‘I think we may imagine that the police will cover all those angles,’ Ralph returned, coolly. ‘There’ve already been two widespread searches of the countryside and a dredging of the lake. And I presume they’d check all forms of transport, as far as possible.’
I was tempted to ask why we were bothering, but restrained myself and enquired instead: ‘Do they suspect foul play?’
Ralph shrugged, ‘How should I know?’
On the next day we cycled to Oldwell to find that much of the initial hubbub had subsided. The disappearance was a few weeks old by now and, for want of further stimulation, gossip dwindled. We tried to get information from the postmistress and the shopkeeper, and chattered to locals in the pub, where we also consumed cheese sandwiches by way of lunch. But we gained little of interest or originality. We had begun by viewing, as other more macabre sightseers had already done, the timber-built lodge which was Morrison’s home. It bore the picturesque title of Chrysalis Cottage on a burnt-wood signpost at the arched gateway. We decided that venturing inside was a bit risky in view of our unofficial status, although no officer guarded the door.
I could sense a certain amount of dejection between us as we ambled aimlessly around the village. Finally, we decided to take a look around the unexceptional twelfth century church of St Martin, by way of diversion. After peering at the monuments, skimming the guidebook, and exchanging some comments on the architecture, we were about to depart, when the heavy door swung open and the vicar strolled in.
It is always a bit disconcerting to meet the clergy in a church whose faith you do not exactly share, and so we mumbled ‘Afternoon’ in a sheepish way, and made to leave.
‘Unusual to have so many visitors this time of year,’ commented the vicar, rather pointedly.
Ralph nodded sympathetically and to my discomfort went straight to the purpose of our visit.
‘A pity about Professor Morrison,’ he intoned.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Did you know him very well?’ asked Ralph, as if in concern.
‘A little,’ was the non-committal reply.
‘He was always very popular at college,’ added Ralph innocently.
‘Oh, did you know him?’
‘He went out of his way to help any of the students, even though he was dedicated to his own work,’ he continued, inventing wildly.
This appeared to break the ice.
‘I must admit on the occasions we met he always struck me as a good chap.’
‘I suppose he knew lots of people in the village.’
‘Uhhmm, no, not really. He kept to himself quite a lot. Dedicated to his work as you say,’
‘They all seem to think it’s suicide, but I can’t credit it,’ hinted Ralph.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t have thought so,’ returned the vicar. ‘No, he still had a lot to live for. The last time I saw him he told me a little about some new work he was preparing. He seemed very enthusiastic, but I am afraid I did not quite follow what the importance of it was.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I must get along now. I hope that something will turn up soon.’
‘Yes, me too,’ and we left the church, nodding and murmuring goodbyes.
**
When I went down to breakfast the next day I assumed Ralph would be there before me, since he had not responded to my knock at his door.
‘Your friend,’ announced our landlady, ‘has gone off early and left most of his breakfast,’—pointing to a cold greasy plateful as evidence. She seemed to take it as a personal affront.
‘Oh,’ I said, ‘Where’s he gone?’
‘He didn’t say.’
After I had completed my frugal repast, and there was still no sign of Ralph, I grew a bit irritated, being left there like an idiot. I wandered outside and saw that, as I suspected, his bike had gone. I borrowed a key to his room and rummaged inside. The professor’s book lay on the squat bedside table with a few scraps of paper serving as bookmarks at various pages. I flicked through, but did not feel especially enlightened.
By ten o’clock I was receiving polite hints that I ought to be out and about, not languishing in the guest house. Vaguely I cycled off on the road to Oldwell. I was becoming more and more annoyed at being left behind by Ralph, when his ambling figure hoved into view, returning to town.
‘There you are,’ he called, as if he’d been awaiting me, ‘come on.’
It is difficult to hold any sort of conversation on even a moderately busy road when cycling, and neither my remonstrations nor enquiries seemed to reach Ralph’s ears. But just before the approach to Oldwell, we branched off on a narrow byway that passed through a long irregular spinney. We stopped some way in, dismounted, and pushed our bikes up a footpath furrowed by roots and covered in a light dust. The wood seemed fairly undisturbed and shone in a green half-light that was very restful, almost sombre. After a little less than half a mile we encountered a quite broad stream winding across our path, and we followed along its banks as best we could. I could sense that Ralph had something in mind in conducting this little tour, for he seemed familiar with the terrain, so I followed in silence.
We came to a point where the tumbling water had forged a broader channel than elsewhere and was strewn with broken wood and clods of moss. Ralph pointed some yards further down to a weathered grey boulder which nestled in the middle of the stream.
‘That’s where he is,’ he said.
‘What?’ I said, perplexed, though a chill fell across me.
‘Underneath.’
‘How?’
‘You might not want to know.’
Propping our bikes against two trees, we crouched on the soft earth for a rest, and Ralph recounted his thoughts on the disappearance of Professor Morrison, I all the while gazing uncertainly at the huge old stone, shuddering at its grim contents.
‘It was pretty clear to me from the start that Morrison had chosen his retirement cottage with a purpose in mind. The village is insignificant and has few amenities, so you’d hardly go there at random. Anyway, the name of his home gave it away—Chrysalis Cottage indeed: obviously he intended to turn out some new work which would emerge from the cocoon of his obscure home. The vicar told us as much.
‘It was fair to bet that the work had got to be in his chosen field of Arthurian studies and that it must be connected to the country near where he now lived. For him to embark on a study so late in life suggested to me that perhaps he had grasped something so new or incredible that it was enough to make him set aside the more tranquil reflections of a traditional retirement.
‘What could it be? I read his book. There’s all sorts of mysteries involved with Arthur. Where does he lie? Where was the Battle of Badon? Who was Merlin? Where was Avalon? Camelot? Where is Excalibur? But all these are age old and are mentioned in other books, the subjects of long surmise.
‘I noticed that Morrison had an abiding interest in the question of the sons of Arthur. Several are named, in different verses or chronicles. He discusses them all, but only one fitted the bill for this part of the world. He occurs, I think, in Nennius, the ninth century chronicler, who says something like “Anir, whom no man slew but Arthur himself, and buried him by a stream in the place called Hercing. The marvel of it is that no man can measure his grave; for some find it nine feet, and some twelve, and some go again and find it fifteen. And I myself have seen this.”
‘Hercing is the modern district of Archenfield, in this area of Herefordshire, and so it became pretty clear why Morrison had settled in Oldwell.’
‘So what happened?’ I asked, glancing again at the ancient stone in the stream.
‘To Morrison? I don’t know. An accident perhaps. He tried to lift the stone, perhaps by using some primitive mechanical device. I’ve waded across. There are recent scratches and incisions all around it. I can only suppose he wanted to keep the secret of his discovery to himself, to do all the examination of the contents, then announce it to an awed academic world.’
>
‘How did you know what you were looking for?’ I enquired, still doubtful,
‘I didn’t quite. But a grave that changed size—that could only mean, if it meant anything at all, the ebbing and flowing of water. So it was just a matter of locating the few streams in the neighbourhood, and following their course. This was the nearest to Oldwell, so this morning I tried it, and . . .’ Ralph nodded at the stone.
I was still not satisfied.
‘I accept all you say, it sounds quite probable,’ I conceded. ‘But how do you know for certain that Morrison is buried there?’ And again I stared involuntarily at the grey tomb.
Ralph’s expression darkened. He took the handlebars of his bike and started to wheel it back along the route we had taken.
‘Because a strand of white hair is trapped between the lid and the base of the stone.’
**
We went through the process of notifying, and convincing, the authorities: and the sensational results announced and badly reported when the huge stone was hoisted to the bank and prised open soon became common knowledge. Inside was a hollowed-out cist containing the ancient remains of an abnormally tall warrior, and the mangled, half-preserved body of Professor Morrison. Signs were found of the archaeologist’s futile attempts to excavate the tomb, and nearby in the wood some amateurish winching equipment for that purpose. Whether he had fallen victim to his own single-minded pursuit of academic glory by becoming accidently crushed (as the inquest more or less decided); or whether there could be another, more sinister explanation for the death of a despoiler of a sacred grave—I cannot say—though you will forgive me if I think it odd that one dead arm of the giant seemed to have become entangled around Morrison’s neck.
William Sorrell Requests . . .
I think one of the most disturbing matters in which Ralph Tyler and I were involved was that which concerned the hamlet of Hubgrove, not far from our home town. The huddled settlement —no more than twenty buildings and two farms—is bounded on three sides by ancient, damp woodland now quite forlorn and of no commercial use, so that it is left pretty much to grow wild and untouched. Unyielding fallow fields stretch away beyond; for the area is poor agricultural land too. A single narrow road winds through, with less distinct tracks leading from it to private houses.
There are few amenities in the place; no shop, church, pub, hall or anything of that kind, only a small pillar box emptied twice a week, and a noticeboard, used for local elections and to announce services at the nearest church, St Helen’s in Merrow.
As often happens in outlying rural areas, where gossip is an important form of entertainment, the inhabitants of Merrow were quite inclined to mock at their secluded neighbours in Hubgrove. Proverbs about their moroseness and dullness were regularly invented and exchanged in idle public bar or market day conversation. I remember hearing a few of these myself, on the days when I visited the area, and one which I have no cause to forget was to the effect that the most exciting thing that ever happened in Hubgrove was when someone changed the announcements on their old noticeboard.
As I have said, these places lie quite near at hand, and so our occasional bicycle rides take us in their direction often enough. We were peddling furiously through Merrow on a particular Sunday, aiming to arrive at a cheerful inn we knew in time for a pint or two and a ploughman’s lunch, when our progress was impeded by the slow manoeuvres of a sleek black hearse into St Helen’s churchyard. There were no accompanying cars. Slamming on our brakes, we ground to an undignified halt and waited with as much indifferent respect as we could muster. Personally, I find our ceremonies of death and interment distasteful in the extreme, and I had no wish to linger. But Ralph was observing the procession with idle interest, and, gathered at the dark wooden lichgate, so were a gaggle of villagers.
It was from listening in to their conversation that I heard another snippet of the popular repute of Hubgrove. The deceased was, it seems, a William Sorrell, and although he had lived in that hamlet for a dozen years at least, not one of his neighbours had turned out to the funeral. The good people of Merrow discoursed upon this circumstance with delighted shock; how could those Hubgrove folk be so callous? Were they really that averse to going out from their wretched little place? I followed the pointing fingers of the onlookers and saw that, indeed, only the undertakers’ men, the vicar and an assistant, and one other, were at the graveside. I gathered that the sole mourner was a cousin from Suffolk, the nearest known relation. Looking at Ralph, I saw that he too was listening to the talk, but when I muttered, ‘Come on, let’s push off,’ he nodded assent, we re-mounted and rode off.
In the White Hart, our pleasant destination, we commented at the rather melancholy episode we had just witnessed.
‘You’d think,’ I pointed out, ‘that in a closed-off sort of community like that, a funeral of one of their number might be a major event. They’d all put on their sombre suits and have a jolly good day of it. Instead of which . . . nothing.’
Ralph shrugged. ‘Well, perhaps they thought a funeral was inappropriate.’
‘How do you mean ?’
‘Maybe he was the sort who wouldn’t have wanted that kind of send-off.’
‘Ah, yes, but even so . . .’ I began to object.
‘Or perhaps they just resent having to turn out in Merrow.’
Finishing off my second pint, I suggested, ‘Let’s go back by this fabled place, it’s not much of a diversion.’
I was half-joking, but the brief excursion would at least break up the routine of the usual way back. It was agreed, and in twenty minutes we were weaving along the battered lane that led away to Hubgrove.
In our times, there are the most complex technological devices around us; our society is more organised and arranged than ever before; every part of our land is mapped thoroughly and precisely; yet still places like Hubgrove exist, where it is possible without undue sensitivity to feel a complete and utter stranger, an object of suspicion and unease. The people keep to themselves, they opt for a remote and unvarying existence, and they are at pains to keep it that way.
But Hubgrove was a disappointment, of course, when Ralph and I rather whizzed in on our bikes. No sign of life at all. Around what might be called the green, almost picturesque stone cottages clustered, but their gates, windows and doors were closed, and no-one was about in the well-kept gardens. Rather larger residences stood at a distance from the road, shielded by high hedges and winding drives, and possessed of sprawling lawns, shiny cars and outhouses. Pre-war brick terraced houses filed in a row at right angles to the road.
I gazed defiantly around. ‘Bit dead’ was my somewhat injudicious summary directed at Ralph. He hummed agreement, then pointed to one corner of the place, on a grass verge.
‘There’s the famous noticeboard and post box,’ he proclaimed in mock excitement, recalling the Merrow jibe.
‘This I must see,’ I responded, in similar vein.
White paint was peeling in shreds from the old wooden post, and the four or five pieces of paper were nearly all faded and blurred. There was a notice of a ballot for the district council (last year); a list of services at St Helen’s Church for the next few months; a closely-typed reminder of municipal by-laws; and an advertisement for a folk fayre in another village some miles away, a month ago. But it was the fifth item which caught our attention, and it began it all.
It looked recent: it was smart and of immaculate design. It was a black-bordered card, decorated with a solemn urn. It bore gothic style handwriting in deep ink, and its message read: ‘William Sorrell requests the pleasure of the company of Mr Gerald Davidson.’
It took some seconds to sink in, then I must have frowned pretty seriously and looked at that card again. I swallowed, and turned to Ralph.
‘Isn’t Sorrell that chap they’ve just buried?’
My friend nodded calmly.
‘Yes, rather an unpleasant little trick isn’t it?
Downright sinister I thought it, urging so
meone to join the company of a dead man. I scanned the houses of the hamlet. There crept across me the feeling that we were being watched, though I could find no rational source for this conviction. The place seemed as lifeless as when we had arrived.
‘Not much to do here,’ I pointed out, perhaps somewhat anxiously. ‘Let’s move on.’
I could see that Ralph was intrigued by the macabre little card on the noticeboard, but frankly I saw no avenue for further enquiry into the matter, and said as much. Somewhat reluctantly, Ralph followed as I began to depart, glancing behind as we left.
I had no doubt that Ralph had become interested in the forsaken huddle that was Hubgrove, and we paid a return call there on the following evening, a Monday. It was little different to our first sojourn. Hardly any activity about the place, but an intensity and nervousness around us that was the more irritating because it was intangible: but there was a new card. It was pretty well identical to the first, but William Sorrell’s invited guest had changed; this time he sought the company of an Arthur Hammond. I felt inclined to knock on the nearest door, and ask if they knew what was going on, and whether some practical joker with a black sense of humour was at work; but it seemed such a foolish thing to do, and the response so unpredictable, that at Ralph’s advice, I desisted.
I was at work all week, but Ralph Tyler’s days were rather more flexible, and he spent some time in further visits to the secluded hamlet. When I called at his rented rooms in the civic edifice called Bellchamber Tower, on the following Wednesday night, he plunged almost at once into a rapid narrative of events there.
‘Somehow,’ he began, ‘the cards get changed. When I went there Tuesday there was yet another one: this time the name was Pamela Darby. So that was my first problem; who does it, and when? Well, it probably happens under cover of darkness, but short of watching for hours on end, in a very conspicuous position and a somewhat ridiculous situation, I couldn’t resolve that immediately.
Herald of the Hidden Page 9