When he opened the book, it fell directly to the last page. The page where Sandra Blair had made her sketch of the Corpse Bridge effigy.

8

Cooper parked the Toyota in Hartington Market Place, close to the duck pond. Legend said that it was actually a ‘ducking pond’, originally used for subjecting suspected witches to water torture to make them confess. But today half a dozen white ducks were on the pond anyway, doing their bit to wipe out the memory of its true purpose. They couldn’t have done a better job if they’d been paid by the tourist authority.

In fact, Hartington was an odd mixture of tourist and traditional, with tea rooms and an antiques shop rubbing shoulders with the village stores and a post office with its Victorian postbox still standing outside the door. Self-catering cottages stood opposite the Royal British Legion club, where a notice advertised grocery bingo on the third Sunday of every month.

‘So that’s all the neighbours knew,’ Luke Irvine was saying. ‘Sandra kept herself to herself pretty much. She was interested in crafts, joined the WI.’

‘We know that,’ said Cooper.

‘And she’d been going out quite a lot in the evenings recently. They didn’t know where.’

‘Or with who?’

‘No. In fact, they were surprised to see that she didn’t go out in her own car last night. There isn’t much in the way of public transport.’

‘Somebody must have picked her up,’ said Cooper. ‘Perhaps just not from in front of her house.’

‘Why would she go to the trouble of sneaking away like that?’

Cooper shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Not yet.’

He locked the car and glanced around the village.

‘Do you know Hartington at all, Luke?’ asked Cooper.

‘Not really. I think there’s a DI from Derby who lives here somewhere, isn’t there?’

‘Yes. He has a house up Hall Bank, near the youth hostel. But we won’t bother him. He’ll be busy.’

Irvine smiled, and Cooper wondered if he’d made a joke. It seemed a long while since that had happened.

‘So what’s the village’s claim to fame?’ asked Irvine, looking round.

‘Cheese,’ said Cooper.

‘Cheese?’

‘Yes, cheese.’

A passer-by turned to stare at them. Cooper laughed now. He suddenly had a picture of himself and Irvine as a couple of tourists having their souvenir photo taken. ‘Say cheese, and let’s have a big grin for the camera.’

But it was true. Until recently Hartington had been a centre for Stilton cheese-making. The cheese factory was built at the Duke of Devonshire’s creamery, where cheese was made from the milk produced by his tenant farmers. There had been other cheese factories in this area – one at Glutton Bridge and one across the river near Sheen. But Hartington had supplied a quarter of the world’s Stilton at one time. The factory closed when it was bought out by a rival company in Leicestershire six years ago. It had been looking increasingly derelict since plans for a residential development on the site were turned down by the planning authority.

Cooper could see the old cheese factory down a side lane off the marketplace. The paint was peeling on the doors and window frames, rubbish was scattered outside, and the sheds and loading bays were gradually losing any sense of function or purpose as they lay abandoned.

In a way the history of the Hartington cheese factory reflected the role of large landowners like Earl Manby. Nearly two hundred people were employed here at the height of its production, many of them living in the village of Hartington itself. They depended on the factory, and its closure took away their livelihoods. Some of them were probably forced to move away to find alternative work.

‘Which tea rooms did Sandra Blair work in?’ asked Cooper.

‘Hartdale. It should be close to the square somewhere. Mill Lane.’

‘Over that way,’ said Cooper.

Some enterprising individuals had reopened the Old Cheese Shop in the village and were making their own cheese from a farm nearby. If he got chance, he ought to call in for a chunk of Peakland Blue. His cat was a bit of a cheese connoisseur and blue cheeses were her favourite.

The pub across the road was called the Devonshire Arms. Of course, Hartington was the Duke of Devonshire’s territory. In this part of Derbyshire every second pub was called either the Devonshire Arms or the Cavendish Arms, after the family name of the owners of Chatsworth House. Even some of the larger houses in the villages had stones featuring the stags’ heads from the family’s coat of arms. The Devonshires were much larger landowners than the Manbys, and always had been. So the owners of Knowle Abbey had bigger neighbours – and grander, too. A duke outranked an earl in the order of precedence, the aristocrats’ league table.

Hartdale Tea Rooms were located in a converted farm building, near the corner of Mill Lane. It had no parking of its own, but it was handily placed between the village centre and the overspill car park further up the lane. The proprietor was alone, except for a teenage girl wiping tables and tidying chairs.

The windows were small – probably because they hadn’t been able to change the original exterior of the barn in view of Hartington’s conservation area status. But it created a cosy feeling inside, even at the beginning of November. Cooper could imagine it would be pleasant in here later in the year with snow falling outside, and the smell of coffee and hot crumpets inside.

Florence Grindey was a woman in her sixties. In his mind Cooper felt as though he ought to be thinking of her as a lady, rather than a woman. She had that air about her. A certain confidence and style natural to people who’d grown up that way. She was tall and slim, with greying hair tied back from well-defined cheekbones. In fact, she resembled an ageing actress. If he’d encountered her in different circumstances, he might have wondered if he’d seen her as a leading lady in films from the 1970s. He would have been sifting through his memories trying to place her name, but failing. Even now he couldn’t say who exactly it was she reminded him of.

‘Miss Grindey? I’m Detective Sergeant Cooper from Edendale CID,’ he said, showing his warrant card. ‘This is my colleague, Detective Constable Irvine.’

Miss Grindey looked flustered for a moment. It was often the way, even with the most law-abiding of citizens. People tended to search their memories, or their consciences, for something they’d done wrong. Almost everyone had broken a law at some time. But Miss Grindey’s search didn’t seem to last long. Her expression changed to concern. It must be bad news.

‘Poor Sandra. It’s so dreadful,’ she said, when Cooper broke the news of her employee’s death to her. ‘Do we know what happened?’

‘Not yet, I’m afraid. But obviously, that’s what we’re trying to find out.’

‘Of course.’

It was odd, that use of ‘we’. It was the tone of a nurse addressing an elderly patient or a mother talking to a child. Not so much a paternal manner, as maternal.

‘So what can I tell you, Detective Sergeant?’

‘First of all we need to trace her movements yesterday. Was she working here?’

‘Yes, but only until lunchtime was over. We’re very quiet on a weekday at this time of the year. Some days we don’t open at all in the winter. We rely on the weekend for most of our business.’

‘So what time did Mrs Blair leave?’

‘Oh, about two-thirty.’

‘Do you have any idea what she was planning to do for the rest of the day? Or in the evening?’

‘None at all.’

‘It was Halloween. You’re sure she didn’t mention any plans?’

Miss Grindey shook her head. ‘I’m sure she didn’t.’

‘Did she seem worried about anything? Was there anything unusual about her manner?’

‘No.’

Cooper turned to look at the teenage girl, who had stopped working to listen to the conversation.