The area was one unfamiliar to Henry, a gently rolling landscape with scattered villages visible from the escarpment on his approach. There was a farmhouse a mile or so outside the nearest, from its appearance still occupied although rather dilapidated, and strictly functional - an honest piece of vernacular architecture, dignified in its simplicity. It was approached along a track through the fields, rather overgrown but still easily passable. The farm seemed to be mainly arable with few animals in evidence, although with the crops harvested and some of the fields recently ploughed the birds were making the most of available pickings.

There was no answer to a knock on the door but it yielded immediately, neither locked nor latched, with just a faint groan from the hinges. No answer to a call, either. After the sunshine outside, the interior felt rather chill and Henry shivered a little. The only sounds were a distant chattering from the birds and a gentle sighing of the light breeze that must have risen with the approaching sunset, as he hadn’t noticed it before. If he was to complete his errand there was no choice but to press on, so he went down a passageway towards a door that stood open at the end. The passage had no window of its own and the chill deepened noticeably, but evening sunlight still showed from the room ahead. It proved to be sparsely furnished, with a deal table and a few plain chairs, and a pair of shelves bearing an odd collection of plates, dishes and so on. Something impelled Henry to close the door behind him, but with an inch to go it met a soft but determined resistance. He pushed harder, to no avail. Despite the chill, which despite the sunlight was even deeper here, he began to perspire a little. With no visible obstruction, the door would still not close and he began to feel slightly alarmed. Then, for no apparent reason, a brass dish fell noisily from one of the shelves ...

Automatically silencing the clock he struggled slowly awake, the farmhouse room fading gradually from his inner vision. He now paused, panting a little, very conscious of his thumping heartbeat. This would simply not do. The dreams, variations on a theme, were becoming more frequent and he was sure that they must hold some significance. What it might be he had no idea. He abhorred any suggestion of clairvoyance, yet the dreams bore no relationship to anything he could recall; nor did they seem related to any current problem.

Dismissing the matter for the time being, he arose and prepared for his day. The weather promised to be fine, his hours were moderately flexible and with no particularly urgent business in hand he chose to walk the mile and a half to the estate agency where he worked on the other side of the little town. He could almost have done it with his eyes shut and indeed allowed himself to daydream a little. A lifelong bachelor, he still had occasional romantic yearnings and regretted slightly that his line of work offered little chance of drawing in the kind of attractive young woman who might appeal for help to Sherlock Holmes or Lord Peter Wimsey - not that he had any illusions about his own qualities. He was a decent, pleasant-mannered, unassuming man, no longer young and never handsome, with no particular hobbies or activities, and "Let’s face it," he told himself, "a bore." A woman would have to be desperate even to contemplate him as a prospect, and he could do without that; at any sign of interest, he would probably run a mile.

The office post had arrived just before him, and the manager was studying one letter with a slight frown. "What’s up, Ted? You look puzzled." "Morning, Henry. Take a look at this - tell me what you make of it." The letter bore the heading of solicitors with whom they had done business several times to mutual satisfaction, though nothing out of the ordinary, and Henry wondered what was coming.

It concerned the will of a client, a major part of whose estate was a property in rural Yorkshire. For some obscure reason - hints about a possible conflict of interest on the part of the obvious agents - an independent valuation was needed, and would their firm take on the job? Discretion would be of the essence, as it was important not to tread on sensitive toes; hence the reluctance to deal locally. "Seems a bit odd, Ted." "Doesn’t it? But I’m rather intrigued. Oh, didn’t you come from around there originally?" "More or less, but not particularly close. I doubt if I’ve ever been within twenty miles of the place." "Perhaps that would be all to the good. Fancy taking a short working holiday, going back to your roots and all that? Things are slack enough here at the moment."

So it was that Henry found himself ensconced for a week at a hotel in Ingleton. After a painful crawl behind a milk tanker most of the way from Otley, thanks to road works that prevented overtaking on the Skipton by-pass, he had arrived rather later than he intended but fortunately in time for dinner after a hasty wash and brush-up. In the dining room he noticed with mild interest a middle-aged, prosperous-looking man with a clearly younger woman - secretary, daughter or mistress? "Daughter" could soon be ruled out, and Henry thought probably a combination of the other two, although he reminded himself that they might just possibly be a perfectly respectable if unusually disparate recently-married couple - he had decidedly old-fashioned views of such things. "And none the worse for that" he would say if reproved for being behind the times.

A party of youngsters had taken over much of the bar lounge, but Henry found an odd table where he could sit with his whisky and crossword, trying to shut out the noise. He was in the midst of it when another lone diner approached and asked if he might share the table. "Of course, yes. A bit crowded, isn’t it?" "Certainly is. The name’s Fraser, by the way - Jim Fraser." "How d’ye do. Henry Armitage." Fraser glanced over his shoulder. "I noticed the two love-birds disappeared smartly enough." "So they caught your eye too, did they?" "You could hardly miss them. Well, good luck to them - whatever they’re up to." Henry smiled non-committally. "None of our business, really, is it?" "None at all - but it’s interesting to speculate." "True enough."

Light dawned on a clue in the crossword that had so far baffled him, and he quickly filled in the rest, leaned back with a satisfied sigh, and finished his whisky. Fraser offered a refill, politely declined, but got one for himself. Henry silently hoped that he wasn’t going to be stuck with a drunk, but Fraser explained that he always limited himself to two: "Liable to sleep badly otherwise." It’s good to meet someone who knows his limits." "I’ve seen too much of people who don’t." "Gets a bit much at times, doesn’t it?" "Certainly does."

Henry began to think that certainty might become a shade trying, but a welcome suggestion of doubt crept into Fraser’s conversation. "You’re not from these parts, are you?" "No, I work in the south - I hope I don’t need a passport around here!" "I’ve generally found people welcoming enough, so long as you don’t put on airs and graces. But saying you work in the south suggests that you didn’t start there." "I didn’t realise you were a detective!" Fraser laughed. "Nothing of the sort - a journalist actually. Though I suppose the jobs may have something in common - especially with things that people have good reason to keep quiet." "Is that why you’re here?" "No, just staying with my sister who’s had a bit of trouble lately. She had to go to Kendal this evening so I’ve dined out. How about you?"

A warning bell rang for Henry, so he produced his cover story (mostly true, in fact) that he was born over towards Thirsk but had never got to this side of the Dales and thought it about time that he did. "Did you take a look at your old haunts on the way? You’d have seen some changes, mind you." "No, there was no point. I had an accident just before we left, and something knocked out all my memories of the place. They never came back, either." "Sounds as though you got off lightly. A bang on the head - I suppose that was it? - can have all sorts of nasty after-effects."

Henry agreed, and after a few more minutes of inconsequential chat Fraser excused himself to prepare for his sister’s return. Henry asked at reception about local maps and was advised to try the information centre, then retired himself. The wind had risen rather noisily, adding to the usual difficulties of sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, and Henry got through rather more than he had intended of the book brought for such a contingency. Eventually he drifted into his recurring dream, though this time with a difference. The farmhouse looked in better trim than usual, the track to it was well-maintained, and cattle were grazing in one of the fields. His knock at the door was quickly answered by a pleasant-looking woman who greeted him warmly and invited him in.

"Come for the milk, I suppose?" "Yes." "I’ve a few more eggs than usual - do you think your mum would like some?" "Probably, thank you." Then the incongruity struck him. His mother had been dead for twenty-odd years, he hadn’t worn shorts since primary school so why was there a draught around his knees? - he couldn’t see them, the room faded into something like its usual dilapidated condition as far as he could tell in the failing light, and the woman’s voice receded into the dim distance. He tried to follow but met an increasing resistance until all went dark, the book slipped from his hands and a convulsive jerk pushed it off the bed-cover, waking him with the sound of its fall.

With several hours to go before his intended time of rising, he settled down again but couldn’t help thinking about this novel variant of his dream. The more he considered, the more it seemed likely to reflect something in the forgotten part of his childhood, and he wondered what had happened to the farm in the meantime. In the usual scenario it was evidently still worked after a fashion, but very much in decline. Was that knowledge or imagination? How old was he in that version? And why did the terrain seem unfamiliar? Of course, because all conscious memory of it had been lost. As for age, beyond a certain point it was immaterial, but a vague sense of world-weariness that he now remembered pervading the dream suggested that it might not be far short of his own as at present. He hadn’t previously recognised it, and was surprised by the discovery. "Must be getting old," he thought to himself. "As old as you let yourself feel," came an unexpected mental rejoinder.

With a jolt he recalled the usual cliché about talking to oneself, and wondered how far such an internal exchange might be common experience - not the sort of enquiry easy to slip naturally into a casual conversation. He comforted himself with the thought that it was just a facet of seeing both sides of any question. "You mean forever dithering," promptly came back. "Oh, go to hell!" he muttered, and fell asleep.

In the morning, the girl at the information centre was single-handed and fully occupied with a group whose enquiries involved several long telephone calls. Meanwhile Henry found the Ordnance Survey section he wanted and browsed casually through the books on offer. A handy volume on walks in the area caught his eye, and he wondered if any of them might pass conveniently close to the property he was supposed to be investigating. Disappointingly, none did, according to the sketch-maps provided, but it had been a long shot anyway. The book was however attractive, and when the chance came he bought it for its own sake.

Only later, reading the most nearly relevant chapter in more detail, he found a caution against taking a wrong direction at a point where the path forked. The false turn, he realised, would in fact be in the direction he wanted. Moreover there was note about a feature a mile or so from the junction that might warrant a deliberate diversion: a large house, now derelict, with in the grounds a model village, weather-beaten after long neglect but still more or less intact. Henry remembered being charmed by something of the sort in the Cotswolds, although there the model was of the village where it actually stood, so had to include a representation of the model itself, which therefore had ... In fact the scale precluded going many steps down that route, and Henry wondered about the possibility of building a computer model incorporating a scaled-down version of itself, repeatedly to a limit set only by the resolution of the computer, rather like the Mandelbrot set. "Very likely some idiot has done just that," he thought - and then "Idiot yourself - whose idea was it?"

Idiotic or not, the urge to visit the model proved irresistible, especially with the excuse of taking him closer to the real purpose of his visit. The stile marking the start of the walk proved easy enough to find, and there was space to park his car without seriously obstructing anything. The wind had something of a bite to it, and he strode out briskly, pausing only briefly for occasional references to the guide book where there was any doubt about the route. The fork, when he came to it a couple of miles on, was indeed indistinct enough for Henry to have started along the diversion without realising it, but he checked his bearings and continued. The path rose gently for about half a mile and then dipped into a slight hollow, in which the solitary house was very obvious. The boundary wall was broken in several places, but from a distance the house itself looked in pretty good shape; only closer was it evident that most of the roof slates had gone from the further side, some of the trusses too, so it was no surprise that the floors had rotted and there was little left but the stone shell. It had clearly been abandoned for many years, but how long it had stood before that was hard to tell.

The grounds were of course overgrown, although there was enough evidence of formerly careful tending for Henry to wonder what had caused the fall from prosperity. Sheer isolation no doubt had a lot to do with it, and possibly failure of the family line in one way or another; it had happened often enough with rural estates when sons went looking for brighter lights and daughters found no husbands willing to maintain the property.

The model took some finding but was worth the effort; a great deal of care had evidently gone into its detailed construction, and Henry bent to examine one particular feature more closely. His foot caught in a clump of heather and he lost balance, falling rather heavily and winding himself. Collecting his wits he realised from this new perspective that what he had taken to be a small rock, partly hidden by bracken, was in fact an outlying farmhouse of the model - a good representation of vernacular architecture, dignified in its simplicity ...

"Are you all right?" came a voice from behind him. "Oh, yes, I think so, thank you." Henry struggled to his feet, finding his right knee to be actually a little painful. Looking round he found a sturdy middle-aged woman with a pair of Labradors that came nosing around, accepting a rub behind the ears. "But look, there’s blood on your trousers," she pointed out. "Oh, it’s nothing." "Don’t give me that. It needs attention. Can you still walk?" He tried a few steps, uncomfortable but not unduly so. "Right. I live half a mile on. Come along and I’ll patch you up." "I really don’t want to be any trouble." "It’s no trouble. And there’s no call for any heroics. A bit of care now can save a lot of problems later on. I’ll have it done in two shakes of a lamb’s tail." "Good lord!" "What’s the matter?" "Nothing really - it’s just that I haven’t heard that expression for years - probably not since my childhood." "One of my grandmother’s," the woman explained. "I don’t know what brought it to mind just now."

Henry’s knee was stiffening, but he managed to walk the half mile without too conspicuous a limp. One of the dogs brought him a stick, which he dutifully threw for it. "Careful - you’ll have a job for life!" warned the woman, who had introduced herself as Anne Cousins and the dogs as Max and Min - the latter being slightly the larger, of course. It occurred to Henry that the job might have its attractions, though he kept that thought to himself. At the cottage Anne bathed and disinfected the rather extensive graze which was still seeping a little, then neatly applied lint and strapping. "You’ve done that a few times before, haven’t you?" "Yes, I used to be a nurse - though that was years ago. It’s probably why I’m so bossy." "I wouldn’t say that!" "Plenty do. Oh, are you cold?" "Just an odd shiver." "You’ve probably got a touch of shock. I’ll get some coffee." "You really mustn’t put yourself to any more trouble." "No trouble - I’m having one myself."

The coffee duly appeared, along with a plate of shortbread fingers; particularly good, as Henry commented. "My grandmother’s recipe." "The lamb’s-tail shaker?" "Yes. I never knew the other one." "She seems to have been quite an influence." "She was. My parents did a lot of travelling, so I stayed with her quite often. A wonderful character." "Sounds as though it would have been good to meet her." "A bit late now - although she was still active well into her nineties. But that’s her photograph on the mantel. Taken ages ago, mind you."

Henry examined it more closely, and thought there was something familiar about it that he couldn’t quite place. Then he felt he had taken up quite enough of Anne’s time and ought to go. She asked how far he would have to walk, and he pointed out in the guide book where he had left his car. "But that’s over three miles away!" "An hour’s walk, perhaps a bit more." "All right normally, I dare say, but the situation isn’t normal. I’ll run you there in the car." "That’ll be miles round. I really don’t want to give you so much trouble." "Look, you’ve shown some signs of shock already. That may not be the end of it. If anything happened to you now I’d feel responsible." "There’s really no need ..." "Anyway, I’m going to be bossy and insist. So there’s an end to it."

Henry accepted the inevitable, quite gratefully in fact since although he wasn’t going to mention it, he did feel a little shaky. The track down to the road was rather rough and Anne warned him to protect the injured knee against knocking on the shelf in front, padded though it was. The route was indeed quite a long way round and Henry fell into a doze before being awakened by the car’s stopping. "Oh, I am sorry - I didn’t mean to be so appallingly rude." Anne laughed. "Don’t worry. My father always had to have a snooze at some time during the day. Any time would do. Probably because he never got to bed before midnight, or so Mum said. Anyway, I suppose that’s your car over there."

Henry alighted, disguising the stiffness as best he could. "You’ve been marvellous, Anne. I really don’t know how to thank you." "No need. It was little enough. Adds some variety to life, though. By the way, when you have a chance, soak that bloodstain in cold water with a little soap or detergent, then rinse it out thoroughly." "Right, thanks for the tip - and for everything else. ’Bye!" He was about to close the door when a thought struck him. "Oh, Anne ..." "Yes?" "I wondered ..." "What?" "Would you ... could you dine with me this evening?" "Well, I don’t usually ... But yes, why not? Where are you staying?" Henry explained. "But it doesn’t have to be there ..." "Don’t worry, that will be fine. What time?" "They like to have you in the dining room fairly smartish about seven, although there’s a little slack. They can’t serve everyone at once." "Right. So I’ll see you about quarter to?"

Henry agreed, waved her off and started his own car. Then he realised that he’d got no further with his real errand - not a good start to the week. Still, it was possible that Anne might know something useful about the property he was supposed to be investigating; after all, it must be one of her closest neighbours. Something else was nagging at the back of his mind, but try as he might, he couldn’t think what. What needed more immediate attention was that he was unfamiliar with the etiquette of dating - with a shock, he realised that that was what he was doing - and wondered if he ought to have a little gift for her; a bunch of flowers perhaps. On reflection, he thought it would probably be overdoing things at this stage. This stage? Did that mean he was thinking of pursuing it further?

This alarming notion was overshadowed by coming unexpectedly upon a sharp bend in the road, and he dismissed it to concentrate belatedly on his driving. It wouldn’t do to smash himself up completely before the evening. Or any other time, he reminded himself. Was he building too much on the prospect suddenly presented to him? Did he really want to? Oh, to hell with it - navigation was quite enough to think about for now.

The hotel made no difficulties about his inviting a guest for dinner, and produced a respectable meal; not fancy, but good food well prepared, and the wine came at least up to Henry’s standard of appreciation. Anne had disclaimed any knowledge but seemed well satisfied with it. The waitress asked if they would like coffee in the lounge - "It’s all right, sir, that lot who were making such a racket last night have gone somewhere else." Anne agreed, and on the way slyly commented that there was now no excuse for suggesting a tête-à-tête in his room. "Oh - did you ... were you ...?" "Don’t worry, Henry, I wasn’t planning to seduce you. Even in this age it would probably raise a few eyebrows here. And I wasn’t accusing you of lecherous intent, either. Though it might be rather flattering if ..." "I suppose I’m a bit strait-laced myself." "I thought you might be. No bad thing either. So let’s have our coffee - you can have a brandy or something if you like, but I’m driving - and then I’m going to ask you a favour." "What’s that?" "After the coffee!"

Meanwhile Henry wondered if she knew anything about the model village he had been examining when she found him. "I asked about that when I first moved up here, but didn’t get very far. I thought the librarian might help - they tend to go in for local history - but he could only tell me that it was reputed to be of a real place, though no one seemed to know where. It had been made generations ago, of course. Do you have a particular interest?" "Nothing I can define. But I’ve a feeling that somehow it isn’t altogether unfamiliar." "Funny you should say that. Granny came on a visit a year or two before she died, and she said something of the sort when I took her to see it. That farmhouse you nearly dived into reminded her of one where she’d lived many years ago. Of course, there’s nothing particularly distinctive about it; there must be hundreds more or less alike around the country." Henry wondered whether to say that her grandmother’s photograph also rang a bell with him, only the waitress came up at that point to ask if they would like anything else to drink, and the moment passed.

"Now, what’s this mysterious favour you were going to ask?" Anne explained that the owner of a large house nearby had recently died and it was apparently about to be put up for sale; a relative living elsewhere had somehow heard about it and was interested for a reason so far unexplained but probably to do with a hotel business, asking her to take a careful look at it and report on its character, facilities and condition. Anne hadn’t been sure that she was up to it, "especially as estate agents never take women seriously" - Henry stifled a protest - and would be grateful for his company on the inspection. A provisional arrangement had been made with the key-holder, for the following day as it happened, but it could be altered if that were inconvenient.

Henry could hardly believe his good fortune, but yes, the location tallied with what he had been given for his own commission. Feeling a little guilty at what amounted to a minor and necessary deception, he agreed without mentioning his own interest. Anne telephoned to confirm her arrangement, and found a slight complication; would there be any objection if someone else joined them for the visit? None occurred to him, at least none that would be at all plausible, so that was settled. Anne provided directions for collecting her the following morning, then after a few minutes of casual chat said that she had better get back to see to the dogs. Henry escorted her to her car, wondering silently if he had been adequate as a host. "Thank you - I enjoyed that," although not effusive seemed tolerably reassuring, especially when reinforced by a quick peck on the cheek. "See you tomorrow."

In the circumstances Henry half-expected a rosier version of his recurrent dream in one form or another, but instead found himself chasing a banana through the convoluted aisles of a vast supermarket, hampered by a wooden leg and a loose shoe-lace. He never caught it.

In the morning he duly called for Anne, who navigated him to the house in question. They were a little early, and Henry was able to examine most of the exterior; so far as he could see, it was well maintained, with chimneys recently re-pointed and no obvious decay in the woodwork. He noted a lack of the double glazing that he would have expected in the upland climate, but perhaps there were local restrictions on the character of modernisation. They had to wait only a few minutes more for the key-holder, who told them that there was to be yet another addition to the party - did they mind? Henry shrugged; "The more the merrier" - after all, the less conspicuous his own activities would be.

Then another car drew up and the driver emerged. To Henry’s surprise it turned out to be Jim Fraser, who also seemed a little taken aback, surreptitiously signalling for silence. A woman with him was presumably the sister he had mentioned. The key-holder explained the new situation, again accepted without demur. The final arrivals proved to be the amorous couple from the hotel, causing Henry to think that coincidence was piling up a bit too thick; what on earth was going on? He recalled a book in which various apparently unconnected characters on a conducted tour proved to be members of a criminal conspiracy gathered in the course of their plot, but it seemed rather far-fetched to suppose that anything of the sort was going on here.

He managed to have a few words aside with Fraser, who also had been surprised by the appearance of the love-birds. For his part, his editor had been given a hint that something about the place was likely to prove worth investigating, but without any idea of what. "Have you found any clues yet?" "Not a thing, but I’m taking photographs. They may show up something I haven’t spotted myself." "What sort of thing?" "No idea. They may be significant to someone else, though. What’s your interest?" "Oh, I’m just accompanying a friend." "You seem to be taking remarkably detailed notes." But then the others joined them and Henry was spared having to think up a reason on the spur of the moment.

Back at Anne’s cottage Henry begged paper on which he could transcribe his notes more fully - not to say legibly - and she asked if he fancied an omelette, as she usually had only a light lunch. It suited him well enough. They had barely finished when the telephone rang and Anne answered it. Henry tried not to overhear but couldn’t miss the exclamation of astonishment. "Guess what," said Anne on returning. "I’ve no idea." "No, of course not - it was just an expression. That was Mum." "Oh, yes?" - with a rather unconvincing pretence of interest. "She’s found something about a model village that she thinks is probably the one over there, but isn’t sure. She thinks I’ll be interested and suggested coming over tomorrow afternoon to check. Can you join us?" It was a fortunate coincidence, and of course he could (it was surely too early to worry about any possible significance in "meeting the family"), so thus it was arranged.

Mum turned out to be a very alert lady of about seventy, clearly related to the portrait on Anne’s mantel. "Have we met somewhere before?" she asked on being introduced, eyeing Henry quizzically. "Not as far as I can remember." "Oh well, never mind. At my age practically everyone I meet reminds me of someone else, or I imagine it does. So you’ve been helping Anne with that enquiry of Julia’s, I gather." "The least I could do, after her kindness." "What was that?" "Patching me up after I fell and hurt a knee." "Evidently you found the right time and place to do it."

Asked if she would like tea before visiting the site or afterwards, Mum opted to get on first with the business in hand. At the model she produced the paper she had found and to her great satisfaction compared the photograph in it with what was unmistakably the reality, then slapped her knee and exclaimed "Got it!" "What?" "Where I thought I’d seen you before. You remind me of a young lad who used to come to the farm for milk and eggs. His parents spent a summer holiday with him camping in the paddock. Do you remember, Anne?" "Sorry, no" "No, of course, silly of me. You were only two at the time."

Henry was intrigued. "Whereabouts was that?" "Over to the east - just outside Kirkby Malzeard." "Extraordinary! My mother used to speak of camping near there for years afterwards. And of the farmer’s kindness." "So it was you!" "It looks rather like it. But I lost all memories of that time in an accident. At least I thought it was all of them, only the other night something of it came back to me. And for a while before that I had dreams of the place - but in those it had obviously fallen on hard times." "Why yes; it actually did. We moved to a bigger farm the next year, and the people who took over were - well, not terribly good husbandmen. And there was something else - rumours about a rather disreputable incident. Oh yes, that was it: they were suspected of being involved when a young child disappeared nearby." "Did anything come of it?" "I don’t think so. Not enough evidence, most likely."

Conversation for the next hour or so hovered around the coincidence of meeting again so long afterwards, then turned to family matters in which Henry had no part so made his excuses to leave. There was no opportunity for making any further arrangements, and Henry realised with something of a pang that there was no real reason to expect any. But an opportunity could probably be made, and he spent the evening mulling over the revelations of past history - and perhaps over rather too many whiskies.

He had failed to set the alarm and awoke later than intended, with a decidedly muzzy head. It took him a while to realise where he was, and he was still rather confused when he picked up his newspaper, which startled him with a date earlier than he had expected. Then understanding dawned, and he chuckled: quite extraordinary! He winced; he had been lying awkwardly and an old knee injury was decidedly stiff, but a brisk walk to the office would probably loosen it. It also gave him a chance to ponder the plausibility or otherwise of incidents from a forgotten childhood surfacing in dreams. The amnesia was true enough.

Ted greeted him with a cheerful "Hello, overslept, have you"? "Yes, sorry." "It doesn’t matter. We aren’t rushed off our feet. But something’s come up." "Oh, what’s that?" "I’ve just heard from Anne -" Henry was startled. "Anne?" "Yes, my cousin in Harrogate. You met her a couple of years ago when she came for a break after her husband died." "Oh, yes, of course. A pleasant woman." "Yes, I thought at the time you seemed mildly interested." "Did I?" "But that’s by the way. She’s normally quite sane, but for some reason she’s taken it into her head to fancy an old farmhouse up on the moors." "Good lord!" "Yes, and she wants me to go and look it over for her." "Er - whereabouts on the moors?" "Why? Do you have a particular interest?" "No - well, yes, in a way, but it would take a lot of explaining. Another time, perhaps." "I shan’t hold my breath. The point is that I’m a bit tied up now. With Sheila just about to produce a young Edward, or whatever the female equivalent is, I don’t want to be dashing off to the back of beyond." "I don’t think you can reasonably call Harrogate that!" "This place is somewhere well outside Ripon. What I’m coming to is, would you mind doing it for me? I think it will just about qualify as a business trip."

Henry had an uncomfortable feeling that coincidences were piling up again, and wondered just how far they were likely to go. "All right. When is it to be?" "You know women - well, perhaps you don’t. It has to be as soon as possible - this afternoon, if you can make it." "Today!" "Yes, it’s just about possible. Go by car so you don’t have to worry about catching trains. Oh, and in case of contingencies, it might be wise to take an overnight bag." "What sort of contingencies do you have in mind?" "Not that one! Though on consideration ... But you might get stuck for some reason." "Fair enough. Any special instructions?" "Yes; for goodness’ sake try to get some sense into her. She’s got a perfectly good place of her own, in a decent neighbourhood with people she likes around her, and she’s never been one for the solitary life. As for farming ... I really can’t think what’s got into her. See if you can talk her out of it; she might take more notice of you than me. But be honest; she’s bright enough to see if you’re pulling the wool over her eyes."

On the way Henry wondered about this Anne. According to Ted, she had been sad at the funeral but not heartbroken; the marriage had been of affection rather than wild romance, with no children. However, Harold had been a sensible, reliable friend and husband - qualities not over-abundant these days - and she would miss him badly. Henry did remember her slightly, and inevitably wondered if the impression might have inspired his dream. However, he wouldn’t have thought it great enough to trigger even the parts he could remember of such an elaborate fantasy. On the other hand, now that he thought of it, the surname unconsciously wished apparently at random on her namesake could have been significant.

She proved to be a good deal livelier now, and chatted happily over a light lunch, asking about Ted and interested in his impending parenthood. "And how about you - have you found a wife yet? Or -" she added, perhaps showing more insight into his character than he would have expected on such brief acquaintance, "- has a wife found you?" He laughed it off, but couldn’t help wondering if there was anything behind the question. She, it seemed, was still completely unattached. She offered coffee, but he thought it best to proceed to business.

Heading northwards from Harrogate and passing a sign to Fountains Abbey, they got rather lost in a tangle of minor roads and took a while to find the right way. It was late afternoon by the time they found the place. The track up to the farmhouse was rather overgrown but still easily passable. One of the fields had just been ploughed and the birds were making the most of the pickings; the ploughman called a greeting and said to go on up to the house where he would be with them in a minute or two. "So the farm is still worked," Henry commented. "Yes, by a neighbour. It’s only the house itself that’s for sale." "Ted couldn’t understand why you wanted it, when you were so well settled." "Oh, good heavens, didn’t I explain? I’m not thinking of actually living here - not my scene at all. It would simply be for rent as a holiday home." "Phew! He’ll be glad of that!"

The door opened at a push and they found themselves in the kitchen. Henry would hardly have been surprised to find a motherly woman prepared to dispense milk and eggs, but there was no one. He looked around, fragments of half-recovered memory flitting through his mind, and had he allowed it could easily have convinced himself that this was indeed the place of his childhood holiday - after all, it was in the right area. But that would surely be stretching coincidence beyond all reason.

The minute or two stretched to ten and Anne suggested that they might as well make use of the time by exploring a little. A corridor led to an open door though which light could be seen streaming into the room beyond. Even so the air was rather chilly, and once inside, Henry tried to close the door against a draught, but it resisted. Anne gasped slightly, and Henry was concerned to see that she had turned deathly pale. "Are you all right, Anne?" She had difficulty in speaking and seemed horror-struck. "Oh, Henry ..." "What is it?" "Let’s get out of here!" "Why? Whatever’s the matter?" "It’s ... Don’t think me crazy, but I’m sure - I know - that something absolutely dreadful happened in this room. I can feel it." She shivered, shrinking against him, and without conscious thought his hand went protectively round her waist, a gesture he had never ventured with any woman. She didn’t seem to mind, and indeed slipped hers around him as they retreated. He rather liked the sensation.

Peter D. Wilson
January 2008.
Copyright © 2008

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