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remembered an old farmer guy down there shooing her off his property as well. He had been fierce, unreasonably so, she’d thought at the time. She’d only brushed one of his roses, but he had gone off his head at her.
    In fact, something about the Tor had freaked her out a bit once back then and the family had cut short the visit as a consequence. The St. Clairs had visited the Tor many, many times while her father was doing his PhD in Ancient Celtic History. Her brother, Robert, came to hate the place though.
    “You never know?” she persisted. “What do you mean exactly?”
    “The chief detective coming out in you, is it?” His tanned face cracked into a broad smile.
    “Absolutely! Give.”
    “No great theories here, Alison, but these sightings are consistent with those reported in the 194o’s and way back beyond that as well.”
    “Weren’t they put down to bombers returning from raids over Dresden at the time?”
    “Good memory,” he said, clearly pleased with her. “They were ascribed to aircraft, but I have to tell you, I don’t agree with that. There were obviously no aircraft about when the lights were first recorded in 461.”
    “So, what are you suggesting… that something truly weird is going on?
    “I think—” He was interrupted by hoots of laughter from the living room. Allie’s mother burst into the room, giggling loudly. She’d had a champagne or three.
    “Allie! You must see this!”
    She was holding a battered green photo album, open at the centre. Allie could see photographs plastered over the pages at random angles.
    “Check this one out,” her mother said, pointing to one of the smaller photos on the right page.
    Smiling, Allie studied the photo. It was a birthday party shot with a highly decorated cake, displaying a big ‘10’. It showed Allie sitting at an old outdoor furniture setting, perhaps at the back of a hotel. She remembered now. It was a pub, but where? She saw that her Mum and Dad, Jo and Robert were huddled behind her for the photo and her childhood best friend, Isabelle, leaned on her right shoulder.
    Everyone wore outrageous hats and Allie had on her silly ‘photo face’— all teeth and crinkly eyes. Hotel patrons were looking on and some were obviously singing happy birthday to her. Seeing Isabelle was sobering. She had died not long after the photo had been taken. A water skier had run over her while she was swimming with Allie in a lake not far from Glastonbury.
    “Whose idea was it to drag all this out?” she asked Jo.
    “Mum’s. I couldn’t stop her! Look at your face!”
    Allie couldn’t help laughing. She peered more closely at the photo. Her laughter died on her lips. She studied the photo for a long minute, unaware that everyone else in the room had fallen silent.
    It was unmistakable. The tall, dark man in the photograph, the one standing off to the side and definitely not singing with the other strangers, was the man she had seen that day, stirring his coffee at a table at the Feather’s Inn.
    His daughter’s reaction to the photo was not lost on David St. Clair. In fact, the album had been introduced into the evening at his bidding. His wife had played her part well, digging out the album right on cue. David St. Clair had understood Suzie’s reluctance to be involved, but he was confident she’d understand what had to be done and why. He knew now, without any trace of doubt, that his daughter’s life was about to change into something unimaginable to her, but he could not tell her, at least not yet. There were rules to be observed and he dared not break them. He had already run it too close.
    Allie was about to tell everyone what she’d discovered when something stopped her. Something strong . Instead, she pretended to study the photo until she regained her composure and was able to summon her happy face.
    “Funny stuff!” she proclaimed.
    “God, you had me going there for a minute!” said Jo. “What was all that silence