Free The Stranger House by Reginald Hill Page B

naturally an exotic stranger in our little village was quite a news item. In Edie’s defence, I daresay she’s been just as forthcoming about me.”
    “Well, she did say you were a bit of an artist.”
    “I won’t ask what kind,” he grinned, “But it’s certainly true that few visitors to our fair village escape without paying due tribute to my talents. I look forward to seeing you in my studio before you go. In fact, let’s make a date. Tomorrow morning, shall we say?”
    “What makes you think I’m in the market for art?”
    “What makes you think I’m talking about art?”
    Jesus, the old fart was flirting! Did he really think his pillaging and ravishing days weren’t altogether behind him?
    Perhaps her disbelief showed, for his tone changed from teasing to something well short of but in the general area of pleading as he said, “It would be good if you could call in. I’m at the Forge, across the bridge and up Stanebank. Enjoy your drink, my dear.”
    She watched him make his way to a bench by the window where he sat down next to a man Sam recognized as the menacing grave-digger. Or she thought she recognized him till her gaze moved to a third man on the bench, and there he was again.
    Her eyes flickered between the two. Same face, same clothes, and the same blank animal stare which though it seemed unfocused she felt was fixed on herself. Twins? Certainly brothers. Bad enough giving birth to one who looked like that, she thought unkindly, but you must really piss fate off to get landed with two!
    And now it occurred to her that if there were two, it didn’t matter if the grave-digger was still clearly visibleoutside while she was falling off that bloody ladder. It could have been his mirror image whose petrifying gaze she had felt up on the tower!
    Something else to look into. But not here, not now. Here she was the solitary young woman, eating alone. Don’t fight it, go with it.
    She picked up the
Guide.
It fell open at the last page she’d looked at, the section on the Wolf-Head Cross. She studied a reproduction of the panel showing the god Thor in his boat. It wasn’t a detailed portrait but there was a definite resemblance to Winander. She squinted down at the picture and sipped her beer thoughtfully. It was good stuff, slipping down so easily she’d almost got through the pint without noticing.
    As if her thought was a command, another glass was set before her.
    She looked up to see not the aged Viking but the super annuated leprechaun who’d warned her against Illthwaite.
    “Good evening, Miss Flood,” he said, his high clear voice pitched low, “I hope you will accept a drink from me in token of apology for any unintentional rudeness I may have shown to you at lunchtime. I should have remembered the scriptures:
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”
    “That’s nice,” she said, “But I wasn’t offended. And I’m certainly no angel.”
    “Angels come in many guises and for many purposes,” he said.
    He didn’t smile as he said it but spoke with an earnest sincerity which made her recall Mrs Appledore’s warning that he was a snag short of a barbie.
    “I hope you have recovered from your accident in the church,” he said.
    “Yes, I’m good,” she said, thinking, cracked he may be, but he doesn’t miss much!
    His eyes had strayed down to the open book on the table.
    “You are interested in antiquities?” he said.
    “In a way,” she said, “I was reading about the Wolf-Head Cross.”
    “Ah yes. The Wolf-Head. Our claim to historical significance. But if you want to find out something of the true nature of Illthwaite, you should read about our other Wolf-Head Cross. Try the chapter on Myth and Legend. But never forget you are in a part of the world where they hold an annual competition for telling lies.”
    He moved away to what seemed to be his accustomed seat almost out of sight behind the angle of the