I pushed on. It wouldn’t be far. The steep valley narrowed sharply at the next bridge. Despite the full daylight, now the water noise and the steep forested rock sides made the scene claustrophobic.
It was a real hiding place for Druids on the run. Opposite the ruined wooden shelter that Betty Springer had said people used for parties I had to rest again. I panted and gazed at the vegetation. Algernon said the glen was famous for its celandines, bluebells and wind anemones, but like all flowers they’re just basically different sorts of eccentric dandelions. Two days before, he’d tried to show me a monstrosity called a bladderwort that ate insects, the maniac. I edged away from some long-stemmed red flowers and pressed on upstream. They looked full of appetite. The brick uprights of the causeway showed among the trees ahead. I crossed at the last bridge to keep to the main path.
The viaduct was gloomier and darker than ever. Janie and I had never gone all the way beneath. Now, the rush of the swollen river caused the path to be flooded by a nasty swark. The three races, parted for the giant columns of the overhead road, emitted as they ran a sustained bellow which echoed and intensified between the brick pillars. Thoughtful Victorians had cobbled the path but forgotten a handrail. People were made of sterner stuff in those days, probably. I pushed sideways along the path on to the cobbles and stepped into the flooded bit. It was only a few inches deep this high above the river but still rushed with disquieting force against my ankles.
Beyond, the glen couldn’t really be called a glen any more. There was very little space from wall to wall. It was more of a dark crevasse whose walls were encrusted with polished tubers of igneous rock mortared by ferns and lichen. Trees soared upwards, practically meeting in a great knitted entombing arch two hundred feet high. The path stayed beside the hoarse river, now demented by the addition of grey-black honed rocks. I plodded on, occasionally having to take hold of a tree branch for my weight where the path was either too overgrown or vanished completely. Algernon had told me they were beech, fir, birch, alder, willow. Their names sound all garden and tea-on-the-terrace, don’t they, but down in Groundle Glen they were having a hell of a time of it. They were twisted and scrabbling for toe-holds up the soaring valley walls. One had fallen here and there, slamming down into the river or lodging across the boulders. I was struggling breathlessly over a slain skinned trunk and thinking that some lunatics do this for fun and call it rambling, when I saw it, a few yards up ahead. I yelled out for joy, clawing up through the undergrowth towards the wheel.
If everything was twinned in Bexon’s trail, what else for Big Izzie but a Little Izzie? And where else but long the very glen where he’d stayed? An old sick man just can’t get far, especially with a digging job to do. I’m stupid, really slow.
Judging from the state of the old path nobody had been this far along for years at least. The river rose to a natural series of bouldered waterfalls. And that exact point was where years ago Bexon had sited his little ornamental water wheel, a beautiful simple copy of the original Lady Isabella. Her twin. If I’d had any sense I should have guessed: two identical diaries, two sketches, two nieces, but the carriage in the picture he’d chosen to copy had only one wheel. Find the missing thing and you’re there. Stupid Lovejoy. I’d stayed in the same glen and never worked it out.
A decorative wooden millhouse stood amid engulfing greenery, maybe thirty feet tall. It was painted a crumbling black and white, typical Tudor in style, to offset the faded yellow of the wheel itself. Trust old Bexon to get the colours right this time. Guessing now where the path probably went, I hauled myself towards the millhouse breathless with excitement. My chest was suddenly tightly constricted, clamouring and clanging. Warm and getting hotter. I stubbed my foot on a stone. Steps ran – lurched – upwards. A rusty old handrail showed in the foliage, curving along the rock wall towards the millhouse. Of course. In those days the people were families on a day out. For safety there would be no way to the actual water wheel except maybe for a man to work it. I clambered up the steps. The handrail looked pretty precarious so I kept away and tried pushing myself along the rock face among the honeysuckle and brambles. I smelled sweet but was gradually being shredded. The steps curved narrowly up between the incised valley wall and the millhouse planking, very similar to one bend of fairground helter-skelter, with the millhouse representing the tower and the steps the slide. It was about as steep. Twenty steps and I was almost on level with the roof.
The path was rimmed by railing from there and ran level but higher, perhaps to climb steadily along the glen to emerge eventually on the main sea road, but I couldn’t see beyond a few feet because of the day-dusk of the overhanging rocks and the dense vegetation. The river was three feet below me where it started its torrential dash to the boulders. A wooden lock gate had once diverted the flow from the millwheel’s blades. Now the wood was rotten. The river split on a big pile, spraying a race against the wheel in a high bow wave. The wheel showed a gear on its millhouse side, maybe half the full wheel’s diameter.
Where else but in the millhouse?
The walls seemed fairly substantial. I tested by pushing the planking carefully. Stable. I guessed the wheel to be about ten feet tall. If that gearing was still in working order the turning force of a millrace in this sort of spate would be colossal. Decorative, but dangerous. I’d have to be careful. There were no windows on this side but a diminutive platform projected over the waterfalls. Entrance therefore from below. I clambered down and peered up at the millhouse.
It’s surprising how big things look when you’re feeling vulnerable. The millhouse seemed supernaturally tall and thin. I could have sworn the wheel, clapped so firmly to its side and spurting the rushing water aside into an aerial jet to join the rest of the torrent, was no more than ten feet in diameter. From below it had grown. I was standing level with its lowermost blades. Only the merest trickle crept out from beneath, a testimony to the builders’ skills. Stray trickles are wasted power, energy just chucked away. Even in decoration craftsmanship tells. I splashed the few yards through the muddied undergrowth. A wooden platform, crumbling, about chest height.
The millhouse’s downstream aspect showed four turreted windows, two and two, not large enough to enter. I hauled myself on to the planking, making two give away instantly. I tumbled through on to the fetid mud beneath the platform. I was in a hell of a state and cursing worse than usual. But if the platform was fixed and I was the first to plunge through, then nothing could have been hidden beneath, correct? I was grinning like an ape, sweating in the dank air and almost bemused by the percussions of the booming river. This close, the falls were indescribably ugly. I’ve heard people go over in coracles for fun. They’re welcome.
The platform creaked and spat splinters as I crept over it on hands and knees to spread my weight. A hinge, smugly veiled by its grime, was a foot from my face. Part of the wooden wall was crosscut, just as you see in stable half-doors. I found the finger hole after groping, and pulled. Naturally, I fell beneath it as it tumbled out, but that’s what comes of slow mental processes. Doors open, rotten doors fall outwards.’ The interior was a revolting mess of bird droppings and feathers. A set of wooden steps and a platform on the riverward side seemed more trustworthy than the outside planks, perhaps because they were protected from weathering. I crept up, jogging cautiously and waiting for the creaks to subside before trying the next step. The wheel was visible through a slit. I pulled at the edges. Rotten pieces came away in my hands. The whole structure was dicey. Only the gears were intact and they were practically perfect.
The wheel was a working model, connected through its gear to an internal cogwheel about four feet across. Every single depression had been packed by grease, lovely thick grease, and the cogs were as clean as the day the gears had been cast. A solid locking lever held the teeth. Carelessly, I unslipped the chain peg to see what happened. The wheel gave a great scream as its gears clanked round. I yelped and almost went through the crumbling floor. The outside rushing no
ise lessened instantly as the water pushed the wheel blades.
I looked out. The great bow wave had gone from the waterfalls. Instead, the millrace was busily turning the waterwheel, but nobody could get near the thing to examine it while it was heaving round. The great thing sounded alive, whining and groaning and sighing like that. It unnerved me. I leaned back. More wood came away. I judged the turning cogs exactly right and hauled the lever into place. The distressing human noises stopped and outside the bow wave spurted again. I’d rather have that going all the time than the horrid shrill whines from the wheel. I locked the lever firmly with its peg. It was rigid enough without it, but accidents happen. One kick and the wheel’d be off again, so careful. I’d had enough risks to last the day out.
The bird droppings below showed no disturbance for years. Every sign in the whole narrow millhouse indicated somnolence with nothing moved or replaced. I glanced upwards into the roof beams. You could see the entire recess, even to the odd feather stuck to the ties. Take away roof and walls and floor, and that leaves what? I couldn’t reach any of the windows but they too looked as untouched as the rest. There was no real door. I stayed where I was for a minute to work it out.
Yet somebody, a devoted old engineer weary with years and illness, had carried a heavy tin of grease – not to mention a Roman lead coffin – along the glen and restored the simple machinery to pristine state. He’d greased axles, levers, every cog. That alone was a labour of love, because the wheel must have required stopping and starting a few dozen times. It had been a nervy business for me. For him less so but at least as exhausting. I pulled at the platform. A piece of wood came away near the gear wheel’s axle. Nothing hung there. And a Roman casket’s no matchbox. It’s not the sort of thing you can tuck in a spare corner. No ledges, no shelves. A hollow millhouse. The gears themselves?
I felt in my pockets. A comb, a pencil, a few coins. I scraped at the inner gear with a milled edge. Whatever the metal, it was solid and not gold. That only left the outside. I stuck my head out through the slit. Seen from out there, the whole world seemed full of surging waterfalls. The water wheel was inches from my face. Despite the wind and spray I could see the millrace’s surface where the wheel blades deflected the torrent. I noticed the water-run for the wheel. How clean the stone slabs were down there. How very, very clean.
Now, why leave the wheel stopped? Engineers say machines are always better used. But it was locked. So the millrace channel obviously needed to be kept dry. Perhaps while somebody went down and removed a slab – one of those clean slabs – below? Or perhaps to show the way? If you risked a climb down the millrace while the wheel was turning you’d be squashed like a strawberry between two stones. Thoughtful old Bexon. I pulled back in, ecstatic. My bell was clanging delightedly. That old chest feeling was still there even when I heard her shout.
‘Lovejoy!’ She was below, but very close. ‘Are you in there?’
‘Yes. Stay there. I’m coming down.’
‘I’ll come in.’
‘No need, love. The platform’s unsafe.’
She came crawling in anyway. I reached the top of the wooden stair.
‘Did you find them?’ Nichole’s eyes were shining unnaturally bright. She looked lovely.
‘Why did you bring that bloody gun?’ She must have been scared by the gloomy woods.
She was smiling impishly. One good thing, she was as out of breath as me. ‘I came after you, Lovejoy. To help, in case you got hurt. Did you find them?’
‘I’ve guessed. It’s here. The millrace, behind the slabs.’ I’d been first. The coroner would have to acknowledge that.
‘Show me, darling.’
She hurried creaking up towards me. I yelped and tiptoed back. The struts couldn’t take both our weights.
‘For Gawd’s sake!’ I told her to go easy.
‘Show me!’
‘Not here, darling.’ I smiled and reached a hand to her. She smiled up at me and pointed the twelve-bore.
‘Yes. Here, darling.’ There was something funny about her smile. Her eyes were brighter still.
‘Eh?’
‘Show me, Lovejoy.’ It was her eyes. She wasn’t making a polite request. I was being told.
‘It isn’t up here,’ I said lamely. ‘It’s down in the millrace.’
‘Where?’
‘Have you loaded that?’ I asked.
Her smile became a little less diseased. A trace of humour showed. ‘Certainly.’
‘Look, Nichole, love.’ I’d have to treat her gently, if only for the wonky platform’s sake. ‘All this has upset you. Let’s get outside. This place isn’t safe.’ I edged towards her.
‘I ran over Dandy Jack,’ she said brightly, all confidence. ‘So don’t think I’m chicken, Lovejoy. I’ll pull this.’
‘That sod Rink.’ I quite understood. He was one of those sick cold people who impelled more normal people into lunacy. ‘He forced you to do it. Never mind, love. He’s gone. We – you and me – can manage without the others now,’ I pointed. ‘It’s hidden behind the pale slabs below the water wheel.’
‘Is it really there?’ She peered timidly out. So help me, I actually steadied her by holding her elbow.
‘For certain,’ I told her, smiling. ‘Can’t you hear the lovely radiance?’
‘Why!’ she exclaimed delightedly. ‘So I can!’
She suddenly came back inside, staggering slightly as a board cracked and gave way, straightened up and shot me. What with the water noise, the sudden apocalyptic crack of the gun, the bewildering realization what had happened and being spun round by the force of the blow in my side, I was disorientated. I heard somebody screaming, not me for once, a high steady insane call. I was on the ground among the bird droppings and bleeding like a pig. I wondered why it didn’t hurt. The rotten planking had given under the weight of us both. We’d been tilted different ways, me inside and Nichole out into the millrace. God Almighty, the millrace. My arm was stiff and bloody as well. Most of the shot had missed but I’d collected a hell of a lot of blast. She’d fallen through the rotten boardwalk. My arm was stinging. That smell was powder. Nichole. That was her screaming somewhere.
‘Nichole!’ I yelled, coming to. She screamed again. ‘Hang on. I’m coming, love,’ I shouted, coughing from the acrid fumes of the gun’s explosion.
I hauled myself back up the steps. She wasn’t there, but a great torn hole let the crazy view in, the still wheel, the hurling water and the tumbling drenched rocks rising abruptly above the falls.
‘Please, Lovejoy!’ she was screaming. ‘Darling!’
‘Hold on!’ I called. ‘Hold on!’ The force of the gun and the rotten platform giving under us had thrust her back against the wall and it had simply fallen away. I spread myself on the platform as quickly as I could and slid towards the gap. She was lodged between the. wheel and the stone slabs, head mercifully out of the onrush.
I’d have to risk my arm and shoulder under the wheel. I examined the locking lever, in case. It looked exactly as I’d replaced it. One careless nudge against the peg could edge the cogs into place and the entire bloody water wheel would turn, sweeping Nichole down and crushing her against the sliprace stone slabs. And I’d go too.
‘Please, Lovejoy!’ She was moving, becoming frantic now, in worse danger of slipping further under the wheel.
‘Hold on!’ I screeched. ‘Hold on!’
‘I can’t!’ she gasped. Water was pushing against her head.
‘You must! One second!’ I yelled into the roar. ‘Drop the bloody gun!’ She was holding mechanically on to the gun, for God’s sake. As if it was any use. I turned aside to see if there was anything for me to hang on to. Not a bloody thing. Nichole must have feared I was going away because she screamed.
‘Lovejoy!’
‘I’m still here, darling.’ I turned back to reach into the flood for her arm. I couldn’t lose her now, not when I’d everything in my grasp. As long as I kept my legs clear of the gears and tha
t huge ominous lever. ‘Lift yourself,’ I bawled, getting a mouthful of the water. ‘Now.’
‘I – I didn’t mean to.’ She was babbling incoherently as our hands met. I pulled. Nichole started to come free of the water. I gasped at the exertion. My side was hurting now, but we were clinging firmer. I began to wriggle slowly back along the wooden platform. ‘I didn’t want to kill your birds, Lovejoy, darling,’ she gasped.
‘What?’ I yelled. Her relieved smiling face was an inch from mine. We were both practically submerged, me dangling upside down, hanging on, and her draped on the wheel in the funnelled mountain water. She still clutched the shotgun. As if I hadn’t enough to lift.
‘I knew you’d forgive me, darling,’ she said breathlessly. I still held her in an embrace. ‘And the bike was a silly joke.’
‘You?’ I shrieked.
‘And I just had to push Edward . . .’
I was still pulling her up but now I stared in horror. She must have seen my eyes change. Her lips stripped back off her teeth. Even in that position she struggled to lift the gun at me, screeching hatred. Hatred at me, who practically loved her. And honest to God, it was an accident but my hands slipped. Her fingers unlatched or slipped or something, I don’t really know any more. I couldn’t help it. Everything happened in a split-second blur. I swear it was beyond my control. My side suddenly gave out and my hand jerked away. It just happened. She slid back down screaming, wedging with a burbled shrill squeal into the millrace. She was howling dementedly with outrage. Her eyes glared up with pure hatred as she dragged the shotgun up against the force of the water. I removed my arm and edged frantically away from the wheel on to the crumbling platform. I swear my hand just slipped. Honest to God. And in the suddenness of her weight vanishing my flailing foot clanked the lever. Before I knew what was going on I heard the gears engage. It was a pure accident. Maybe I was trying to scrabble away from the coming blast of the shotgun. She gave one screech and the wheel lurched round. I heard it. Then there was only the moaning and whining sound of the big wheel’s slow turning and turning. I lay there, gasping. The paddles had blood on, but only the first time round.
Gold by Gemini Page 19