“Before I start making up my own version of events, I’d like to find out what really happened. It might not be all that interesting, but it will inform my story, all the same.” I stood, reluctantly abandoning the lovely warmth of the fire. “Thank you, Kyle. I appreciate your help.”
“Wait,” Kyle said, rising to his feet as well. “I have my car. If you don’t mind me tagging along, I’d love to come with you.”
“Is there a bee in your bonnet as well?” I asked, teasing.
“I can never resist a gripping mystery.”
“How do you know Alys’s story is gripping?” I asked, wondering if he was humoring me.
“If she still has people talking four centuries on, it has to be. Shall we say half four? That will give us a few hours to snoop before we have to return for dinner.”
“Thanks, Kyle. I really appreciate it. It’s always more fun when you have a sidekick.”
Kyle looked at me with a mock-wounded expression. “Hey, I’m the detective. Why do I get to be the sidekick?”
“Because this is my story.”
“Okay, fair enough,” he said. “See you at half past four.”
Spending the next few hours online, I was able to discover that some of the residents of Ashcombe had been relocated to Sheffield, where there were mining jobs and housing going. Several families had moved to Bamford Green, a small village near Bamford Edge, which I supposed was the closest they could get to remaining in the area. Mining Sheffield—and I was kind of proud of that pun—for information on Alys was pointless, so I decided to start with Bamford Green and see where it would take me.
I met Kyle in the foyer, and we walked out together toward his Range Rover. It was nice, a sight more luxurious than the minicab I’d come in the day before that stank of stale smoke and cheap vinyl. I sank into the buttery leather seat and shared the results of my research.
He nodded. “Bamford Green it is,” he said, and plugged the coordinates of the pub into the SATNAV. “We’ll go to the pub, have a drink, and see what we can discover.”
“You’re enjoying this,” I said as Kyle pulled out of the carpark and maneuvered the car down the narrow lane toward the gates. “Are you not sorry to miss drinks at the house?”
“Why? Are you?” Kyle asked, avoiding the question.
“No. Did you tell Len where you were going?” I asked.
Kyle chuckled. “I told him we were going for a drive. I love Len, he’s one of my best mates, but he’s notorious for poaching other people’s ideas, so I thought I’d keep yours to myself.”
“You told him you were going for a drive with me?” I asked, suddenly uncomfortable. I could just picture the four remaining guests analyzing our absence after I had so obviously stated that I had something private to discuss with Kyle.
“Yes, I told him,” Kyle said. “And he’ll tease us mercilessly once we get back.”
I shrugged. I wasn’t afraid of a little teasing. What I was afraid of was that we would hit a dead end in Bamford Green.
Chapter 13
The Green Man was a lovely old pub built in the traditional half-timbered style of the Tudor period, with a pitched slate roof and squat chimney that belched smoke into the pewter-gray sky. The sign that creaked eerily in the wind looked original, the paint so cracked and flaked that I could just make out the image of a green-faced man, his hair, moustache, and beard all vines and leaves, his dark pupils the only point of color. He looked like a woodland creature, a sprite, but I found his expression menacing, his dark gaze sly.
The pub interior was warm and welcoming, the low ceiling with its dark beams and wood paneling typical of historic country pubs. It had the familiar smell of hops, roasted meat, and ancient wood that I found comforting.
Kyle and I settled at the bar, where we were immediately pegged as visitors to the village by the barman and several old-timers who sat nursing their pints at the polished counter. This wasn’t the sort of place that saw many tourists or incomers. The villagers probably still referred to the transplants from Ashcombe as new arrivals, even though they’d lived there for decades. My dad’s parents had lived in this sort of village when I was small, and I felt a pang of nostalgia for a time long gone and the people I’d never see again, the colorful threads of their lives making up the fading tapestry of my family’s history.
With his craggy face and thick shoulders, the man behind the bar reminded me of a boxer. Even his stance came off as aggressive as he splayed his hands on the bar and leaned forward. “What can I get you, folks?” he asked, polite but not friendly.
“White wine?” Kyle asked me, having ordered a pint for himself.
“Yes, please.”
The man served our drinks and turned away, but Kyle wasn’t ready to let him walk away. “Do you ever do any climbing? I hear the dales are a climber’s paradise,” he said, his expression dreamy.
“Aye,” the man said. “I go out every weekend, weather permitting. Been doing it since I was twelve. My dad got me into it. I’ve climbed every rockface and explored every cave within ten miles of here. Are you a climber?”
“I did some climbing in my uni days,” Kyle replied. “Not much climbing in London, I’m afraid. I did love it, though. Nothing makes you feel as alive as when you’re hanging off the side of a mountain with
