Kick pointed vaguely. ‘Over there. He’s just ducked behind that wall.’
She pulled the heavy door shut, barged passed them and set off in the direction of the ruins. ‘Show me. Come on quickly. Show me where.’ Kick trotted beside her, pointing at the invisible canine intruder. Billy hung back a few moments then tried the Turret House door. It swung open. He slipped inside and silently closed and bolted it behind him. In a minute, he was on the Turret House roof. He glanced over the battlements and saw Kick leading the excited custodian into Manor Lodge ruins in search of a non-existent sheepdog.
Billy turned back to the flat, lead covered roof and glanced around it. He remembered the custodian saying that when Longden had become all excited and run off, he had been kneeling in the far corner, peering at marks on the lead through a magnifying glass. His "Eureka”, as Yvonne had called it.
Armed with writing paper, pencil and granny’s magnifying glass, Billy knelt in the same spot and peered closely at the leaden floor. Pits and scratches from centuries of wear and tear covered it. Here and there, traces of ancient graffiti mixed with more recent references. Up The Blades, and The Owls for ever being a common theme. One told that Percy loves Doris, it was dated 1944. He slowly moved the glass from side to side across the marks, praying with every image that ballooned up in the lens that he would see the mysterious cause of Doctor Longden’s excitement. There was nothing. He searched deeper into the corner under the crenulated wall, but still found nothing except badly drawn hearts with arrows through them and scratchy declarations of, Frank loves Theresa, or Bert = Gertie. He covered every square inch before moving on to examine the next bit.
The custodian was hammering on the door, shouting up to him about police and even the army. He could hear Kick trying unsuccessfully to convince her that he was not inside. He even tried alerting her to another invisible dog, but that merely enraged her more.
It was no good. The mission had failed. The outraged custodian was becoming hysterical. Billy knew that the game was up. He could do no more. He sighed miserably, his shoulders slumping, and let the glass and writing paper slip from his fingers. The shadow he cast in the afternoon sun seemed to mock him as he hunched over the lead sheeted roof. He got off his knees and walked to the battlements, looked down miserably at the ranting custodian and told her he was coming down.
Whatever Longden had found would remain a mystery. Perhaps it wasn’t even important anyway, he told himself, and bent to retrieve his magnifying glass and pencil.
Doomster stares o’er water rounde
His needle plying skie
Wrought stones on shining iron ground
That a crownie head might plie.
Scratched into the lead, the words filled the lens exactly. They floated and loomed as he picked up the glass. He did not know what they meant, but the word needle attracted him. The Scottish Queen had spent her time sewing and embroidering up on The Turret House roof. She had sat many hours with her friend, the Earl of Shrewsbury’s wife, Bess of Hardwick. Needles were part of her life. This obscure little poem could be important. Maybe Doctor Hadfield would know what it meant.
0o0o0
Chapter Twenty-Four
Polly Harrison opened her pub, The Rivelin Hotel at Man’s Head, at eleven precisely every morning. Rain, snow, sun, or blow, she always crossed the narrow road to the pasture in front of her door and looked out fondly across the silent, wooded Rivelin valley. This particular morning she found herself sharing the view and the earthy scent of woodland, with a ginger headed, freckled faced kid. He was leaning back on a bicycle, his feet on top of the crumbling dry stonewall that enclosed the pasture.
‘Hello. Who are you?’ she asked cheerfully. ‘I’ve seen you up here before.’
‘Billy Perks, Missus.’ He smiled at her and looked her over with innocent indiscretion. She was chubby, and middle-aged, with grey-blonde hair. Her face looked as though she was about to burst into laughter at any second. As she, in turn, studied him, she folded her fleshy pink arms beneath a large bosom cloaked in a floral wrap-over pinafore.
‘Billy eh? My dad was a Billy; God rest him. So, what are you doing here then, Billy?’
‘Nowt, just looking round a bit; I live near – above Walkley Bank Woods.’ That was a true, though lame attempt at justifying his presence.
‘I’ve seen you before haven’t I?’ She cocked her head as she studied him.
‘I came when they found that dead bloke,’ he told her. ‘And I’ve been back since. I’m a detective. Not a real en. I’m norrin t’police force or nowt like that. But I like to investigate mysteries to find out who killed ‘em.’
Her face lit with recognition. ‘I remember,’ she said, pointing at him as though inviting him to take a look at himself too. ‘You’re that lad who was in the paper, aren’t you - threpenze or tuppence or sommat detective?’
Billy blushed and looked away shyly. ‘It weren’t just me. It were my friends an’ all. We all did it.’
‘I remember it because I knew that old lady,’ Polly Harrison said, her expression softening. ‘She used to sell the Star newspaper in town – near Coles’ corner. She was a tough old lass. She stood out there in all weathers, as unshifting as a parson’s gate. She had lungs like a bull; singing out the same old tune over and over. Mind you, you could never tell what she was saying. The only word I could ever make out was “Extraaaah”.’ She laughed, nodding as if to convince Billy. ‘Oooh it were a sad business when she was killed.’ She took a step back and held out both hands to Billy. ‘So, that was you? You solved it. My word you must be a clever boy. Would you like a Tizer?’
Tizer was a favourite tipple of Billy’s, a free one even more so. ‘Oooh yes please.’ He had pedalled from home, wondering all the way, how he would persuade the publican to open up and talk to him. As he followed her into the pub, for a free Tizer, he congratulated himself on his artful powers of persuasion and charm.
Polly Harrison led him into the saloon bar. It was a low ceilinged, dimly lit room, which smelled pleasantly of furniture polish and a million other things, mostly beer and cigarettes. As the only patron at that moment, he had the pick of the seating. He chose a high stool at the bar. ‘What’s it like having a famous murder right on your door step?’ he asked.
Polly shuddered as she poured a disappointing measure of Tizer into a handled pint glass. ‘Oooh I don’t like it, love. The police are in here all the time, and the flipping newspapers. It was terrible at first. I had a queue right round the bar for days. There were folks coming from all over the world; Rotherham, Glossop, Barnsley. There’s only me and my Harold to serve ‘em all, apart from Bessie, who cleans, but she’s as soft as a brush. Give her a shilling and she’ll give you change for ten bob. Worse than that, they wanted food. Can you believe it? Food! I told ‘em straight, “this is a pub not a flippin café”.’
‘Who do you think killed him?’ asked Billy burping after a swig of fizzy Tizer. ‘Oops! Sorry.’
Polly nodded, accepting his apology with the untroubled understanding of a seasoned professional. ‘He was in here you know, the poor man. I remember it very well. It was a quiet afternoon. There was a man on his own - sat over there. I didn’t know him.’ She pointed to a seat by a window. ‘He was a pint of Guinness. Then the two toffs came in. Campari and soda, one of ‘em wanted. Can you believe it?’ She shook her head despairingly. ‘I told him straight, we don’t do French nonsense in here. We’re English in my pub. He had a cognac instead. The other one was a Famous Grouse. They’d parked their car across Ray’s gate and I was a bit worried. Luckily, his sheep were up in Goody fields, behind the Man's Head, so I didn’t say nowt. He can be a bit mouthy can Ray, if you block his gate, even when his damn field is empty.’
‘Was it a grey car, a Morris?’ asked Billy
‘My word,’ Polly gasped in awe, covering her mouth with her hand. ‘You’re doing it now, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You're being a detective. How did you know that?’
&nbs
p; ‘I don’t know it. I’m just asking.’
‘Well it was. You’re absolutely right; a grey Morris Oxford. I remember it because it's the same as my friend's at the post office. In fact I thought it was her coming, until I saw 'em get out - the two toffs.’
‘Then what?’
‘They sat in that corner, whispering a lot. I don’t know what they were saying, but you could tell they were having a row about sommat. Then one of ‘em, the cognac, not the Famous Grouse, stood up and stormed out in a huff. He stopped at this door for a second.’ Polly pointed it out even though it was the only door in the bar. ‘He was furious. I thought he’d explode. But he never said a word. He just walked out and drove off.’ She looked at Billy and raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘They have funny rows, don’t they, posh people? They never throw owt down, angry-like, or swear. And if they do swear it sounds so posh it dunt even sound like swearing.’
‘What did he do then?’
‘How do I know? I just told you, he drove off.’
‘No the one who stayed,’ said Billy. ‘The Famous Grouse.’
‘Oh him, yes, he asked me to get him a taxi. I started to phone for one but he stopped me because he realised he’d left his coat in the car with his wallet in it. Luckily they’d already paid me for the drinks.’
‘Are you sure this was on the day of the murder?’
‘Of course I am. It was the day my Harold went to the Walkley Cottage Inn about the fishing match with their dart’s team.’ Her head wobbled huffily on her shoulders.
Billy worried he may have compromised her goodwill, and dived in quickly with a question to divert her. ‘Then what happened, Missis Harrison?’
‘Polly, call me Polly, love.’ She patted his forearm forgivingly. ‘He left as well, but he brought the glasses back first. That was nice of him. Most of ‘em just leave ‘em,’ she explained, her eyebrows shooting up her forehead. ‘I followed him to the step and watched him go back up the path to the crag. I was surprised that he went up there. I expected him to go down to the main road to get a lift, or a bus, but he didn’t.’
‘Did you see him again?’
‘No, that was the last I saw of him. The pint of Guinness left a bit later as well, but he didn’t bring his glass back –typical. Mind you, he was on a motor bike, so what can you expect? Huh, bikers! They’re all the same that lot – no manners.’ She wiped a non-existent spot from the shiny bar. ‘I was left here with an empty bar and no money coming in. They’re hard work these places, Billy. You don’t get rich having a pub. And now, what with people demanding food and frenchified drinks, it’s no wonder is it? We were better off during the war. You knew where you were then. You couldn’t get nowt for love nor money, and we got bombed every night, but we were happy.’
*
‘What made you think it was old?’ asked Doctor Hadfield. He, Yvonne and Billy were leaning over his small dining table, their heads almost touching. Between them lay a crumpled sheet of paper from a school exercise book. Billy’s efforts at copying the little poem were not too bad considering his necessary haste at the time.
‘It looked faint and worn thin,’ said Billy. ‘The writing was sort of scrolly, you know, like a five pound note.’
The doctor reached into his jacket hanging on the back of a chair and pulled out his wallet from an inside pocket. He took out a big white fiver and smoothed it out on the table next to the poem. ‘Like this?’ He pointed to the copper plate lettering.
‘Not as fancy as that. A bit plainer and not as neat.’
Doomster stares o’er water rounde
His needle plying skie
Wrought stones on shining iron ground
That a crownie head might plie.
Doctor Hadfield picked up the scrap of paper and walked around his tiny room scowling at it. ‘Doomster. That could mean a seer, a sort of oracle, or prophet. Someone who sees all and knows the future. But, water round, I’ve no idea what that could be.’
‘If we take it literally it would mean water that’s round,’ Yvonne piped.
Billy gave a derisory snort. ‘Tha can’t ‘ave round water?’ he hooted. ‘That’s barmy.’
‘Put it inside something round,’ Yvonne explained calmly. ‘Then it can be round. Water in a jug is jug shaped.’
Billy frowned and curled his lip. ‘Jug shaped? That’s barmy.’
Hadfield held out the scrap of paper and stared hard at it ‘No Billy,’ he said. ‘When you’ve nothing else to go on, you must accept what you have and start with that. So think, Billy, what could round water mean?’
Billy frowned thinking hard for a long time. ‘D’yer mean like the Round Dam?’ he asked tentatively.
Doc Hadfield looked up astonished. ‘Crickey! The Round Dam. Yes that could be it. It’s near where the body was found and…’
‘It’s right under the doomster’s nose,’ offered Yvonne.
‘You mean Man’s Head rock? That’s not an oracle,’ Billy sneered. ‘You can’t tell thee future there – not unless tha’rt falling off of it, head first.’
‘It could be,’ Yvonne argued. ‘People have been coming to see it for centuries. I bet the cave men thought it was an oracle. I bet the Romans did and the Vikings an’ all.’
Hadfield recovered his fiver from the table and stuffed it back into his wallet. ‘It’s the best we’ve got, old lad. It looks out over water. The water is in a round pond – so “water round”. I think that’s a reasonable start. That just leaves us with “Wrought stones on shining iron ground”. That’s a bit of a puzzler to me.’
Yvonne looked at him and held her hands up next to her shoulders. ‘Not if you accept that round water means the Round Dam. It becomes pretty obvious then.’ Hadfield raised his eyebrows and pouted, challenging her to back up her statement. ‘The Round Dam,’ she went on, ‘was made for the Hind Wheel, an old cutlery mill back in Tudor times. Mister Greaves told us it was working in 1581, at least that’s the first written record of it. It’s the same time as when Queen Mary was imprisoned in the Turret House.’
‘Who is Mister Greaves?'
‘Her history teacher,’ Billy said.
‘Wrought stones, could mean the stones they carved into great big grinding wheels for grinding the knife blades, shears and scythes and stuff.’ She looked at the pair expectantly. Their goofy, mystified expressions gaped back at her. ‘The stones that ground the shining iron,’ she paraphrased.
‘Yeah I gerrit,’ said Billy suddenly looking very pleased with himself. For once he felt ahead of the doctor. ‘Er – er , but what about the needle plying sky?’
‘That must be the needle, just up the road at Rivelin Rocks.’
‘Rivelin Rocks?’ Hadfield queried, the gaps in his knowledge of the local geography letting him down again.
‘It’s a big needle of rock about sixty-five feet high.’ Billy explained. ‘It’s just up the road. Climbers love it. They’re always falling off it.’
The three sat in thoughtful silence for several moments before the doctor spoke. ‘This business about ground the shining iron and all that - it’s a bit of long shot, but what if it means something like scissors or sewing needles being made in the old cutlery mill at Round Dam for Queen Mary? She was a crownie head. “The crownie head - to ply” That could mean for a queen to sew with.’ The doctor shuffled and blushed with embarrassment at his own suggestion and flapped a hand dismissively.
Billy frowned and rolled his eyes. ‘Yeah but look, we don’t care about all this,’ he said impatiently.
Doctor Hadfield eyed him questioningly. ‘Why not? It’s a terrific mystery. And there could even be treasure at the end of it.’
‘We’re not looking for treasure! What we want to know is why did Longden come here and why did the professor come with him? The treasure is not what we’re after.’
Yvonne turned to the doctor. ‘Yes, we just need to know if the poem Billy found was enough to bring the two of them here.’
Hadfield bowed his head and sho
ok it slowly. ‘You’re absolutely right, of course,’ he admitted, laughing quietly at the irony. They were trying to solve a murder, but at the first hint of gold, he had veered off course to search for it. ‘It’s the glister of gold. Fool’s gold too, no doubt.’ He looked at the pair and shrugged apologetically. ‘Treasure - it hooked them both, Longden especially. We know he spent hours on his knees at the Turret House trying to find it. Obviously, he believed there was a message, or clue of some sort there. Perhaps it was the poem. I’m quite sure it describes the murder site.’
‘Is it enough to bring them here?’ Yvonne wondered, thinking aloud.
‘I think so,’ Billy said firmly. ‘Stan Daniels told me Doctor Longden was a fool. He’d probably believe any old story that he thought might lead him to gold. Stan says he’s lost loads of money gambling. We know that he went to the Turret House lots of times looking for clues. I think he’s desperate for money and stupid enough to believe he could find buried treasure after four hundred and fifty years.’
Hadfield shook his head. ‘No, he’s an educated man, Billy. He’d never be that naive. There must more be to it than that.’
‘He’s broke and too snooty to admit it,’ Billy argued forcefully. ‘I think he drowned poor old Hepburn to keep him quiet about the Pagez letter, and he probably killed the professor too.’
‘Now you’re clutching at straws, Billy.’
‘Who else then?’ Billy demanded. ‘We know he drove the professor to Rivelin. They were in the pub together. We know they had a row. Longden left in his car and the professor went back up to the crags. What was to stop Longden creeping back and murdering him? For all we know he might have killed before. He might have murdered Mary Scott.’
‘And that’s the worst part of all this,’ Yvonne put in passionately. ‘Poor Mary Scott was killed because she saw someone steal the stupid letter. Since then two more have died because of it. Its whiff of gold is still killing people.’
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