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he found himself approaching a small, rough-stoned bridge. Nearby, on the opposite bank, was an old millhouse, its wheel redundant and green with slime. The grassy banks were steep, with overhanging trees creating shady tunnels along the narrow river’s length. Ash slowed down and crossed the bridge, the sound of the Ford’s tyres changing tone for a second or two. And then he was in the village called Sleath.
     
    By now the rain had stopped and the sun, when it could find an opening in the clouds, speckled the wet roadway with gold.
    Ash drove slowly, looking from left to right, studying the old-world houses, many of them constructed of red brick and timber, while others were even more quaint with white wattle and daub panelling between dark-stained beams, the thatched roofs of these dripping from the recent rainfall. One or two of the chimney stacks seemed unreasonably high, particularly on the multi-gabled building on his left, a place he assumed, because of its size, was some kind of municipal centre, the village hall perhaps. The chimneys rising almost to the point of folly from its various rooftops of rust-brown tiles were constructed in oversailing courses and capped by star-shaped terracotta pots. The entrance, large oak double-doors, was closed and there were several notices pinned to the wood. Most of the houses were set close to the road, only the odd one or two maintaining tiny front gardens bordered by low picket fences.
    Ash was impressed. Surprised, too, for although the village was a tourist’s dream, very few people were in evidence onthe main street. Situated in the Cotswolds, or the Lake District, or in certain areas of the south-west, the place would have been overrun by snap-happy sightseers, particularly at this time of year. Sleath, it seemed, was a well-kept secret.
    He had arrived at a green, at the centre of which was a large, teardrop-shaped pond; its surface was murky, calm, a yellow plastic duck floating incongruously near a bank of reeds.
    The road encircled the green and Ash steered the Ford to the left, passing by the small parking area that had been stolen from the grass and tarmacadamed, white lines neatly inscribed on its surface. There were several free parking spaces, but he ignored them for the moment.
    Beyond the rooftops, beech-covered hills enclosed the village in a tight and, one might imagine given its unheralded location, covert valley. The sodden clouds were already beginning to drift away, their edges tattered, the breaks between them widening by the second, and the sun was confident and warming the air again, giving promise of another fine summer’s day. Thin wisps of steam were rising from the road’s surface.
    He passed two shops, one a baker’s, the other a newsagent’s, both of them converted houses and in keeping with the village itself. There were customers inside, but still the street he drove along was quiet, free for the moment of strollers or people going about their business. He glanced at his wristwatch and saw that it was only five to eleven. Villages like this were never busy at this time of day. At least, he didn’t think they were. A van approached from the opposite direction and went by on the other side of the green. It was followed by a green single-decker bus, which pulled into the kerb outside a row of three shops. Only one passenger alighted.
    Two old ladies sitting on a bench beneath a large elm watched Ash as he steered the car around the green, heading back in the direction he’d come from. One said something to the other as he cruised by and after some conferring they continued to stare, their necks craning to follow his progress. Not far fromwhere they sat passing the time of day was a combination of stocks and whipping post, the wood so aged and sturdy it appeared, like the elm close by, to have grown from the soil itself. He wondered wryly if they still used these instruments of punishment and humiliation today. Perhaps they kept them for