by Devon De'Ath
“If we run into the car anywhere else, we’ll have a clue he’s around. Crumbs, if we stumble upon it in broad daylight and get a decent look at the occupant, it’s a major step forward.”
Bill blinked. “I like your thinking. We’d better find a quiet spot for some shuteye.”
* * *
“That’ll work.” Bill shielded his eyes from the rising sun.
“What?” Vicky followed his gaze to a reservoir beside the Witham Road.
“Somewhere to freshen up.”
Vicky wanted to protest, but she ached for a wash; even one in freezing cold water. A patch of tall grass and an undulating landscape provided enough cover from curious passengers in passing traffic. Bill was right: It would work.
After another night ‘under canvas,’ they’d set off early from a copse southeast of Cressing Temple Barns. When first light appeared, Vicky checked Professor Faust’s map for their next location. A choice of two existed. Royston Cave appeared the closest bet, even though they’d have to track southerly afterwards to visit St. Etheldreda’s Church at Hatfield. Bill thumbed through a national rail guide. Given a choice between returning to London then catching a train to Royston, or a roundabout route via Ipswich and Cambridge, the latter seemed a safer option. A train from Witham - two miles distant - would have them on their way in no time.
Vicky dumped her pack in a clump of bushes beside the reservoir, furthest from the road. She clamped both hands to her hips. “Are you going to be a gentleman and bugger off for ten minutes?”
Bill grinned. “How do you know I won’t ‘perve’ you from the undergrowth?”
Vicky rolled her eyes. She turned away to cover her face as Bill tugged his trousers down.
“I’ll go first, then take a stroll to dry off.” Bill splashed into the water. “Fuck me, it’s bracing.”
Vicky risked looking back to discover his clothes piled close to the water’s edge, while their owner sank beneath the rippling surface. She turned round and crouched to rifle through her pack. Splashing, shivering noises echoed in the still morning air behind. Vicky retrieved the towel and deodorant she’d need after a morning dip.
Bill’s crass declaration relating to the water temperature proved spot on. Vicky gasped for breath but forced herself deeper into the reservoir. True to his word, Bill had wandered off before she disrobed. Given the jarring cold against her shrinking skin, she couldn’t care less now if he enjoyed a sneaky peak at her naked form. Somehow that didn’t seem like Bill’s style. For all his quips and occasional suggestive jokes, she sensed the sincere slacker to be an honourable man. Vicky swam for the bank and hauled her dripping form out onto the grass. By the time she’d patted herself dry, wrung out her hair and put on some fresh clothes, the sound of Bill’s deliberate footsteps thudded from the undergrowth behind.
Vicky pursed her lips, turning a coy face towards his approach. “You were giving me ample notice to cover up with those elephant steps, weren’t you?”
Bill shrugged. “Our lives are uncomfortable enough as it is right now. I don’t want to add to your discomfort.”
Vicky’s eyes shone with an appreciative warmth at his simple, considerate act.
Bill shouldered his pack. “It’s best if we’re not seen hiking into Witham together. Do you remember where you’re going?”
Vicky pulled on her walking boots. “Witham station to Ipswich, connecting onward to Cambridge, then Royston.”
“Good. Give me a twenty-minute head start. I’ll go straight for Witham station. See if you can find a pub or cafe serving breakfast, then catch the next train after. I’ll eat in Royston while I’m waiting, before meeting you outside the caves. Once we’ve had a look at the place, we can form a plan of attack. Do you have enough money?”
“Yes.”
Bill watched Vicky lace her boots. The sight rekindled visions of her hobbling down her front path during their escape. “Take care.”
“You too.”
Bill set off around the edge of the reservoir.
Vicky called after him. “Bill?”
He turned back without response.
Vicky drew nearer, hands hanging limp at her sides. “What if something happens and one of us never shows?”
“Wait as long as you dare, then head for your friend, Raven. What’s her actual name, anyway?”
“Selena Fearnley. Do you want her address?”
“No, it’s okay. If it comes to that, I’ll find her. See you soon.” He hiked off at a stiff pace.
An uncomfortable lump in Vicky’s intestines eased when she rounded the corner of Kneesworth Street into Melbourn Street at Royston. Bill lingered beyond a national bank branch, close to a black waste bin. Something about the quaint mock Tudor and Georgian buildings clustered around busy but narrow roads, felt welcoming after the bustling, impersonal insanity of London.
Bill looked up, relief smoothing wrinkles from his brow.
Vicky checked both ways. “Are we in the right place? This looks like a high street.”
Bill jerked his left thumb back over one shoulder. “The entrance is through an archway to a yard behind. There’s a shop outside, and the yard has gates. I imagine they’re locked at night.”
Vicky halted near the bin. “Do you think he’ll force those gates in such an exposed location? Even after dark, this road will be busy.”
Bill folded his arms. “I did a recce of the immediate area while I was waiting. There’s an adjoining yard behind the pub, a few doors down. Guess which car pulled out of there as I arrived?”
Vicky gawped. “You’re kidding? Did you get a look at the driver?”
“No, but I’d guess he was casing the joint. After he left, I took a poke round the yard. There’s a wall any fit person seeking access to the caves could climb over without drawing attention. No doubt there’ll be a locked door the other side. But, if it isn’t alarmed, once over the wall he can work at forcing his way in without interruption.”
“What shall we do?”
“We’ve seen his ritual. It hasn’t featured any variations, but it won’t hurt to examine the aftermath. I’d say we bum around Royston for a spell. We’ll wait to see if he makes a move, then check out the scene after he’s gone. Assuming the coast’s still clear.”
“Is there a tour? Should we get familiar with the inside?”
“There are four afternoon tours. Good call. We might learn something interesting. It’ll kill time.”
Vicky and Bill descended a set of steps gouged into a chalk tunnel. Iron railings offered support on either side, with fluorescent strip lights providing meagre illumination, fed by cables encased in black metal conduits. Half a dozen visitors formed the second guided tour of the afternoon.
Their guide signalled copious, crude carvings spilling over each other across the crowded walls. The five metre, cylindrical lower portion of the cave featured a raised octagonal step. “There’s no definitive consensus on the precise purpose of the caves. A shallow depression ahead we call ‘The Grave,’ is thought to have been used during initiation ceremonies.”
A Dutch male tourist leaned forwards. “Initiation into what?”
The guide replied. “Again, that’s unclear. Amidst the many carvings, you’ll find both Pagan and Christian symbolism. The cave’s eastern shaft may have been a chimney, drawing smoke from a cresset used to illuminate the interior.”
The Dutchman straightened, eyes questioning.
The guide smiled. “A cresset is an oil lamp.”
Vicky examined inscribed images of the crucifixion. “I heard the cave has some association with the Knights Templar?”
“We believe so.” The guide pointed to more carvings next to the crucifixion. “Those images supposedly depict King David. The panel to his left is thought to be a memorial to Jacques de Molay, the last Templar Grand Master. You’ll notice the cave is cylindrical, in common with many Templar buildings.”
“Like the Church of the Holy Sepulchre?” Bill enjoyed pretending to kno
w something about history. It was an obvious parallel to draw, given their recent site visits.
The guide smiled. “That’s correct. You’ll also find Earth Goddess symbolism, linked with Pagan fertility beliefs. The cave itself was discovered by accident in 1742, beneath a millstone covering a vertical shaft. It sits beneath Royston’s ancient crossroad of Ermine Street and Icknield Way. The entrance we came in by was dug in 1790 to allow visitors easier access to enjoy it.”
Bill crouched in darkness beneath the cover of greenery behind ‘The Manor House’ pub. Vicky watched a blue estate pull out of the car park. She cast her gaze across the rear wall leading to the cave yard. Bill’s supposition about this being the best ingress route seemed plausible. She coughed back some phlegm induced by the damp. “You realise that if you didn’t see the driver, he might have been on our guided tour? It could be anyone.”
Bill fidgeted. It was an uncomfortable thought. “If that’s true, we’d have known about it by now.”
Vicky shook her head. “Not necessarily. If he’s planning to come back here tonight, the last thing he’d want is Royston swarming with police.”
“You have a point. No sense worrying about it now.”
A fresh set of headlights pulled off Melbourn Street, passing between the narrow gap in its buildings. From the faint glow of starlight and a distant, activating PIR security lantern, the pair distinguished a silver, two-seater Mercedes.
Vicky noticed Bill stare at the vehicle without blinking. “We’re not charging into him, Bill, remember?”
“Mmm. I just feel so helpless, knowing what he’s about to do. Knowing he’s part of the group who’ve stolen our lives. All we can do is watch and wait, then gather clues. Back in London you felt like giving up. Tonight it’s my turn, I guess.”
The SLK reversed against the scalable brick wall. Its driver’s door opened, and the shadowy, hooded figure emerged.
Vicky shifted her legs to avoid a case of cramp. “How long do you think he’ll take?”
Bill’s eyes widened at the advent of a sudden idea. He unzipped the holdall and felt around in the darkness. “If he’s got to jimmy a locked door first, maybe long enough.”
“For what?”
Bill lifted a small, square device in the palm of his hand. “For me to affix this beneath his car.”
“Is it a tracker?”
“Yeah. I assume your pal, Raven, owns a computer?”
“Sure.”
“Good. I’ve an account with an on-line GPS tracker service. It’s something plod are likely to have missed. They’ll be harvesting log-on data from my primary e-mail and social media accounts, to pin down my location. Yours, too. Unless whoever nicked my office laptop has data-mined it and found the tracker website in the web history, we could chance logging in at Raven’s.”
“Will it record where the car has been?”
“From here on out. Provided our hooded menace doesn’t discover it during a wash and wax.”
The pilgrim leapt up to grab hold of the wall. He rolled across its top in a single motion.
Bill hunched forward. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a flash.” He darted from shadow to shadow in a tense run until his back pressed flat against the cold brick wall behind the parked Mercedes. From the yard on the other side, sounds of somebody fiddling with a lock were followed by a creak of hinges. Bill sank beneath the car to attach his tracker, one ear on definitive scan for its returning owner. He reckoned on having at least five minutes, even if the guy knew his way around the cave. It was time enough to activate the GPS device and sneak back to where Vicky kept a lookout for trouble.
“There he goes.” Vicky watched the silver Mercedes pull out of the pub car park.
Bill stood beneath the spreading boughs of a chunky tree. “We’d better get in and out fast. If he’s any notion of our presence, the boys and girls in blue could arrive any minute.”
They ran for the wall, lugging their gear. Bill unhitched his pack, then tossed it over the top. His feet landed on the other side moments later, with Vicky coming down a close second.
Logical thinking told Vicky that a cave with no source of natural light shouldn’t feel different at night. Those interior fluorescents they’d seen on their earlier tour were switched on, probably by the intruder. Yet somehow the place felt darker; scarier during the quiet night watches. They descended the steps through the carved tunnel. At the initiation space, they found the same symbol sprayed in red paint. Bill fished out his palm-sized digital camera to grab pictures for the record.
Vicky stepped back while he snapped. At least nobody would notice the flash down here in the bowels of the earth. “Bill? Has he… You know?”
Bill moved his face closer to the inscribed walls. “That’s an affirmative. This guy gets a thrill out of our heritage.”
“It’s a ritual, Bill.”
“I know. I was being sarcastic.”
The strip lights flickered then winked out, plunging them into disorienting blackness. A sound of shuffling drew closer from the steps.
Vicky fought for control of her bladder. She reached one trembling hand into her parka pocket for the torch. Bill had the same idea, as a Maglite sliced through the dark from his position in unison. The footfalls on the steps ceased. Ominous silence followed. An icy hand brushed the back of Vicky’s neck. She sprang forward in a spasm of shock and fear, one muffled shriek escaping her mouth. Bill raced over, torch scanning the limited space in search of unannounced company.
Vicky gasped. “Someone touched my neck, Bill.”
“I can’t see anything.”
“Did you hear footsteps on the stairs, or was that my imagination?”
“No, I heard them too. Shit, this place gives me the creeps. Let’s get out of here.”
They grabbed the handrail to steady themselves on their tight, confusing ascent back up the tunnel. Vicky kept close to Bill, all the while sensing someone or something mere inches behind her shoulders. She prayed to God they wouldn’t stop moving until they reached the yard.
Out of the claustrophobic space, each took a deep lungful of fresh air. Blue strobes flickered through the cave yard iron gates, locked at night as Bill supposed. The pair pressed themselves against the nearest wall. A police car drove past with active lights but no siren. It continued out of Royston. Bill and Vicky hauled themselves back over the wall. Once the coast was clear, they made a break across nearby gardens to avoid CCTV in the main street.
Late next morning, Bill and Vicky reached the top of a hill east of Old Hatfield village. A flint church of cruciform design, with a tower at the western end, stood sentinel over the Hertfordshire landscape. They’d spent another night camped in a quiet copse, followed by freshening up in a public toilet. Separate trains for the forty-minute ride from Royston to Hatfield - plus a quarter mile uphill slog - saw them reach the pyramid-capped brick gateposts outside St Etheldreda’s Church on Fore Street. They strolled between thick yew trees lining a path to the front door. A police car drew up on the road.
Bill and Vicky moved sideways between gravestones, pretending to search for a particular burial plot.
Two burly male officers lumbered past with little more than a casual glance. The sound of their radios reverberated upon entering the main church.
Vicky leaned close to Bill. “What do you suppose that’s about?”
Bill looked back at the road. “Three guesses. Not us, anyway. That’s a plus. Hatfield isn’t far from Royston. Do you think our boy did a double whammy, all in one night?”
“Let’s have a wander, then come back once the police have gone.”
An hour later they got inside the house of worship. A frustrated vicar knelt beneath one stained glass window, scrubbing red paint from a smooth, whitewashed interior wall. The crisp report of his sturdy brush hissed as it splattered water from a plastic bowl of soap suds.
Vicky shook her head. “There’s nothing worth photographing. Only half the symbol left. You were right, though.”
Bill frowned. “It tells us what we needed to know. How long until he hits the next place?”
Vicky dumped her backpack beside a pew, then took a seat on its cool, polished wooden surface. “The next one’s Temple Bruer, Lincolnshire. We’ll catch a break this time.”
Bill sat beside her. “How’s that?”
“Raven lives at Navenby. That’s about three or four miles from our target. I hope she’s found out something since we last spoke. Do you think the pilgrim will do his thing tonight?”
“Who knows? As long as we find out if he’s been there, it’ll be enough.”
“Good.” Vicky picked at her clothing. “I’m looking forward to a hot bath and a spot of laundry. Not to mention crashing in a proper bed with a mattress.”
Bill pulled out his railway guide. “Okay. Hatfield to Lincoln… Here we go. We’ll change at Stevenage and Peterborough. How far is Navenby?”
“About eight miles south. There’s a bus service.”
“Fine. This journey could run into four hours. We’d best get started. What time does Raven finish work?”
“Five-thirty.”
“In Lincoln?”
“No. She runs a small herbal remedies shop in the village. It isn’t far from the bus stop, if she’s not home when we arrive.”
Bill closed the timetable. “Once I login to the tracker site, we’ll know if our pilgrim is in the vicinity. If the trail of location blips indicate a stop near Temple Bruer, we can be pretty sure he’s done his wild thing there too.”
Vicky stood up. “We’d better visit the site to confirm it, regardless.”
Bill walked back down the aisle with her.
11
Raven
Vicky stepped down off the bus from Lincoln at Navenby, late afternoon. Distinctive red-tiled roofs and pale stone brickwork forming the local buildings lined either side of the road. Bill followed her without a word. They’d met up again in Lincoln for safekeeping, before their onward journey. As suspected, frequency of bus services this late in the day wasn’t up to much. With few other choices, an eight mile journey south together posed an acceptable risk: Two ramblers on an adventure; nothing to see here, folks; move along.