Her thoughts refused to concentrate on the main point. Could she, should she, would she marry Leo if he ever asked her? Again she found it impossible to wrestle her mind through to a sensible answer but instead began to do an he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not count of the leaves of the vines with which the east and north faces of the cross were so lavishly decorated. What could Alcfrith and Hwaetred, Wothgar and Olwfwold, have known of vines in this cold northern kingdom ?
As much and as little as she knew of herself and her future, came the cold answer from some cavernous depth of her mind.
She turned to go and cried aloud as a figure detached itself from the shelter of a tall weathered headstone and barred her way.
It was Diss. Or Calgary. Lakenheath’s absurd invention seemed more apt at the moment. The god of the Underworld.
‘Miss Gray,’ he said. ‘I should like to talk with you.’
She felt as annoyed as if she had discovered a Peeping Tom outside a beach-changing hut.
‘I can’t see what you can have to say to me,’ she said walking past him. He caught her arm.
‘You took Mr Lakenheath on to the waste yesterday, Miss Gray. Now why did you do that?’
‘It’s no damn business of yours,’ she said, wrenching herself free. ‘He’s a friend of mine. I don’t talk about my friends behind their backs.’
She was surprised to find herself claiming friendship with Lakenheath, surprised also to find the comfort it gave to be able to ally herself with alleged hosts of friends. And she needed comfort. Diss no longer held her, but he had moved so that he blocked the path to the church gate.
‘You should be careful of your friends, Miss Gray. It’s cold standing here. Let’s go into the church and have our talk.’
‘All right,’ said Zeugma, forcing a smile. She turned towards the church, took a couple of steps, felt Diss come alongside, then spun on her heel and dashed down the path, out of the churchyard and into the Range Rover. Only when she was safely inside with the engine started did she look back. Diss, or whatever his name was, had made no attempt to follow her, but stood where she had left him, framed in the arch of the church doorway, his face blank, expressionless, but infinitely menacing.
Suddenly childish again, she thumbed her nose at him, then wrenched the wheel round and drove away. The Buick was parked nearby but she had no fear of pursuit. Where she was going only a fool would attempt to take a long-chassised, oversprung American car.
Five minutes later as she shifted to four-wheel drive and began to make her cautious ascent to the uplands, she started going through that period of self-doubt which seemed to be the inevitable postscript of all her recent actions.
What’s wrong with me? she asked herself angrily.
‘It’s all this looking into myself,’ she said aloud. ‘Stuff looking into yourself for a lark ! ’
What she needed was someone else to look into. She was a fool to keep on walking away from people, Lakenheath last night, Diss this morning. She should be nosier; she was naturally nosy, that was what being a historian or an archaeologist was all about; she was happiest when at her nosiest !
She had almost arrived at the excavation sight when a movement on one of the long ridges which ran to the north-west caught her eye. She stopped the Range Rover, took Leo’s field glasses out of the glove compartment and brought the moving figures into focus.
It was Crow running alongside Twinkle. They were passing the small clump of trees which had been the mark in yesterday’s race. For a moment Zeugma felt a pang of sheer envy at the untroubled joyous ease of motion which the pair so evidently delighted in. Then it died away as it struck her that here indeed was someone who needed looking into.
The discoveries she had made yesterday in Crow’s cottage invited investigation. And the more she had thought about it, the more certain she became that the little pile of bones had been the missing hand of her Roman skeleton. So she was personally involved.
With growing excitement she watched the pair out of sight. They must be a good five miles from home and would widen the gap further if they held their present course. She on the other hand could be there in under fifteen minutes.
Today she didn’t feel like digging and waiting for things to happen, hourly anticipating the anonymous menace which lay in wait round each corner of her life. Today she was going to sally forth and meet the enemy, whoever he might be, on her own terms. She pressed as hard as she dared on the accelerator. This time there would be no postscript of doubts and regrets. This time … !
This time the doubts, regrets and the added bonus of fear came within two minutes of achieving her desired object.
Crow’s dwelling seemed to have shifted or her memory of her route the previous day had played her false. And when she finally arrived near the long low building, so easily did it develop and follow the lines and materials of the hillside that she almost didn’t see it.
Conscious that she had spent more time getting there than anticipated, she abandoned caution in her approach and marched boldly up to the front door. A hare started from the ground almost beneath the threshold and she stopped in her tracks and a small cry of surprise forced itself through her lips. The animal bounded away for about twenty yards in an easy kangaroo lope, then stopped, sat on its haunches in the classic position with ears pricked, and stared back at her in apparent curiosity. Suddenly she remembered the hare whose unexpected appearance had brought Jonathan Upas off his motorbike.
As if satisfied that he had taken in everything about her, the hare now turned and set off again in a businesslike fashion. He was heading, Zeugma worked out, northwest. To fetch Crow, or so Charley and his superstitious mates would believe, she told herself with a smile she was glad she could not see. It felt a trifle glassy.
The door seemed to have no fastening and when she pushed at the gnarled and weathered wood, it gave way instantly, swinging in as smoothly and silently as the bedroom doors in the Cairo Hilton on the night that Hasan had led her without fuss and without resistance to his room.
Is that ancient history still running through my mind? she asked herself angrily as she stepped inside.
Once over the threshold, she stopped instantly and all memories fled away as she concentrated wholly on the present. It was dark in there, black dark save for what light spilled in through the open door at her back. But it wasn’t just the darkness which held her still. Life cannot exist in a confined space without making itself felt, giving itself away. And she sensed a living presence here, something breathing and watching.
She had opened her mouth to speak when there came the beating of what seemed many mighty wings and an angry rasping shriek tore the air. She stepped back, caught her foot on the stone step of the threshold, the polite inanity which had been forming in her mouth came out as a cry of terror, and as she fell backwards some fearful, howling, wing-beating thing brushed past her head and fled into the daylight.
It was just a bird, she told herself as she lay on her back half in, half out of the building and watched the bird rapidly gaining height in the soft grey sky.
No, not just a bird, she corrected herself, trying by reasoned observation to still the fearful bells of panic which were still sounding through her mind and down the courses of her blood. A peregrine falcon.
And as if bent on confirming the correctness of her identification, the bird now soared on some column of buoyant air almost directly overhead so that its distinctive anchor shape was clearly apparent. Then it stooped and came hurtling down towards her in a precipitous power-dive; she tried to close her eyes and couldn’t, the bird held its dive till it was only ten feet above her head, then it chattered derisively at her from deep in its throat, opened its huge wings and soared away.
She watched it out of sight. It took the same direction as the hare. Suddenly she realized that she probably had very little time. There need be no witchcraft here; if Crow spotted his falcon loose in the sky, he would know instantly that his house had been entered.
Quickly she got to her feet, brushed herself down, took a deep breath, and went back inside.
There was, she rapidly discovered, something very distasteful about poking through other people’s belongings. In a paradoxical way, however, it was this distaste which made the business bearable for it occupied her mind to the diminution though not exclusion of her fear, and it was certainly the more resistable of the two evils.
She tried to arrange her thoughts systematically, a task she had found distressingly difficult so far that day.
This man Crow is a mystery. There is something frightening about him. I think he may have stolen my bones. (My bones !) I know he was connected with the discovery of a girl’s body on the waste and I have seen some articles of female clothing in his house. Therefore …
… therefore why the hell haven’t I come here with a posse of policemen to confront the suspect and have his belongings turned over by professionals?
It was a good clear-cut question. The answer was certainly not quite as clear-cut, and she was not sure just how good it was either. Because, she told herself, because he is, or might be, a free spirit, whatever that is; because he has chosen to separate himself from modern society and all its works; because this separation might be a noble, admirable thing, and because I do not want to be the one who unnecessarily brings the incomprehension of uniforms and the cold heart of officialdom into his life.
Unless I have to.
Her period of thought had given her eyes time to adjust to the dim light and she began her search.
The girl’s shoe was on the stone shelf where she had first seen it. She looked at it closely. It was well worn, but still serviceable. Size four, made by a well-known manufacturer. The stocking was still there also, but the hank of hair had been removed.
‘Damn ! ’ she said aloud. Shoes and stockings could belong to anybody, but hair was uniquely personal. Well, at least she assumed it was.
She widened the area of her search, though still concentrating on the furthermost section of the building which seemed to be used as a general storehouse. There were rows of earthenware jugs and jars here, most of them filled with liquids and powders. They were unlabelled as far as she could make out in the half-light and thoughts of the ingredients of sorcery began to rise in her mind. Dried blood, powdered toad, essence of hemlock, mandrake root … but all a couple of cautious sniffs and even more cautious tastings revealed to her was some coarse flour, some highly spiced vinegar and a large amount of the basic ingredient of the Brose she had drunk the previous day. This was really excellent, pure and resonant in the mouth, clear and glowing in the stomach. She sucked at her finger like a babe at the breast. The taste reminded her of Crow’s hospitality and help and she felt a sudden flush of shame at what she was doing.
Carefully she replaced the jug. She wanted to be finished with this business now. There was little else in the storage area; some expertly carved walking sticks, one or two other pieces of wood-carving (but no dolls with nails through their heads, she was glad to note); a pile of rocks and stones, some of the latter semi-precious but unpolished, and several of the rocks bearing small fossils in their surface, leaves, ammonites, that kind of thing.
She returned to the main chamber and cast an unenthusiastic eye round. The steam had gone out of the search; she was no further forward than she had been when she started, all she had got out of the visit were a lot more of those doubts and regrets she had desired to put behind her.
But her trained eye was now focussing more strongly on the actual construction of the building. It was impossible, she told herself, that Crow could have built it from scratch within the last three years as Charley asserted. It must have been a refurbishing job on an extant long-house. But the recessed hearth now … that didn’t fit. It postdated by a couple of centuries the overall style of the place. She might be able to tell something from the markings on the stones where they had been worked.
She approached the hearth and knelt down. The cold peat ashes stirred gently in the draught from her movement. It was, she thought, a remarkably well insulated house. Many a double-glazed superior modern dwelling let in more cold air than this place. Though it could have done with a bit more light. In fact the light seemed to have perceptibly decreased in the last few seconds. Perhaps it was because the weather had taken a sudden turn for the worse. Or perhaps, she thought as she leaned into the fireplace to get a closer view of the chimney stones, perhaps the main source of light from the door had for some reason become blocked.
And the only reason that suggested itself was that someone was standing there.
She jerked upright at the thought. The back of her head cracked violently against the chimney-lintel and, overcome with giddiness and sickness, she sunk forward till her face rested in the peat ashes and her rasping breath sucked in clouds of choking dust. Through her retching coughs she heard a movement behind her, footsteps approach with slow and deliberate menace. She pushed herself out of the fireplace, turned, through mote-filled eyes mistily saw the tall figure which loomed over her with a club upraised in its right hand, and shrieked.
‘You’ll need to lose a bit of weight before you can climb up chimneys,’ said Lakenheath reprovingly. ‘Otherwise you’ll just get stuck.’
10
But many are too early old and before the date of age.
Zeugma’s tears of pain from the blow on her head, augmented by tears of relief that it was not Crow who had discovered her, soon washed most of the ash from her eyes. She quickly pulled herself together (an activity hopefully consequent on looking into oneself) and essayed a social smile at Lakenheath who sat on the opposite side of the fireplace from her, occupying the bed niche Crow had sat in the previous evening.
‘Better?’ he said. ‘Now, what are you doing here, Miss Gray?’
There was nothing accusatory in his voice, and though it might be pleasant to tell him to mind his own business, it might also be undiplomatic.
‘I came to see Mr Crow,’ she said. ‘I … owe him some money. A bet made on his behalf.’
It wasn’t a bad lie, she felt.
‘I see. You were putting it up the chimney?’ he asked solemnly.
‘Of course not. I was merely examining the construction of the place. I am an archaeologist after all. You startled me.’
‘I’m sorry. You must try not to be so nervous. How’s your head?’
‘Bowed but unbloody,’ she said. ‘And what about you, Mr Lakenheath? What are you doing here ?
‘In fact,’ she added, looking in surprise at the bandaged foot and the walking stick which rested between his legs, ‘how did you get here ? Not on foot, surely?’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I had a lift. Sergeant Fell brought me as close as he could get, I hopped and slid the rest of the way. The ankle’s rather better this morning.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. But why are you here?’
Lakenheath looked at her questioningly for a moment.
‘I had a long think after you left yesterday,’ he said. ‘You know, in a way you were right. If I had challenged that fellow Diss when he first appeared, then poor Sayer wouldn’t have been on that road, would he? I’m not going to roll about groaning with guilt and remorse – life’s never as simple as that – but I made a mistake and I realize that now.’
‘Big of you,’ observed Zeugma. ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve got that off your chest and put your conscience at peace.’
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m offering an explanation not an apology or a confession. I don’t know who may be entitled to those things, but I’m damned certain it’s not you.’
This was just, Zeugma had to admit.
‘Okay. Carry on. Is there more?’
‘Quite a lot. I went to see Fell this morning. He’s a sensible enough fellow, though we’ve had some differences in the past.’
‘About parking your car?’
‘No,’ he said acidly. ‘Things more important than that. I accused him and the whole damn poli
ce force of being a bunch of shortsighted, inefficient morons a couple of months ago.’
‘Oh my ! What had they done to deserve such wrath?’ she asked.
He was silent for a moment. Suddenly she felt he was wondering whether it was worth continuing talking to her.
‘Go on,’ she urged.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘You’ve heard, I think, about the so-called hippy commune which set up in the fever hospital?’
‘Oh yes,’ she answered. ‘Your triumph ! Wouldn’t the police turn their dogs loose or something as they chivvied them out?’
‘They weren’t chivvied out,’ said Lakenheath. ‘Sayer got a bit angry, gave them twenty-four hours to leave. And they left.’
‘So it was all Sayer, was it?’ she demanded. ‘Now he’s dead, it can all be Sayer’s fault. And while Sayer was out persecuting these people, chucking them out into the cold in the middle of winter, what were you doing, pray? You whose responsibility it all was, you the chief officer of the North East Cumberland Development Council, what did you do for these people ?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘in the first place I gave them the key.’
He was not looking for any point-scoring satisfaction, but he couldn’t help but feel a little of it as she sat back in her seat, her eyes rounded with surprise in her smutty face.
‘And let’s get other things straight,’ he continued. ‘They weren’t a commune. There were only four of them, three women and a man. Travellers they called themselves. They needed somewhere to rest up, get out of the cold.’
Beyond the Bone Page 9