dark Man to keep ahead of them. Difference is, if they catch up, it’s likely you that dies. Just shout when you want more toast. How are you doing, Mr Madero?”

She was still careful with the pronunciation.

Mathero,
thought Sam. More than just a mysterious stranger, a mysterious foreigner, which somehow made his response to her accent even more offensive.

But his voice when he replied was pure English, purer than hers anyway!

“I’m doing very well, Mrs Appledore,” he said with grave courtesy.

“Good lad. We’ll soon get you fattened up.”

She left. Sam glanced at Mr Madero once more and this time caught his eye. She gave the small sympathetic smile of one who was often herself the object of other
people’s fattening-up ambitions. He returned her gaze steadily but not her smile.

Determined not to risk another rebuff, Sam opened the
Guide
at random and began to read a passage about Illthwaite Hall and the Woollass family. The Reverend Peter K. clearly enjoyed the benefits of their influence and their board and was at pains to stress that, though they were Roman Catholics, this in no way interfered with the pursuit of their many social and charitable duties as the chief family of the area.

Sam read at her usual rapid pace, her eye devouring the pages as fast as her mouth devoured toast, until her reaching hand encountered emptiness.

She raised her head and became aware of two mysteries. One was that Madero had somehow moved from his table to a stance by her left shoulder without attracting her attention. The second, equally unobserved and therefore far more worrying, was that the mountain of toast had somehow moved from the plate, presumably into her stomach.

“Help you?” she said.

He said, “Mrs Appledore mentioned the
Guide
to me and I wondered if I could have a look at it, when you’re finished, of course.”

“Sure,” she said, “When I’m finished.”

She stood up and, tucking the book firmly beneath her arm, went through the door. In the hallway she met Mrs Appledore.

“All done, my dear? Sure you don’t want something hot? Always start the day with a hot breakfast, my mam used to say. Never know when you’ll need your strength.”

“I’ll just have to take my chances, I guess,” she said, “Anyway, your other guest looks like he’s eating enough for two.”

“Mr Madero? Well, he needs feeding up. I think he’s been ill, poor chap. And I doubt if they feed them much solid grub in them foreign seminaries.”

“Seminaries?”

“Oh yes. He was training to be a priest or something afore he got ill. Left-footer, like the squire,” said Mrs Appledore confidentially.

“Catholic, you mean?”

“That’s right. You’re not one, are you, dear? I mean no offence.”

“No I’m not. And you can mean all the offence you like,” said Sam.

“All I’m saying is, them draughty cloisters and all that kneeling on cold stones can’t do a man much good. At least in the C. of E. they appreciate a bit of comfort. Even old Reverend Paul—that’s our Rev. Pete’s dad, who was big on prayer and fasting, and salvation through suffering—kept the vicarage larder well stocked and the boilers well stoked. Rev. Pete likes his grub and his coal fire too.”

So, thought Sam. A wannabe priest. No wonder she hadn’t liked the look of him.

“Will you be leaving today, dear?” Mrs Appledore went on.

“Not sure,” said Sam, “Can I let you know later? Or do you need the room?”

The woman hesitated, then said, “No, not yet. But if you could let me know soon, in case someone turns up. I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure,” said Sam, “That’s great.”

She went outside. A black Mercedes SLK with a small crucifix and a St Christopher medallion dangling from the rear-view mirror was parked alongside her Focus.
No prizes for guessing whose it was. She looked across the bridge to Stanebank. That track looked pretty steep. Best to take some provisions in case she walked off the toast too quickly.

She went to her car, unlocked the door and took her last Cherry Ripe out of the glove compartment. Her Ray-Ban Predators with the red mirror lenses were there too. These were a present from Martie which Sam had accepted with the ungraciousness permitted between friends, saying, “Thanks, but it’s Cambridge England I’m going to and they say you’ve more chance of seeing the sun in a rainforest.” To which Martie had replied, “It’s not the sun I’m worried about, girl, it’s those basilisk eyes of yours. How’re you going to try out the Pom talent when a single glance from you reminds most men they’ve got an urgent dental appointment?”

What the hell? she thought. This may be the only time I really need shades.

She put them on and straightened up to discover that once again the pussy-footed Madero had contrived to follow her without making any noise. He was carrying a black briefcase and standing by the Merc, looking dubiously towards the humpback bridge.

Very fond of black, our Mr Madero, thought Sam. Or perhaps he’d just made a big investment in the colour when he was trying for the priesthood.

She strolled across the road on to the bridge where she paused to peer over the parapet. The Skad was no longer tumbling along like brown coffee flecked with milky foam, but moving much more smoothly with nothing but sun-starts breaking its surface. She watched for a moment then turned to walk on. There he was again, right behind her.

“You following me, or something?” she said.

“No,” he said, surprised, “This is Stanebank, I believe, which I’m reliably informed I need to ascend to reach my destination. It doesn’t look a sensible road to take my car up, even if it got over this bridge without scraping the exhaust.”

“Why’d you want to drive anyway?” said Sam, “It’s only a step.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He nodded at her rather curtly and set off. After a few moments, Sam followed, already nibbling her chocolate. He was moving quite quickly but she didn’t doubt her ability to overtake him. Bleeding townie, probably doesn’t feel safe being more than a few yards from his car, she thought.

But as the track steepened and she came up close behind him, she detected a slight unevenness in his gait. Mrs Appledore said he’d been ill and the poor bastard was definitely favouring his left leg. Her own bruised hip gave a twinge as if in sympathy. She saw him switch the briefcase, which looked quite heavy, from one hand to the other as if to adjust his balance. All at once her plan to move smoothly by him, offering a nod as curt as his own, seemed pretty mean-spirited.

She fell into step alongside him and said, “Great to see the sun, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” he said.

He spoke evenly but she thought she detected an effort not to let her see he was breathing hard.

She said, “Like a bit of choc?”

He glanced at the bar and said, “You did not get enough toast for breakfast?”

“Yeah, plenty. You were counting?”

“I tried but I lost count,” he said gravely.

The bastard was taking the piss! At least it meant he was human.

As if regretting the lapse, he went on quickly, “But thank you, no. It looks too dark for me. I prefer milk, English style.”

“You do? I’d have guessed you’d have gone for black and bitter.”

“Why so?”

“I don’t know. The car. The gear you wear.”

“I see. By the same token you should perhaps be eating a half-ripe lemon.”

Another joke?

Before she could pick her response he went on, “I’m sorry. I did not mean to imply your garments are anything other than attractive. Perhaps however we both err towards the episematic.”

“Sorry, you’ve lost me.”

“A zoological term referring to the use of colour or markings to enable recognition within a species.”

“Like I’m telling the world I’m Australian? Why not? And what are you telling the world? That you run errands for God?”

She’s been talking to our landlady, he guessed.

“There are worse jobs. I understand you are trying to track down some ancestor here in Illthwaite, Miss Flood. That must be fascinating, discovering your origins.”

Letting her know that he’d been brought up to speed too.

“More frustrating than fascinating so far,” she said.

“Things not going well? Will it trouble you a lot if your quest comes to nothing?”

“No chance of that,” she declared.

“You’re very confident. It’s not given to us to know everything.”

“You reckon?” she said, detecting a sermonizing note in his voice, “Why not?
There’s no such word as unknowable. We must know, we shall know.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a quotation.”

“You’re right. David Hilbert, German mathematician.”

“Interesting. I prefer,
for now we know in part, but then we shall know even as we are known.
St Paul.”

“How was his maths?”

“Better than mine, I suspect,” he said, “He did say,
Prove all things. Hold fast that which is good.
How’s that for a mathematician?”

She considered then said, “I like it. And there was a mathematical Paul who said that God’s got a special book in which He records all the most elegant proofs.”

“There you are then,” he said, with a pleased smile, “It’s good to know our two Pauls had God in common.”

“Not so sure about that,” she said, “Mine was a Hungarian called Erdos. He usually called God SF, which stood for the Supreme Fascist.”

That wiped the smile from his face.

“You don’t sound as if you approve of God, Miss Flood,” he said.

“I approve of mine. Don’t have a lot of time for yours,” she said.

He looked taken aback by her frankness.

He said, “What form does your God take, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Why should I mind? If you really want to know something, asking’s the only way to find out. So let’s see. I’d say my God is the last prime number.”

He did not respond to her definition, perhaps because he was pondering it, more likely she thought complacently because he didn’t want to reveal he didn’t know what she was talking about. Or maybe, she thought with a bit more compassion, it was merely because he needed all his breath to maintain an even pace up the hill whose steepening gradient was testing her bruises. But she didn’t have far to go. A long low whitewashed house had come into view. At right angles to it stood a taller building, unpainted and windowless, with a broad chimney at the furthermost end from which issued the column of smoke Sam had observed earlier. Presumably this was the forge or smithy which gave the house its name.

A rough driveway to the house curved off the road. There was no formal gateway but the entrance was marked by a huge slab of sandstone on which was carved
THE FORGE
with underneath it in smaller letters
Lasciate ogni ricchezza voi ch’entrate.

“What’s that all about?” wondered Sam.

“Its English version is usually ‘all hope abandon ye who enter here,’” said Madero, “In Dante’s
Inferno
it’s part of the inscription above the entrance to the Underworld. But here
ricchezza,
wealth, has been substituted for
speranza,
hope. I don’t know why.”

He sounded like a schoolteacher passing on information to a pupil.

“I’ll ask,” said Sam, “This is where I get off. You going much further?”

“Up to the Hall, which cannot be all that far.”

Sam glanced dubiously at the road ahead which looked to get even steeper.

“Why not rest your bones here a couple of minutes? I’m sure Mr Winander will be good for a cup of tea.”

He looked at her blankly for a moment, then said again with the polite formality of an adult explaining the grown-up world to a child, “Thank you, but I must go on. I have an appointment, you see.”

She opened her mouth, probably to say something rude, but was saved from herself by the sound of an engine. A Range Rover came bowling up the hill. It drew up alongside them. The driver was Gerry Woollass. Beside him sat a woman in a nun’s headdress. There was another woman in the back but Sam couldn’t see her properly.

Woollass got out and came towards them.

“Señor Madero, is it?” he asked, getting the pronunciation right.

“Mr Madero in England,” corrected Sam’s walking companion.

“You’re on your hour, I’ll give you that. I’m Gerald Woollass.”

They shook hands, then Woollass’s gaze moved to Sam.

“Miss Flood, good morning,” he said, “And how are you this morning?”