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A handful of archived newspaper articles referred briefly to unsuccessful police investigations into Mellion’s disappearance. However, as there had apparently been no suspicious circumstances surrounding the case, the enquiries had been short-lived. There had been nothing to suggest that the man had been murdered. No witnesses had reported foul play.

He had simply arrived in Briar Speckles to report on the Halloween parade, failed to submit his article, and was never heard from again.

According to one of the reports, he had been staying with a local family. Beyond that—and the single grainy photograph from the night of the parade and reproduced in the museum’s history book—there was little evidence that Jack Mellion had ever existed at all.

And there certainly wouldn’t be anyone alive now old enough to remember him.

Not unless, Kelly thought with a grin, they really were undead.

Still, older members of the community might have heard first-hand accounts from relatives who had been there that night. A grandparent, perhaps. A great-aunt or uncle. It wasn’t impossible that fragments of the truth had survived.

And there was no better place to begin than with her host for the evening.

Glynnis Flowers lived in a quaint cul-de-sac in a tiny cottage set back from the road, the sort of place that could have graced any Thomas Kinkade painting—if it had been transplanted from Middle America into rural Devon. Its roof was bowed slightly with age above sturdy stone walls. A birdbath stood beside the front door, while a raised stone pond, knee-high and brimming with orange and red goldfish, occupied one corner of the garden. The fish drifted lazily beneath broad lily pads whose edges had browned and curled with the changing season. A row of low fir trees bordered a neat lawn where a small picnic table sat beneath a folded parasol. Terracotta pots overflowed with shrubs and late-blooming flowers, surrounding a network of lovingly maintained flowerbeds.

Watching Kelly’s approach from the window beside the front door was a cat.

It was either enormous or just extraordinarily fluffy.

Kelly had never seen such a huge fluffy cat before and hoped it had the sort of temperament that would allow visitors to stroke it without requiring a blood transfusion afterwards.

She tapped the gargoyle-faced door knocker.

‘Door’s unlocked!’ Glynnis called from somewhere inside. ‘Come straight in!’

The cottage itself proved to be on the spookier side of cosy.

A stuffed deer’s head occupied pride of place on one wall. Nearby, several hunting knives rested upon display stands inside a glass-fronted cabinet. Then there were the paintings.

All landscapes.

All gloomy.

Storm clouds gathered over rolling winter hills. Moorland ponies huddled together beneath leaden skies. Lonely stretches of heather spread across windswept tors.

Following the sounds and smells of cooking, Kelly peered through a frosted glass door into the kitchen.

Glynnis stood at the stove, her floral dress now hidden beneath an orangey-brown apron decorated with wild mushroom designs. Perched atop her greying hair sat a tiny black chef’s hat.

In front of her, a large forest-green cauldron bubbled away, although, on closer inspection Kelly noticed the manufacturer’s mark of a well-known cookware company stamped near the base.

Whatever Glynnis was cooking, it smelled delicious.

Before Kelly could ask what it was, however, Glynnis nodded towards a cabinet in the corner filled with bottles of spirits.

‘Ah, there you are, dear,’ she said. ‘I was just beginning to wonder whether you’d stood me up. Mine’s a glass of sherry. Help yourself to anything you fancy.’

Kelly glanced at the kitchen clock.

One minute past five.

Technically, she was only sixty seconds late.

Smiling apologetically, she crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured Glynnis a sherry before making herself a gin and tonic.

As she turned back to hand over the glass, however, Glynnis leaned forwards, sniffed critically at Kelly’s drink, and wrinkled her nose.

‘What are you?’ she demanded, a grin crinkling her wizened old face. ‘A lightweight?’