Donna and Nigel followed.
Inside, while by no means salubrious, the bar was at least clean and bright. A radio or jukebox played some muffled country music, while the only patrons were a couple of men drinking alone, who raised their heads as one to see the new customers. So this is where the local apostates celebrated the freedom to trash their liver, thought Nigel. The barman watched them approach.
Heather took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer; Nigel did likewise, while Donna went for a Diet Coke. Heather paid and remembered to tip, a custom Nigel couldn't fathom.
They drank in silence for a few seconds.
'Josiah Pettibone been in?' Heather asked.
The barman narrowed his eyes. 'Not yet. But he will be presently.' He paused. 'You from Australia?'
'England,' she replied.
'Long way to come to find a man like Josiah.'
'I'm hoping he can help us.'
The barman flashed a toothy smile. 'I'd hate to know what your problem is if Josiah is your answer.'
Heather smiled and shrugged. The barman disappeared to the other side of the bar. Heather turned to Donna.
'Donna, you get back to Salt Lake City, no need for us to detain you. We'll wait for this guy, book a hotel, and then hire a car to drive back in the morning. I'll drive.'
'It's OK,' she said. 'I'll stick around.'
'You sure? What about your kids?'
'They're with my sister and her husband.'
'She's OK to have them?'
Yeah. Hell, she's got nine of her own. What difference's another two gonna make? We better find a hotel, though.'
'Well, if you're sure.'
Donna asked the barman about a place to stay and then went outside to make a phone call. Heather turned to Nigel, who took the liberty of ordering another beer. 'I spoke to Foster while you and Donna were in the library.
They've turned up nothing new. A bit like us,' she added.
'I hear you're looking for me.'
The interloper was a tall man in jeans and a battered suede cowboy jacket, with a drooping moustache and straggling long hair, all of which suggested he was a casualty of the 1960s, except it seemed more likely that was the decade in which he'd been born.
Heather spoke. Yes, we are, sir,' she said politely. 'Can I get you a drink?'
'That depends on what you want me for. I can hear you're not from around here.'
We're not.' Heather got her badge out. 'London Metropolitan Police. I can assure you that you're not in any kind of trouble, but we're hoping you might be able to help us with someone who is.'
'Now you got me intrigued.' He gestured to the barman. 'The usual please, Jim.' The barman grabbed a beer and filled a small glass with Scotch. He placed them on the counter. Pettibone picked up and downed the Scotch and took a sip of beer, then gasped his pleasure.
'Never had a drink on the English police before. Tastes good. How can I possibly help you? I ain't never travelled further than Ohio.'
'We're after some information about Temperance.'
'Pretty ironic, huh, given you're in a bar.' He took another hit of his beer. His eyes wore the sad, haunted look of a heavy drinker.
Heather smiled. 'Are you from there?'
He shook his head, swallowed his beer. 'No.'
'Oh,' Heather said and frowned at Nigel.
Donna returned; Heather introduced her.
'You're not English.'
'No, I'm not,' she said.
You Church?'
She nodded. 'Is that a problem? I can leave.'
A look of anger flashed across his lived-in face. He continued to stare at her. 'No,' he said finally, and the anger evaporated. 'I like the look of you, which is more than I can say for most of your bastard Latter-day Saint cohorts.'
Why, thank you,' she said, bowing sarcastically.
Pettibone took another swig of his beer.
'Sorry,' Heather said. 'We were led to believe you could help us with some information about Temperance and its past.'
What do you want to know? I'm not from there, never been there, but I sure as shit know all about its past.'
'Something happened there,' Nigel said. 'In 1890, people died. The newspaper reports are missing and we can't find an account of what happened in any other source. Do you know?'
Pettibone wore a look of private amusement. 'Do I know?' he said slowly and rhetorically. He finished the bottle and looked at it.
Another round please,' Heather said to the barman.
Another round what?'
'Another round of drinks, please,' she clarified. 'Same again.'
Pettibone killed the shot of Scotch and winced slightly.
Colour had returned to his cheeks. Nigel guessed there was a direct relation between his pallor and his alcoholic intake. He breathed deeply. What the fuck is going on here? Two English cops, a Mormon researcher, someone in trouble. I'd like to know a bit more, please.'
Nigel caught Heather's eye. She nodded. He reached for his satchel and picked out a copy of the picture they had found in the tin beside the body of Sarah Rowley. He put it down on the bar in front of Pettibone. He squinted and focused, then recoiled in horror.
Where the fuck did you find that?' he said, eyes wide.
'Do you know what it is?'
'Do I know what it is?' He leaned forward. 'That old man there' - his finger stabbed towards a bewhiskered gentleman in his late sixties holding a spade and wearing an expression of mourning - 'is my great-great- greatgrandfather.'
He looked again, shook his head. 'I've never seen this before.'
'If you've never seen that photograph before, how do you know it's your great-great-greatgrandfather?' Heather asked.
'I seen other pictures. He was a pretty distinctive looking fellow.' He leaned forward, rested his head on his hands and stared intently, then let out a low whistle. Well, I'll be . . . He must have died a few days after this was taken, because I was always told he went within a week of the fire. His heart just gave out.'
'Do you know what it is?' Heather repeated.
Pettibone sniffed. 'There was a fire,' he said. A pretty big fire. The ranch belonged to a man named Orson P.
Walker. His daughter was sworn to be married to my ancestor, Hesker. Greedy old bastard already had seven wives but, you know, he figured he could do with one more. Thing was, she didn't much like the idea of it - and who could blame her? He was sixty-seven. She had eyes for a younger boy. So, things came to a head. One night, this boy he comes for her and they try to elope. Shots are fired. The barn goes up, the building next to it, the one next to that. Women and children are sleeping. Orson had plural wives and a heap of kids. Many of them burned in their beds. There wasn't time. That's their bodies you see lined up there; my ancestor was one of those set to bury them.' He looked back at the picture and shook his head.
'It was true. I kind of figured it might be a myth. But obviously not.'
'How many died?' Heather asked.
