‘No comment, officer.’

‘So where were they taking their dead?’ asked Cooper.

Latham pointed with his stick. ‘Over yonder.’

Cooper followed his gesture. ‘To Knowle Abbey?’

‘Almost. To the burial ground at Bowden. It’s within the abbey estate now, of course. In fact, it always belonged to the Manbys – or to the Vaudreys before them. It housed their workers, just as it does today. The church belonged to them as well. The earl appointed the minister and insisted that everyone attended church on a Sunday, on penalty of dismissal. In those days if they lost their jobs, they lost their homes as well. So people had to do what they were told. And that sort of control spread to other villages.’

‘People even had to bring him their dead.’

‘Indeed. For people living in these villages, bodies had to be transported long distances to reach the burial ground at Bowden, often over difficult terrain like this. And the corpse had to be carried, of course, unless the departed was a particularly wealthy individual. There weren’t many of those in this area.’

They were both silent for a while. Carol Villiers, who had walked down to the crime scene, looked up and began to climb slowly back towards them.

‘Where were the other coffin roads?’ asked Cooper after a few moments.

Latham waved his stick vaguely across the hillside on the Derbyshire side. ‘Oh, I believe there was one from the north, near Harpur Hill. Another came from a village that has long since disappeared under the quarrying operations. And the third was a little to the south, from the direction of Pilsbury. You’ll find only small sections of them now.’

‘Of course.’

‘You mentioned the coffin stone?’ said Latham, raising his head from a contemplation of his bony hands.

‘Yes, someone left an effigy on it. Laid out like a body.’

Latham nodded. ‘Coffin stones weren’t just there to let the bearers take a rest. They were designed to prevent the ground from becoming tainted by death or allowing the spirit of the deceased an opportunity to escape and haunt its place of death.’

Cooper turned and looked at him. ‘You know the stories too, then?’

‘Why wouldn’t I? People still told them in my day.’

‘And even now,’ said Cooper.

‘Really? Perhaps they’re a bit more circumspect when they’re talking to me, then.’ Latham laughed quietly. ‘But with coffin ways – well, what would you expect? I suppose it was inevitable that each one gathered a mass of folklore about phantoms and spirits. Wherever there are corpses, there must be ghosts.’

Cooper spread out his Ordnance Survey map. Many of the coffin roads must have long since disappeared, while the original purposes of those that had survived as footpaths were largely forgotten too.

But here there were two reminders. At the bottom of the hill on the eastern side of the river was the coffin stone, a flat lump of limestone on which the coffin had been placed while the bearers rested. And then there was the name of the bridge itself, still known locally as the Corpse Bridge, though it was clearly marked on the Ordnance Survey map with another name. When they heard it mentioned, many visitors to the area probably thought it was a quaint local corruption of some entirely different word. Glutton Bridge wasn’t named for its gluttons, or Chrome Hill because it was made of chrome.

On the brow of the hill, he could see that the path crossed Church Way Field. He supposed it might have been possible once to plot the course of a lost coffin road by the sequence of old field names, and perhaps from local legends and vanished features of the landscape marked on antiquated maps.

But all of those things were gradually disappearing themselves. Even farmers forgot the names of their own fields as traditions were lost from generation to generation. Now they were more likely to refer to a field by its size in acres or its position in relation to the farm. In time Church Way Field would become the Upper Forty. Its associated legends would vanish under the plough and a layer of chemical fertiliser.

‘That’s the way it always was,’ the Reverend Latham was saying. ‘The bearers and the funeral party making their way down the hill, resting the coffin, dividing and coming together again across the water.’

‘Yes, Bill,’ said Cooper.

But he wasn’t really listening to the old man now. The map had engaged his imagination. The coffin road to the graveyard at Bowden must have covered a distance of more than four miles and crossed two streams as well as the River Dove. It was so difficult to conceive of the hardship willingly undertaken by those mourners, struggling over the hills with their burden. And resting the coffin for a few minutes on the stone down there, in constant fear of the taint of death or a fugitive spirit.

Cooper was thinking of mentioning to the Reverend Latham his thought about the Devil manifesting himself at crossroads. Just to see what the clergyman said. Did the old man believe in the Devil? Or was that too Old Testament a concept for him?

But before he could speak Latham turned his head and looked up the trackway. He must have sharper hearing than he let on, because he’d noticed someone approaching before Cooper had himself.

‘Is this a colleague of yours?’ he said.

Cooper opened his mouth in astonishment. ‘In a way,’ he said.

14

Diane Fry smiled her ambiguous little smile when Cooper introduced her to the Reverend Latham. He had no idea what she was thinking, but he knew it wouldn’t be anything complimentary about either of them.

‘I thought I’d find you here, Ben,’ she said. ‘Despite the fact that you’re supposed to be off duty, according to your office.’

‘An informal visit. The Reverend Latham is just giving me some insight into the history.’

‘I can imagine,’ she said.

Fry looked round. ‘That’s your crime scene? The bridge.’

‘Yes,’ said Cooper.

He looked for Carol Villiers.

‘Carol, would you give the Reverend Latham a lift back to Edendale?’

‘Certainly,’ said Villiers. ‘I can see you’ve got your hands full.’

‘Don’t, Carol,’ said Cooper quietly, unable to suppress a pleading note from his voice.

Villiers said nothing, but gave him a quizzical look. She knew all about Diane Fry. Possibly more than he could guess.

‘Under the bridge,’ said Latham, as he rose and supported himself on his stick to go with Villiers.

‘What, Bill?’ said Cooper.

‘The body. It was under the bridge.’

‘Yes, it was.’

But even as he answered, Cooper realised that Bill Latham hadn’t been asking him a question. His words had formed a statement. It was under the bridge. Latham already knew that. But how?

Latham nodded. ‘It fits,’ he said. ‘Under the bridge. Yes, it would have to be.’

Cooper was distracted by the sound of Fry’s voice.

‘I won’t be a minute,’ she called. ‘I’m just going to take a look at what’s on the other side of the bridge.’

‘Be careful,’ said Cooper automatically, as Villiers and Latham left.

‘Of course.’

There was a smaller stream on the Staffordshire side, with a footpath running alongside it. A few yards along, the stream was crossed by avery slippery wooden footbridge, consisting of nothing more than a single plank wedged into the mud on either side.

Cooper watched Diane Fry walk up the footpath to examine the spot where Staffordshire officers had found the coil of rope. Then with her eyes fixed on the water, she decided to cross the stream. He saw her step casually towards the makeshift footbridge with a horrified fascination.

Despite all her time in the Peak District, Fry had never learned how to choose appropriate footwear. She always seemed to wear the minimum she thought would be required. The flat shoes she was wearing now might have been fine for driving out here from Edendale, and they’d just about coped with the uneven setts on the trackway, as long as she went slowly and took care. But when she left a solid surface, she would be in difficulties. Her soles had no grip on them. The moment she set foot on that greasy plank, the outcome was inevitable.