Beginner's Luck

by Paul Somers

  However, my spirits slowly improved. Memories, I’d been told, were short in Fleet Street, and meanwhile it was a heavenly day, warm and sunny. There were certainly worse ways of spending a May afternoon than cruising through a pleasant countryside. I drove at an unhurried pace, enjoying the scenery, and it was nearly four o’ clock when I reached Lodden. It proved to be a most attractive little hamlet, set well back from a busy main road. It had a picturesque parish church, one shop, an inviting-looking pub called the Castle Arms, and a few old cottages, all clustered round an ancient stone bridge across the River Lod. The castle, of which only the top of a tower was visible from the village, stood on rising ground about half a mile from the church. I drove as near to it as I could get, parking the Riley in the castle car park beside a wooden tea-room that, rather surprisingly, was shuttered. The approach to the castle was through an iron kissing-gate and up a field path. I’d taken it for granted that I should get all the information I wanted at the castle itself, but when I reached the gate I found a notice there which said: LODDEN CASTLE. CLOSED FOR REPAIRS. REOPENING JUNE 1ST.

  That shook me a little. I’d assumed that if a cannon ball really had disappeared, it had probably been taken by some sky-larking youngsters during a visit. Now that seemed less likely.

  A piece of paper tacked to the notice board gave the name and address of the caretaker as T. Figgis, Rose Cottage, Lodden, and I strolled back to the village to look him up. I soon found the cottage, a charming blend of thatch and old timber—but not, unfortunately, T. Figgis. His wife, a fair-haired girl who was herself preparing to leave the house as I arrived, said that her husband had gone off to London that afternoon “on a course,” and that she expected him to be away for nearly a week. When the castle reopened in seven days’ time, she explained, he was to be the official guide as well as the caretaker, and he was now being briefed for the job. I asked her if it was true that a cannon ball was missing and she said it was and that it had been taken two days ago and that they had no idea who might have taken it. I asked her if anyone had been allowed inside the castle while it had been officially closed and she said No, only the workmen, and they’d finished a week ago, and she was sorry she couldn’t stop and talk now but she had a bus to catch. I felt, and possibly looked, a bit worried about where I was going to get hold of enough information to make a story, and she said kindly that perhaps I’d like to look over the castle myself now I was here and if so she thought it would be all right as I was from a newspaper. Looking over the castle seemed a poor substitute for a talk with T. Figgis, but it was certainly better than nothing, so I thanked her and she gave me the key, a massive object that made me feel like a beefeater, together with a short “Guide to Lodden Castle” for which I paid her ninepence. I promised to leave the key under a box beside the back door when I’d finished with it, and was just thinking up another question or two to fire at her when the bus arrived and carried her off.

  I walked slowly back to the kissing-gate, glancing through the introduction to the guide book as I went. There was a whimsical paragraph about some medieval legend, which I didn’t pay much attention to, and a few historical facts, which I marked for possible use later. The castle had been built, it seemed, in the late fourteenth century to command the waterway of the river Lod at a time when naval raids by the French were feared—though in fact they’d never materialised. It had suffered a short siege during the Wars of the Roses and had played a small part in the Civil War. It had been privately owned until 1939 and had then been presented to a Trust. That was about all. By this time I had reached the gate, and I set off up the field path to see what the castle looked like.

  It was in a wonderfully fine state of preservation. It was built on a simple rectangle—about fifty yards long by forty wide, the book said—and its crenellated walls, seven feet thick and forty feet high, were all intact. Except for a few narrow loopholes, the walls were blank. At each corner there was a round tower, and in the centre of each flank a square tower, and the towers, I read, were sixty feet high. The whole pile rose majestically from a broad moat, carpeted with water lilies and fringed with hazel bushes. Ancient oaks and elms provided a splendid background. Apart from a small wooden hut near the entrance, which was obviously used for the sale of tickets when the castle was open to the public, there wasn’t a building in sight. The place had a wonderful air of serenity and peace, and I could imagine that T. Figgis quite enjoyed his custodianship.

  An earthen causeway led across the moat to a pointed gate arch, with a spiked portcullis that seemed to hang threateningly but was in fact well rusted into its socket. I thrust my key into the big mortice lock and wrestled with it for a moment or two and finally succeeded in swinging one of the halves of the huge oak door back on its creaking hinges. Inside, there was a broad passage with some fine groined vaulting, curiously pierced by a number of large circular holes. I referred to the book, and discovered that they were “meurtrières” or “murder holes,” through which the old-time defenders had poured their molten lead and pitch as the enemy stormed in. Beyond, there was a rectangular courtyard, grassed over with well-kept turf, and surrounded by remnants of partition walls. Ferns and wallflowers grew in profusion from the sheltered crannies of the grey-green, lichened stone, and the air was deliciously scented. It was a most satisfying place, tranquil as an abbey cloister.

  So far I had seen no sign of any cannon or cannon balls, either outside or inside the castle, but now as I glanced around the courtyard I spotted what was undoubtedly some sort of gun, and I walked quickly across to it. There was a guard chain around it, and a descriptive panel was planted in the grass beside it. The gun, I read, was a replica of a fifteenth-century siege gun, or bombard, the original of which had been dredged up out of the moat and given to a museum. The stone shot lying beside the gun, the panel said, was also a replica. It had a diameter of 15 inches and weighed 150 lbs. There was a depression in the grass where the shot had lain, but the shot was no longer there. This, I had to conclude, was the missing “cannon ball.”

  By now, I was beginning to feel distinctly intrigued. The physical effort involved in moving a stone shot weighing nearly a hundredweight and a half must have been very considerable. If it had been taken away altogether, it had presumably been manhandled all the way to the kissing-gate, a tremendous undertaking. And why should anyone want to steal a stone shot, particularly one that was only a replica? It was possible, of course, that it hadn’t been stolen—some vandal might simply have rolled it into the moat for a joke or a bet. But what opportunity had there been for anyone to do that, when the castle was closed to visitors? Certainly no one could have broken into such a place. I wished more than ever that I could have had a word with T. Figgis.

  I went on to explore the rest of the castle, and it didn’t take me long. Though the outer walls were so well preserved, they were in fact no more than a beautiful shell. The guide book indicated the sites of places like the Lord’s Kitchen, the Buttery and Pantry, the Retainers’ Hall, the Bower and the Chapel, but they had either been deliberately demolished in some earlier age or had fallen into total ruin. I inspected the remains of several tile-backed fireplaces, and a shallow hole near the entrance gate that had once been a dungeon, and a well in the basement of one of the towers that was supposed to have supplied water to the kitchens. The towers themselves, with one exception, were all hollow and stairless. The exception was a square one directly opposite the main entrance and commanding what had evidently been a second entrance to the castle, now walled up. I went through a wooden door and climbed a spiral stone staircase dimly lit by loopholes. Half-way up the staircase there was access to a first floor chamber, bare and cold, and at the top of the flight there was another, heavier door, opening on to a flat concrete roof some twenty feet square. It was here, apparently, that much of the repair work had been done, for I could see several places where holes and cracks in the stone had been filled and strengthened with new cement. A waist-high parapet, carried on heavy stone cor
bels, overhung the sides of the tower, leaving a gap a foot wide between the parapet and the walls down which more nasty liquids had doubtless been poured on the heads of scaling parties. The gap was protected now by three narrow iron slats, an inch or two apart, so that one could still look down the sides of the walls to the moat and yet tread with safety.

  Except to the east, where the ground rose gently to high woods, the view from the roof was extensive. Far to the north I made out a faint line of smooth blue hills, the last outcrop of the South Downs. To the west and south, rich, level pastures stretched away to the horizon. The countryside looked empty and unspoilt. At the foot of the castle slope, the river Lod wound its way quietly through the water meadows.

  I stayed up there for a few minutes, admiring the scene and enjoying the sense of remoteness that one had at the top of the tower. Then I finished my circuit of the castle, locked the door behind me, and took the key back to Rose Cottage. I had had a pleasant little excursion, but I hadn’t got very much further with the story. So far, it seemed to be nothing but question marks. I talked about the missing stone to one or two villagers, but they didn’t appear to be taking the loss very seriously and none of them looked at all deprived. I sought out the village policeman, P.C. Mathers, and asked him if the loss had been officially reported and he said that Tom Figgis had mentioned it to him and he’d mentioned it to his superior, but as the shot was of no great value and they were short-handed anyway, nothing had been done about it. He agreed it was a “funny business” but he hadn’t any theories to offer. And that seemed to be that.

  I wrote my story in the lounge of the Castle Arms, padding out the few facts with a bit of description and some stuff from the guide book, and at six o’clock I got on the phone to the office and dictated it to a shorthand writer. Afterwards I was put through to the News Desk, the unbreakable routine, and Hatcher was there, and I started to tell him what I’d been doing.

  He cut me short. “Have you found the cannon ball?” he snarled.

  “Well, no …” I began. “The fact is …”

  “Then stay there till you’ve bloody well found it,” he said, and hung up.

  I made a mental note to ask Smee to cut me in on any heart-tearing-out party he happened to be organising in the near future. Meanwhile, I’d obviously got to grin and bear it. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might be kept out of town overnight on such a paltry story, but luckily I’d taken a bit of advice that Furnival had given me and I had a small bag already packed in the car against just this sort of emergency. I booked a room at the Castle Arms, which I’d already discovered to be a homely, do-as-youplease sort of inn with a tradition of comfort. Then I rang the News Desk again to let them know where I was staying, and went off to find the bar and drown my sorrows. There was only one other customer there, a girl. She was sitting on a high stool with her back to the door, sipping tomato juice and doing a crossword puzzle in the Courier. The back view was distinctly promising—she had a mass of rich chestnut hair, a glorious colour, perfectly set off by a cool summer frock with unusual shades of green in it. I ordered a small bitter, and as she turned to see who had come in, the promise was more than fulfilled. She had dark eyes and a creamy complexion and a beautifully shaped mouth. She was lovely.

  I felt sure it couldn’t be a coincidence. I said, “Excuse me—but are you by any chance Mollie Bourne?”

  She gave me a haughty stare. After a moment she said, “I am—yes. Who are you?”

  “My name’s Hugh Curtis. I’m a reporter on the Records.”

  She thawed at once. “Are you, though? In that case, draw up a stool.”

  I drew up a stool. Close to, she looked even more attractive. She was exquisitely groomed, immensely self-possessed. Yet she couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four.

  “You’re new, aren’t you?” she said.

  I nodded. “Straight from the Mint!”

  “I suppose you’re on this castle story, too?”

  “Yes … I quite thought I had it to myself. Isn’t it rather small stuff for a star reporter?”

  She smiled. “I happen to like Lodden Castle—my people used to live not far away—and the story sounded mildly amusing so I suggested I should cover it.”

  “Now that’s what I call a civilised way of running an office,” I said. “I’m afraid I was sent here as a punishment. Same principle as running round the barrack square with a full pack.”

  “Why, what have you done?”

  “Fallen down on a story.” I told her about the fire, not without a certain relish. In retrospect, it was beginning to seem rather funny. She thought so, too.

  “Well, you’re not likely to fall down on this story,” she said.

  “I’m not so sure. I’ve been told to stay here until I find the stone!”

  “That sounds like Hatcher!”

  “It was, as a matter of fact.”

  “He’s just a sadist. If you take my advice you’ll relax and enjoy yourself.”

  “I’m beginning to,” I said. I looked at her empty glass. “What about a real drink?”

  “I’d sooner have another tomato juice, if you don’t mind. I have to watch my figure.”

  I’d been watching it, too, and it wasn’t any hardship. “Keeping an eye on Mollie,” in Lawson’s phrase, would be a pleasure.

  I ordered the drinks. Then I said, “Did you send a long piece about the castle?”

  “Good heavens, no. There wasn’t much to say, was there?”

  I agreed, with relief, that there wasn’t. “All the same, it’s quite interesting,” I said. “What do you think happened to the stone?”

  She gave a slight shrug. “Just a piece of hooliganism, I should think. It’s probably at the bottom of the moat.”

  “Yes, but how did the chap get into the castle?”

  She gave me a quizzical smile. “That’s the mystery, isn’t it?” she said.

  “In any case, it would have been quite a job to get the stone even as far as the moat.”

  “But not impossible—not for a big man.” She looked me up and down, appraisingly. “I should think you could carry 150 pounds, couldn’t you?”

  “To the moat? Just about—but it wouldn’t be much fun.”

  “Whoever did it was probably crackers,” she said. “You know—strength of madness!” She sounded a bit bored with the subject, so I didn’t pursue it.

  “How long do you think you’ll be staying?” I asked her.

  “Over to-morrow, anyway. I’m due for a few days off, and I thought of doing some sketching at the castle.”

  “Sketching? Are you good?”

  “Not really. I dabble a bit, that’s all …” She began to gather up her belongings.

  “If you’re going to be around,” I said, “perhaps you’d join me for dinner to-night?”

  “And help you to relax?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “It seems quite a pleasant one.” She finished her tomato juice and slid off her stool. She was tall for a girl, but not too tall. She was slim, but not in the least fragile-looking. In fact, I couldn’t see a single flaw in her. “I’ll see you in the dining-room at seven, then,” she said.

  I was waiting for her. She was fifteen minutes late. She’d changed into something stream-lined and looked very elegant. We had a cosy corner in the little dining-room and the steak was good and so was the bottle of Chateau Latour ’ 37 that the manager had personally dug up for me from the cellar. Mollie was delightful company. From the way Lawson had described her, I’d expected her to be very hard-boiled in the Fleet Street sense, but there was no sign of that. Her conversation was bright, but not in the least tough. Naturally, we talked “shop” most of the time. I asked her how long she’d been on the Courier and she said two years. Apparently she’d gone there straight from Lady Margaret Hall and, like me, had never been near a local paper, which I found encouraging. She told me about some of the stories she’d been on, and one or two of her experiences struck
me as pretty hair-raising. She seemed to find them merely amusing. She had tremendous zest, and obviously enjoyed every minute of her work.

  After the second glass of wine I asked her, in a mock-interview manner, to what she attributed her spectacular success.

  “If you must know,” she said with a mischievous smile, “it’s just a confidence trick. If a reasonably attractive girl is sent to cover a fashion show, nobody takes any special notice of her. If she turns up to report a murder, everyone falls over backwards to help her because they’re sorry for her.”

  “In fact, you concentrate on the men and use everything you’ve got?”

  “Almost everything,” she said. “One has to keep a reserve for contingencies.”

  I asked her how it was that she managed to get mixed up personally in so many stories, and she thought it was just an excess of zeal. She told me how she’d been sent to cover a Record Walk across the Cumberland fells at Easter, and had tried to do the walk herself, and had had to be rescued from a mist-covered peak at night by an R.A.F. Mountain Rescue team. That started me off about the Lakes, where I’d done quite a bit of rock-climbing in the Long Vac. before my call-up, and she turned out to be as good a listener as she was a talker.

  It was after eleven when we finally said good night—and that was still too early for me. I put the lights out in the lounge, because everyone else had gone to bed, and we crept quietly upstairs. Her room was number 6, two doors from mine. She lingered for a moment at her door, and the heady thought crossed my mind that she was going to ask me in for a nightcap—that she might even regard me as a contingency! But she just smiled very charmingly and said it had been a delightful evening and wished me “Good night.” I went to my own room in a mental whirl, and it wasn’t just the wine. At that moment I couldn’t have cared less about Hatcher, or the office, or stone shots weighing a hundredweight and a half. I had met, I felt sure, the one woman in my life!