The villagers now take themselves off to the mid-centre of the picture, jubilant at the razor-sharpness of their previously blunted sickles. Meanwhile the priest exits top-right, not in triumph but reeking with the remnant of last week’s catch ignominiously pinned to his habit. Meanwhile the river flows on into the far distance, revealing a large building in flames mid-canvas. Several of the surrounding houses are also on fire. Loot is piled into boats drawn up along the quayside. Stones are hacked from the more substantial of the properties. A column of ant-like figures carries them to the old pagan shrine where the new church is about to be consecrated. A smaller group scurries into the forest. They’re led by a figure identified only by the letter ‘S’ on his tunic. A kite of sorts hovers above their heads.
‘Nothing suspicious there,’ Peter was saying. ‘No booby-traps, hidden explosives, commando units massing in the woods. Anti-religious propaganda, I’ll give you that. But bland, as Helen says, compared with the rest of his stuff.’
‘Exactly what I thought first time I saw it.’ Giles straightened the picture on its easel. ‘What a chance I had. No sooner did it arrive in the house than Father whisked it away. Not that I would have known there was anything suspicious about it, the auxiliary units being a closely guarded secret until that article appeared sixteen years later. Caused a major sensation in the village: suspicions aroused, Jimmy accused of blowing their cover, outsiders wanting to know more.’ Mildred one of them, I realised. ‘It wasn’t till then my father told me as much as he felt able, or could remember – the old boy was going the way of that schoolteacher, Enid…’
‘Quintock.’ Peter was quick to supply the information. His reaction to Jimmy’s involvement in the unit’s activities – overreaction rather – had begun to worry me. Here, at least, he was on surer ground.
‘That’s right. Anyway, I recalled his fondness for that picture, how he’d saved it from Codpiece’s clutches, and came up with the bright idea that sight of it might restore some of his memories. He caught me at it though, hunting around for where Mappa Mundi was hidden. Went ballistic, threatened – him in his eighties, myself approaching thirty – to give me a good hiding. Which really set me thinking. Codpiece had left the parish by then. The new parson was much more amenable, so why was it my father kept something he admired so much stowed away in that fashion all those years? And why the apoplectics when I went searching for it? Made it my business to discover what, ferreted out the picture – not so difficult once I put my mind to it – secretly, of course. Only this time I had a good look at it.’
Theatrical as ever, he paused, holding the both of us in suspense.
‘And?’
‘And nothing. Believe me, I searched it top to bottom. If there’d been anything suspicious I’d have found it, especially knowing his pictures the way I do, the kind of clues to look for.’
Another anti-climax. ‘And no one had got at the picture?’ I asked. ‘It hadn’t been doctored in any way? Secret ink, a coded message in the text?’
‘Hardly Jimmy’s style. And no one else has laid a finger on it, known of its existence even. Here, take a look for yourself.’ He produced a torch and magnifying glass from one of the drawers.
A cursory two-minute inspection was all Peter gave it. ‘I knew all along we’d find nothing.’ He turned away from the painting. ‘But she was so certain. Had me persuaded almost. Doubting all I knew about him.’ I joined him at the easel, slid my arm around his waist. I’d been there before; knew exactly how he felt.
Giles might have left it at that. He’d every intention of doing so; regretted having taken us this far into his confidence. Uncertain, he was later somewhat sheepishly to admit, as to how far I was to be trusted with the Amberstone family secrets. Quite flattering really; never in my life had I been viewed as a femme fatale. But it was that moment of intimacy that changed his mind; the revelation as to how much we meant to each other. Together, as he was also to confess, self-satisfaction at having turned the tables on a couple of academics. A throw-back even to the days when he’d been excluded from Peter’s gang.
‘Didn’t give up that easily myself.’ Placing a hand on each of our shoulders he shepherded us back to our seats.
‘Drew a blank at first. The content’s mild compared with some of Jimmy’s other stuff. My father paid no attention to Codpiece’s ramblings before, so why now, after the man had gone; hitting the roof, even, when I mentioned it? Making me even more determined to get at the truth, as I could after he died and I was able to take my time. Hours I must have spent searching for clues hidden in the paintwork, decoding each and every piece of text. But it wasn’t till I’d given up searching it from every angle that it came to me. Obvious once you think about it. There in the title, Mappa Mundi.’
Giles glanced from one of us to the other; if he’d hoped for a response he was disappointed. ‘No? It was a map!’
Blank looks from the both of us.
‘One of Jimmy’s weaknesses, remember? Think of all the trouble he got you into, Peter, “helping out” with your geography homework? So why the sudden change of heart, adopting a style he avoided like the plague unless he was drawing our attention to a specific location?’
Still no response. ‘Not what he painted but where the events took place. Which is when I came at it from quite another angle, following through the story out there where it really happened. I remembered him sitting alongside the war memorial. Thought it might hide some sort of message. But it didn’t. Drew a blank in the church, and nothing down by the river.’ Giles had retained the torch and was using it as a spotlight. ‘Nor up at the rapids where all that carnage is taking place. Otherwise he was spot-on regarding the geography of the village. Which brought me to this fellow’ – the beam settled on the figure making off into the woods whilst the Mead Hall went up in flames. ‘Remind you of anyone?’
It didn’t.
‘Hero of the Jutish Chronicle. His shield marked with an “S”?’
‘Stoyan!’ Peter’s confirmation was hardly necessary; the identity was obvious once drawn to our attention. ‘I know your father hated those stories, Giles, but you’re not telling us that’s the reason he kept the picture hidden all those years?’ He’d snatched the torch and was feverously examining that part of the canvas.
‘No disrespect,’ I added, ‘but he was getting on by then and we all know how old people sometimes blow things out of proportion.’
‘Like father, like son you mean?’
We protested but it was exactly what I was beginning to think.
‘A joke!’ Giles held up his hands in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Not that I blame you. What with all those weeks trekking back and forth armed only with a sketch I’d made of Mappa Mundi and an ordnance survey map, I was beginning to believe it myself. Till I lighted on – what was it they called him, Peter? – “the Jute of Jutes” and decided to follow his lead.’
‘Which seems to me the best tack for all of us here on in.’ He snapped off the torch and returned it to the drawer. ‘From now on we do things Jimmy’s way. What was it, “treasure, tale and travel”? Well, you’ve had the first – Mappa Mundi – and I’ve told you the “tale”. Now for the “travel”. Don’t worry, the reconnaissance’s been done. I’ll be there to point you in the right direction. And there’s no option really.’ He held open the door and we trooped downstairs. ‘Unless you see with your own eyes what I discovered you’re not going to believe the half of it.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Unpacking the Hamper
Outside the weather was fine, the going easy across fields of rough grass. Sheep chomping nonchalantly among rocky outcrops paused momentarily to gaze up at us as we passed. Giles, no more forthcoming, said little, whilst Peter had given up on his questioning, more interested in childhood reminiscences: the old mill house, a leafy clump that once had served them as a tank, and there was the senti
nel pine they used to climb to watch the liners steaming in.
‘First of the signposts.’ Giles brought us to a halt, pointing out traces of the hoofs, antlers, rampant masculinity of a large stag, carved out centuries ago beneath the surface. Briefly he checked the makeshift map he’d prepared before hurrying us on to find the next ‘clue’.
This turned out to be a stream some quarter of a mile off, neither wide nor fast-flowing but impossible to cross. ‘Might never have done so,’ he mused, ‘till I noticed the oak tree over there and decided to investigate.’ We followed him downstream to where, beneath its branches, the water broadened out, bubbled over a series of strategically placed rocks. Gingerly we made our way across, to the point on the opposite bank where a number of pathways branched off in different directions.
‘Had me foxed at first,’ he admitted. ‘No means of telling which route to take without my map. Or a compass. Shinning up the pine would have given us a bird’s eye view. That of a falcon, even. Up there, sky-high, leading the way forward. Leastways, that’s how Jimmy told it. Sounds familiar?’
‘Saba!’ Peter was on to it. ‘Belonging to Alric; the one guiding Stoyan in the Jutish Chronicles, on the mission to return his father’s sword.’
‘Which you mistook for a kite on the painting,’ Giles reminded us.
‘And the figure tagged with an “S”,’ I added.‘
‘The whole thing scaled right down, yards rather than miles,’ he continued. ‘Took me weeks to get right, but the route’s straightforward enough when you know where to look. Direction north, according to the symbols on Tonbert’s stone.’
And there was the first of several white markers he’d used to show the way once he’d discovered it. Leading us first through the ‘wasteland’, reduced to a piece of ragged terrain not a hundred yards across, where Swidhelm had performed his culinary magic; next, the impenetrable forest, through which Redwald had battered his way, now merely a stretch of closely clustered pine trees. Then the ‘rocky heathland’ via a drover’s track, sloping upward through stunted outgrowth, towards a weather-beaten hillock. Beyond this lay a stretch of fairly open countryside and, last of all, the position marked with an ‘X’ on Giles’s map. Ceowulf’s final resting place, where he’d been reunited with Eanfled, his sword; taken final leave of his son.
I looked about, searching for a burial mound or barrow; crypt, cave or scattered sarsens. Nothing but arid scrubland, the occasional bush; here and there patches of hawthorn or nettle; solitary trees, bent over, sculptured by wind and weather. Then I remembered it was only a story. So why had we been brought here? Revenge for the way this femme fatale had doubted Jimmy’s loyalty? An example of what for the Jutes passed as humour?
Giles said nothing. Placing his fingers conspiratorially to his lips, he indicated we were to stay where we were and disappeared behind the last of the trees. The final denouement, his parting shot – leaving us to find our own way home? Hardly had the thought occurred than there was a metallic creaking, the kind of sound I associate with a ship weighing anchor, and with a crash the ground not six feet ahead of us opened up.
‘Ceowulf’s tomb.’ Giles reappeared, wiping oily hands on what had been a clean handkerchief. We peered down into an opening about the size of a manhole, neatly squared off, with metal rungs set into a narrow brick-lined shaft.
‘Somewhat claustrophobic, I’m afraid. Think you’ll be alright?’ Obviously the man had no experience of lonely hours spent classifying books in the murky gloom of a county library.
‘Don’t worry about the rungs, I keep them in good nick.’ Unfamiliar, as well, with the rickety ladders we used to reach the higher shelves.
The descent was as easy as he’d promised. Twenty-two rungs, all rather slippery, but Giles had brought a torch and the width of the shaft left no room for accidents. We stood in a narrow red-brick tunnel, the ceiling only a couple of inches above our heads, a heavy metal door a few paces before us. He produced a key which turned easily in the lock, heaved, and the door swung open. Dank chill struck instantly to the bone. Decay mingled incongruously with a hint of fresh paint. Giles’s footsteps echoed on concrete flooring as he disappeared into the darkness. A match was struck, an oil lamp flared, and the room – if one could call it that – took shape around us. An extension of the tunnel really, about the size of an average garage, roughly tubular in shape with uneven flooring, a corrugated iron roof and brickwork at either end forming a semi-roundel. A second, then a third lamp was lit and further details swam into view. The side walls had the same fluted appearance as the ceiling, plastered and painted dull beige, with a series of black nodules prised into them along the full length of the room. Several pipes descended through the roofing. What I’d taken as shelving was now recognisable as a crude form of bedding. A table occupied the centre of the room. Several chairs had been drawn up beneath it, whilst the cubicle to one end displaying a Vacant sign could only have been some sort of toilet.
‘I don’t recommend we stay too long.’ Giles flashed his torch around, picking out brown stains that had broken through the plaster. He ran his fingers down one of the walls, flicked away the condensation. ‘We did our best with it, but it’s hardly a health cure.’
‘And hardly Ceowulf’s tomb either.’ Peter had taken one of the oil lamps and was examining the construction. Shadows loomed, enormous, then shrank down to nothingness. ‘A shelter left over from the war?’
Giles shook his head. ‘Rather more interesting than that. Those are gun-racks you’re looking at, and the trap-door over there is where the ammunition was kept. Tinned food and water to last a fortnight or more on the shelving, bedding of a kind for half a dozen or so men, with the greatest of care taken in keeping the entrance secret. And, in case that was discovered, there’s an emergency exit hidden in the brickwork opposite. All evidence of what you were hoping to find, in fact.’
‘The auxiliary units?’
‘Right. The operational base to be precise, just as described in the article. “Elephant shelter” to those who were supposed to live down here. Produced by the War Office in kit-form – corrugated sheeting, blast-proof walls, with drainage, ventilation and sanitary matters all considered – constructed secretly by the sappers according to the local conditions. Once the balloon went up, they’d hightail it down here, waiting for the right moment to emerge and wreak vengeance upon the enemy. Which is what I suggest we do now – get some fresh air in our lungs, I mean. God knows how they would have lasted a fortnight down here. Half an hour is the most I’ve endured!’
He led the way back into the sunshine, showing us how the trap-door was operated – via a cable that ran underground to a lever and counter-balances hidden amongst the roots of a tree. We sat eating packed lunches provided by the conference centre and contemplated the problem. Concealing the entrance once the trap had closed was something his father had never solved. Neither had Giles, who’d been intent on restoring the base to its former glory and opening it up to the public. Damp, the roots of trees, shifts in the soil had defeated him though. In any case it was too far off the beaten track to be anything like a worthwhile proposition.
The same notion had occurred to his father, who’d had great affection for the ‘funk hole’, as he called it. He, at least, had got as far as having the rusty iron replaced, overlaid with a non-porous covering, the drainage seen to and fresh ventilation installed.
‘God knows where the money came from.’ Giles poured out coffee from the flask and handed it round. ‘All carried out long before word of the unit’s existence got out. Employed only those who’d been members of the unit, or people he thought he could trust.’ He swatted at a wasp buzzing noisily about his head. ‘Swore them to secrecy, though just how he thought he could keep the lid on it beats me. As it did him eventually. One of them must have spoken too freely in the pub, tipped the wink to the press, bringing them to Jimmy’s doorstep, seen off by the
old man.’
At last a plausible explanation for their descent on the village. Neither Peter nor Geraldine had been responsible. Someone ‘in the know’ rather, a member of the auxiliary unit who the Squire thought ‘he could trust’. And, from what had been said, there was only one odd-man-out among them.
Peter was onto it already. ‘You really do believe the rumours, don’t you?’ He rounded on Giles. ‘That Jimmy not only joined your father’s outfit, but was the one who betrayed them?’
‘Not so difficult finding your way here, was it? Once I set you going, pointed you in the right direction.’ The wasp had returned. One swipe and Giles sent it flying. ‘More than a coincidence I’d say, using Stoyan’s journey as a route-map. With Jimmy’s picture pin-pointing the starting point. Mappa Mundi: the perfect title. “Every story tells a picture” – isn’t that what he always told us?’
‘With this whole business of the auxiliary units blowing his pacifism clean out of the water,’ I said, eager to change the subject.
Giles shook his head. ‘I think he was genuine enough in that respect. My father reckoned it was a principle that had been burnt out of him at some point in the war; that he’d witnessed things – and Jimmy would never say what they were – that made it indefensible. Even so, he vowed to have nothing to do with the killings, should it come to that. Agreed to do everything else to support the units: scout for them, identify dead letter drops, ensure the operation base kept free of prying eyes. Either way, he’d not have had much time on “active service”. No sooner had he arrived than the units were closed down.’
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