The Second Sleep

by Robert Harris

  ‘No. Thank you. I must go and find Captain Hancock, if you could kindly tell me where I might find him.’ He could hear his heart thumping, his blood rushing in his ears.

  ‘Find him thyself.’ She turned her back on him and resumed laying out the plates. She had a female version of her brother’s figure. He gazed at her broad shoulders, her thick waist.

  ‘I fear you must have imagined something untoward …’

  She did not even deign to turn round. ‘And ye a clergyman!’ She snorted with contempt. ‘Tell her ladyship that this engagement must be over by nightfall, else I’ll disclose to John that I witnessed her enter thy chamber. Tell her I’ll not be driven from my hearth by a whore.’

  ‘No, madam, she is not that.’ It seemed pointless to deny what she had plainly witnessed, let alone attempt a defence of it. Nor did he wish to lie. That left nothing else to be said. ‘She is not that,’ he repeated, and walked out of the room.

  The instant he was out of her presence, he hurried straight to the staircase, mounted it quickly, two or three steps at a time, and strode directly along the passage to her room. He knocked quietly on her door. There was no reply. He opened it cautiously. ‘Sarah?’ But she was not there. The shutters had been unfastened. Her borrowed nightdress, neatly folded, lay upon the empty bed.

  As he was making his way back down the corridor, Quycke emerged from his bedroom. From behind him came the sound of Shadwell coughing.

  ‘Good morning, Father.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Quycke.’ He made an effort to seem cheerful. ‘And how is Dr Shadwell today?’

  ‘Not well, sir – not well at all. He sweated through the night.’ The whiteness of Quycke’s face accentuated the dark crescent moons beneath his eyes. His hair was awry. He looked as if he had barely slept. ‘I thought I would fetch him food. He should eat before he rises, and try to gain some strength.’

  ‘If his condition has worsened, then surely he should stay and rest?’

  ‘He should, most certainly. I have tried my hardest to persuade him. But he declares he would rather die upon the hillside than in a stranger’s bed.’

  As they descended the stairs together, Fairfax said casually, ‘I wished to say good morning to Lady Durston, but knocking at her door just now it seems she has already left. Is that possible?’

  ‘Now that you mention it, I believe I heard her pass our door before it was even light.’ At the foot of the stairs he laid his hand on Fairfax’s arm. ‘Is there any way you can stop this business? We were living in such a peaceful, happy retirement in our cottage in Wilton. I had hoped the danger was behind us. But then came Lacy’s letter – and now look at the peril we are in.’

  There was genuine desperation in his voice. Fairfax patted his hand. ‘I could not stop it even if I wished. Captain Hancock is dead set upon it. But need it involve you, Mr Quycke? Could you not step aside? I am sure Dr Shadwell would not wish to expose you to any danger.’

  ‘He has made the same suggestion several times. But I have been his secretary and companion since I was sixteen. He rescued me from wretched circumstances. He educated me and showed me an entire world. How can I desert him now?’

  ‘Your loyalty is to your credit, Mr Quycke. But do not give in to despair. Captain Hancock is a man of some resource. He has conceived a plan that may yet carry the thing off safely.’ Gently he pulled his arm free from the other man’s grip. ‘Let us see what the day may bring.’

  He slipped out of the house immediately to avoid any further encounter with Martha Hancock.

  In the daylight, it was possible to take in the full extent of Hancock’s enterprise – the big weaving shed, the warehouses built of bright new red brick, the tall chimney stack rising from a separate building to a blackened tip. Beyond the mill, the river was wider and shallower than he had imagined from its noise during the night, tumbling down the hillside and channelled through a complicated arrangement of sluice gates. A pair of immense waterwheels was mounted on the side of the shed; a further set of paddles turned idly on some kind of boat contraption moored in midstream – evidence of Hancock’s restless and ingenious determination to harness the river’s natural power.

  At the entrance to the weaving shed, the workforce had begun to assemble. More were approaching down the lane. They seemed disconcerted by the silence of the looms, and as Fairfax crossed the courtyard, they turned to stare at him. He recognised several from Lacy’s burial. Even at fifty paces he could detect their unease at discovering a priest in such a place so early in the morning, especially with the machines not working.

  A door banged and Hancock backed out of one of the warehouses with Keefer the church clerk. Between them they were dragging one of the canvas tent bags. They leaned it against the wall. Hancock straightened, saw Fairfax and raised his hand.

  ‘Good morning, Father! Good morning, lads!’ He beckoned to them. ‘Come here, all of ye. Gather round me. There’s something I have to tell ye.’

  They glanced at one another and obeyed, arranging themselves into a rough half-circle around him. Fairfax joined them and stood slightly apart at the back. His guilt seemed to follow him like a shadow. Hancock waited until the last of the latecomers had arrived before he took off his hat and spoke.

  ‘There’ll be no weaving at this mill today. Instead there’s other work – and better pay – for any who are willing to do it. I’m not a man for speeches. I’ve always been plain with ye, and I’ll be plain with ye now. The work is digging and the place we dig is at the Devil’s Chair.’

  The instant the name was mentioned, there was frowning and head-shaking. A low and hostile muttering arose.

  ‘Now hear me out,’ continued Hancock, talking over them. ‘I know all the old tales as well as ye. But I have information there’s something buried up there that may prove of value to this business, and I have made it my purpose to uncover it once and for all. The work should take no more than a day or two, provided we put our backs to it, and for every day ye work I’ll pay ye a week’s money. And if we find what’s said to lie there, I’ll award a bounty of twenty pounds a head.’

  That quietened them. Someone whistled. Another muttered, ‘All right, master, what’s the catch?’ and there was laughter.

  ‘There is no catch, Paul Fisher, but there’s two conditions. One: we stay up there till the work is done – sleep up there in tents if needs be. The other: no man breathes a word of it – not to his wife or his mother, his dog or any other creature. And if I find out someone’s spoken, I’ll have my money back.’

  ‘Aye, that’s because it’s against the law!’

  ‘We have permission. The land belongs to Lady Durston and she gives her authority to the search.’

  ‘She may own the land, but not what’s under’t!’

  ‘I shall deal with the law. All I ask of ye is your labour.’

  Keefer said, ‘May I ask a question as church clerk, Captain?’

  Hancock grimaced. ‘If ye must.’

  He nodded at Fairfax. ‘Why’s the father here?’

  ‘The parson’s here at his own request because he gives the dig his blessing. Is that not correct, Father Fairfax? Come – step forward, if ye please, and give the men your view.’

  They parted to let him through and he turned to face them. He had never addressed such an audience before. For a moment he was unsure what to say. ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’

  A ragged chorus of ‘Good morning’ rose in reply.

  ‘My interest in this matter’s simple. Father Lacy – the late parson, your priest for more than thirty years, whom you all knew and loved, and who loved you in return – gave up his life because he wished to know the truth about the Devil’s Chair. For that reason, I desire to know it too. We should undertake the task in his honour. There’s no sin in what’s proposed that I can see, and therefore no crime, at least in God’s eyes. He gave us hands to dig and brains to reason. Nothing in the Scriptures teaches otherwise.’

  ‘But the place is cursed,�
�� said one of the men. ‘That’s why the parson died. Some evil spirit dwells up there that kills when it’s disturbed.’

  ‘I don’t believe in evil spirits. And if such exist, I am certain God will protect us.’

  ‘God didn’t protect the parson!’

  ‘God does not protect us from our own clumsiness, my friend. Father Lacy fell because the land was crumbling, not because of some spirit.’

  ‘And will ye be digging there thyself, Father?’ The tone was mocking.

  ‘Yes, I shall dig.’

  This seemed to impress the men more than anything else he had said.

  Keefer said, ‘Even on the Sabbath?’

  ‘We do not know whether the work will extend into the Sabbath. Let us see how matters stand by nightfall, Mr Keefer.’

  But the clerk persisted. ‘Surely it is written that “on the seventh day thou shalt rest”?’

  Hancock said, ‘I believe the parson knows more of God’s laws than his clerk, Keefer.’ The remark drew laughter: Fairfax could tell that Keefer was not much liked. ‘So then, we have talked enough. Who is with me?’

  A dozen hands went up straight away, perhaps a third of those present.

  Fisher, looking round, said, ‘And those who choose not to come, Captain? What of us?’

  ‘If ye are so anxious to have a day of rest, ye may go home and take one.’

  ‘And our pay?’

  ‘What pay? There’s no work here till this is done. No work – no pay.’ Hancock held up his hand to quell the protests. ‘Why should I pay men to be idle? Come to the hill or go to thy home – it’s all alike to me. For those who choose to come, I will have word sent to their families that the mill is working through the night to fulfil a special order and they’ll not be back in the village for a day or two. All right? It’s settled. Those who have the courage to follow me may come with me now and load the wagons. The rest of ye, go home.’

  He jammed his hat back upon his head and pushed his way through the men. After some hesitation, most fell in behind him. Fairfax lengthened his stride to catch him up. He said quietly, ‘Was it necessary to talk quite so harshly?’

  ‘Men need to be led. Sometimes they must be taken gently by the hand, sometimes threatened by a blow, and sometimes – as today – both methods must be used at once.’

  ‘But you have created ill will.’

  ‘What of it? We have sufficient labour. That is all that matters to me.’

  It was true that some two dozen men were now with Hancock, while the remainder stood in a cluster around Keefer and Fisher, discussing what to do. There was some gesticulating. Occasional sullen looks were cast in the direction of the mill owner and the priest. Eventually Keefer broke away from the group and came towards them.

  ‘We have made up our minds to join ye, Captain, but on one condition, if we may.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘That if we are still on the Chair on the Sabbath, the father offers the men the rite of Holy Communion.’

  Hancock shrugged. ‘I am easy enough with that. What do you say, Parson?’

  Fairfax instinctively recoiled from the suggestion. Who was he, in his present state of mortal sin, to perform the sacrament of communion, and in such a place? ‘But I am not prepared. I would need vestments and prayer book, wine and wafers …’

  ‘These can be fetched, can they not?’

  Fairfax wanted to refuse altogether. And yet, when it came to it, how could he say no without disclosing his reasons? Perhaps it would be fitting if his last act as a priest was performed at the Devil’s Chair? Reluctantly, he nodded. ‘Very well. If it proves necessary, I will do it.’

  The sky remained grey, the temperature rose; the stillness of the air held the promise of another storm. Fairfax rolled up the sleeves of his cassock, untied his stock and worked with the rest. Their preparations took them half the morning. The covered carts Hancock used to transport his finished cloth were hitched up to their teams of oxen and led round into the courtyard to be loaded up with tents, tools, buckets, blankets, food, cooking utensils, wheelbarrows, barrels of ale and water. The labour took his mind off his predicament. Soon he was sweating profusely. He kept an eye out for Sarah, but she did not appear. He guessed she must have returned to Durston Court. He did not like to ask Hancock in case he aroused suspicion.

  Around ten o’clock, Shadwell emerged from the house leaning on Quycke’s arm and came over to inspect their work. In daylight and out of the lecture hall he seemed an even more curious apparition, with his dark velvet outfit, his cap and tinted spectacles. Several of the men broke off what they were doing to stare at him, and Fairfax thought it was just as well he had not been present earlier or the vote to go up to the Devil’s Chair might have gone the other way.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said, having examined the four wagons. ‘I congratulate you, Captain Hancock. You have proved as good as your word. I doubt a better-equipped expedition to investigate the ancients has been assembled in England these last ten years.’

  Hancock accepted the compliment with pride. ‘Is there more we may require?’

  ‘Indeed there is, sir. The ground is sodden after the winter and liable to collapse. Timber we’ll need – long stout planks to shore up the trenches, and posts to support them. Sandbags, in case of flooding. And rope – one can never have too much rope, in my experience. Ladders, should we have to dig deep. Pegs and string for marking. Trestles and a tabletop, if you have such things.’

  Hancock turned to Keefer. ‘Ye heard Mr Shadwell. Timber, sandbags, rope, ladders, pegs, string, trestles – all that we have – as much as may be fitted in the wagons.’

  After a final, suspicious glance at Shadwell, Keefer left them.

  ‘And where is Lady Durston?’ Shadwell asked. ‘Will she be joining us?’

  ‘She left at first light,’ replied Hancock, ‘without disclosing her plans. Her mood was odd – but then that is often the case with her ladyship, is it not, Mr Fairfax?’

  ‘Really?’ Fairfax could feel his colour rising. ‘I have not found it so.’

  ‘Have ye not?’ Hancock sounded amazed. ‘Ah, but then ye do not know her as well as I!’

  Shadwell turned to Fairfax. ‘You made a promise to me, Father – you will recall it – to give me Father Lacy’s books in return for my help. I fear the time has come to hold you to your bargain.’

  ‘What, now? At this moment?’

  ‘When else? I have but two days of freedom left to me. Besides, they may be useful in our searches.’

  ‘He can fetch them from the parsonage,’ said Hancock, ‘and meet us at the Chair.’ To Fairfax he added, ‘There’s a quick way down to the village.’

  Within the hour they were ready to set off, and Hancock gave the command. He went first on his great brown mare, sitting very erect in the saddle, like a general at the head of a ragtag army. Then came Shadwell and Quycke in their wagon pulled by the mules, followed by the four teams of oxen dragging the heavy carts piled high with provisions and equipment, and behind them the workmen, many carrying shovels or pickaxes, chatting happily amongst themselves. There was a general air of adventure, despite the fearsome legends that surrounded their destination.

  Fairfax rode last in the convoy. As May carried him slowly past the doorway of Mill House, he saw Martha Hancock standing on the step with her arms folded. He chose not to look at her, but he could feel her eyes on him all the way up the drive. Her furious gaze seemed to burn a hole in his back, and it was a relief when the track entered woodland and the house disappeared out of sight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The secret of Addicott Parsonage

  THE EXPEDITION TURNED left into the lane. Fairfax reined in his horse just beyond the entrance gate and watched them go, then turned the other way, following the directions given to him by Hancock. He was surprised at how calm he now felt, given the scale of his predicament. He had no doubt that Martha would make good her threat and inform her brother of what she had wit
nessed. He had broken his solemn vows. His life as a priest – the only life he had ever imagined – was over. Yet these disasters seemed to impart a curious sense of freedom: of decisions taken out of his hands, of burdens lifted. A whole new world had been opened up to him in the night, and now another was about to be uncovered by the digging on the edge of the valley.

  He was content to sway in the saddle in the humid morning air, listening to the spring birds and inhaling the scent of the wild herbs sharpened by the overnight rain. The muddy track curved and narrowed and began to descend. Over the crests of the hedgerows he could see a sweep of brilliant emerald pasture with sheep grazing. A shepherd with a crook climbed the slope, two dogs loping at his heels. The man raised his hand and Fairfax waved back. After a few more minutes there appeared, through the trees ahead, the square stone tower of the church, with the flag of St George shining like a battle standard against the dull sky.

  He followed the lane to the bottom until he recognised the rear part of the parsonage with its orchard and paddock, chicken coop and stable. As he passed Lacy’s study window, he was able to stare straight down through the leaded panes into the gloomy deserted room. He wondered how he would carry the books. At the front gate he dismounted, tied May to the post and walked up the little path to the door. He didn’t bother to knock.

  Inside, instead of the usual silence disturbed only by the ticking clock, there was a sound of women talking. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen. Their voices were raised in anger. It was obvious they hadn’t heard him. His first thought was relief that he had not walked straight into another of Mrs Budd’s anxious cross-examinations. He decided to collect his belongings before he faced her, and was halfway up the stairs when some instinct made him stop and listen. The argument showed no signs of letting up. He could not make out individual words, merely two distinct voices. One was Mrs Budd’s; the other – younger, shriller – he did not recognise.