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her.
    “How beautiful it must be to feel loved,” she whispered to the portrait. “You were a lucky man to have had real love in your life and your wife was a lucky lady to have you.”
    Sliding the photograph of her daughter into her purse and her book into her bag she wandered out of the hotel and into the cold winter wind.
    Making the decision to buy some warm clothes had been a sensible one. It was still early and most of the shops hadn’t yet opened so Grace went in search of some breakfast.
    It was Sunday morning and wandering down Low Petergate, the sound of church bells drew her down an alley to the Thirteenth Century Holy Trinity Church yard. It seemed a morbid pass time but inscriptions on gravestones had always fascinated her. She wandered along the paths scanning the words on the stone slabs that marked the life and death of each body below.
    Her mind toyed with Harry’s theory. It was an odd one alright and she wondered why no one had ever come up with it before. Then again, she wasn’t exactly schooled in all things ghostly, so it was perfectly possible the idea was a popular one amongst enthusiasts.
    The words on the gravestone were faded and unclear but Grace was sure she had found it, the headstone of Robert Hamilton. She could only make out the first two numbers of his year of death, ‘seventeen’... but that was definitely his name. The birth date was as clear as the day it had been carved, ‘In the year of Our Lord 1626’. A perfect match to what she already knew of him.
    “You lived a long life, Mr Hamilton,” she said scanning her eyes over the rest of the inscription.
    “Here lies Robert Hamilton, beloved husband of... ” Grace read it out loud but she stopped short as his wife’s name was unclear. She crouched down to get a better look but time had erased the words from the stone. A pang of sadness for the lady who lay beside her husband knotted in the pit of her stomach. How very tragic it seemed that this couple should have found love in life only to have its memory worn away with the passing of time.
    She ran her fingers gently over his name, wondering as she did what his life had been like. There was little doubt that he had loved his wife and she guessed that his wife must have loved him too. There was no denying it; Robert Hamilton had been a handsome man. The portrait in her room was testimony to that, but everything else she had been told about him was mostly conjecture. Yes, there were a few scant facts; that he had been a Cavalier, that he had been richly rewarded for his loyalty and that he had owned an inn and a post house in York. But what Grace really wanted to know was what the man was like. Not what sort of career he had.
    She mulled the idea of going to see Harry over in her mind. Finally she decided that it couldn’t do any harm. Her enquiring mind had set itself on a path and it was unlikely to be easily swayed. The shopping, she concluded could wait.
    Rapping lightly on the large black door set in the twisted oak frame of the entrance to the pub, Grace wondered if anyone would be awake at this time of the morning. Her question was quickly answered when a creak announced that someone was pulling the door open. A knowing smile filled his face when he saw her.
    “I thought you might come back, Grace. Come in, girl, it’s cold out there,” he said ushering her inside.
    The unpleasant aroma of stale smoke and smouldering cinders from the fire mixed with the heady smell of alcohol greeted her as she followed Harry into the main section of the building. Dirty glasses and empty plates and beer bottles littered the bar. It looked for all the world as if Harry had just walked out and left his customers to it.
    “Sorry about the mess. I don’t usually bother clearing up on a Saturday night. Try and get into bed a bit earlier and sleep in on a Sunday.”
    “Oh, Harry, I am so sorry, I hope I haven’t got you out of bed.”
    “Good gracious, no girl. I’ve been up a