45
The back road from Hestyn Beach to town lacks the scenic allure of the shore and Hissing Marsh, but does have the advantage of speed and convenience. With no tides or traffic to negotiate, it’s a brisk 20-minute walk along the verge to the point where the road forks: left (downhill) to the port and right (uphill) to Great Hood’s clifftop path. Apart from a string of bungalows and endless, windblown fields of grass, there is nothing in the landscape to distract you from reaching your destination.
‘When can I have my luggage back?’ pants Wilf. Their breath of fresh air seems to have extended into a route march out of the resort.
‘Oh, it’s perfectly safe’ calls Lambert into the wind. ‘Better not to be encumbered when we’re on the hoof’.
They stride on for a while. On the horizon to his left Wilf can see the square tower of the church through the corner of his eye. Then they pass into open country. The sea has retreated into silence on their right as the ground rises. When the wind drops all they can hear is the trudge of their feet. Wilf says,
‘I suppose I don’t need to take notes any more, if this guide was never going to be published’.
Lambert slows his pace to let Wilf catch up. He lays a hand on Wilf’s shoulder.
‘Patience, dear boy. All will be explained.’
They reach the fork in the road. Lambert seems to be debating which route to take.
‘Shall we go back, now?’ suggests Wilf. It strikes him that tramping round Britain’s back roads and sleeping in ditches and derelict buildings has kept Lambert Stokes in pretty good nick. Lambert seems to be waiting for something, alert, listening. A sob of seagulls. The distant lowing of the coastal express train. Suddenly Lambert takes a pace towards the uphill route.
‘I fancy’ he says ‘we’re due for another visit to the Big House’.
There is, however, no straightforward route to Hestyn House itself. Presently even the surfaced road from Hestyn Beach disintegrates into a faint track and is swallowed by the omnipresent rhododendrons.
‘I’m surprised’ gasps Wilf, as they crash out of the foliage ‘that your Bloggers don’t set up here. In the house. Noone would ever find them here’.
‘There are other activities here’ says Lambert ‘of which not even the Bloggers—as you persist in calling them—are aware’.
Once more they cross the parkland and skirt the wall. Once more they bounce along the mossy drive. Wilf is sorting through questions, searching for one that will trap Lambert into a coherent reply. At the door he asks,
‘Why tell me all this?’
Abruptly Lambert stops worrying at the bolt and locks his eyes onto Wilf’s. He seems to be trying to read or transmit information. Eventually he says,
‘I’m persuaded that you need to know’.
‘Persuaded? Who by? I mean, by whom?’
Lambert considers an answer, then discards it and returns to the bolt. He’s not sure of me, thinks Wilf. He doesn’t really trust me after all.
‘Whatever it is’ he cajoles, ‘I won’t snitch’.
Lambert laughs quietly to the bolt and it slides free.
‘So I’m assured’ he says.
The door rumbles open.
Wilf is disappointed to find the hall exactly as it was before. Vodka bottles beached in the grate. Minstrels monitoring the newcomers from their balcony. But he hangs back as Lambert crosses the floor.
‘Where are we going this time? Because I have to tell you, Lambert, I sure as hell don’t fancy the tower. Not until I know what’s going on’.
‘Not the tower, old boy’ says Lambert casually, over his shoulder. ‘That’s otherwise occupied at present. Down to the Sorcerers’ Room for the next act’.
46
As they begin their descent to the servants’ underworld Wilf senses a difference in the air. Warmth. Density. Sure enough, as they turn to go down the last flight, it acquires an undertow of sound. Suppressed, barely audible—perhaps more movement than sound—but an undeniable presence. There are others here. They continue past the kitchen entrance, the housekeeper’s office, and Wilf has a feeling of people retreating behind closed doors. One of the service bells shifts fractionally as if in a draught. They pass through the cellar door and this time Lambert doesn’t need to crank the generator into life. The lights are already on. There are two trestle tables set out among the vaults. Wilf hears a scuffle. It seems to come from inside a column.
Lambert heaves back the bolt of the Sorcerers’ Room. Once more the figures in the mural hit Wilf like a blunt object. Two chairs are set in the centre of the room. Lambert beckons him in and, as Wilf steps forward, slips nimbly out of the room again and shuts the door.
‘Lambert!’ yells Wilf. His voice, amplified by panic, seems to issue from every gaping red mouth on the wall.
‘Don’t worry, Wilfred’ comes the muffled reply. ‘Two seconds, and all will be clear’.
Wildly, Wilf looks around the room for—what? Gas hissing through a painted orifice? Water bubbling up through the floor? He convinces himself that the walls are advancing towards him and launches himself at the door as the bolt thunders home, giving it two fierce blows with his arm.
‘Lambert!’ he screams, then says aloud, but to himself, ‘I am so crap at this…’
‘Crap at what?’ she asks.
The screech that circles the ceiling must have come from Wilf. She’s next to him. Standing where the handsome young man in britches should be, gazing out of the wall, as the older figure with the bandaged head raises his hand to her face. Wilf’s legs fold and he’s on the floor, on his knees, spittle on his lips and mucous running from his nose.
‘It’s all right’ says Aggie. She walks out of the wall and squats down to caress his head. ‘It’s all right, babe. I’m real. I’m here’.
47
On the other side of the door, Lambert tugs at his earlobe. He moves his head this way and that.
‘Try again’ he says softly, then: ‘No. Sorry, Billy, old chap. Signal’s all over the shop. Rather an unpleasant sensation. Crackling in the skull, you know. Never mind—hold on a tick and I’ll use the pipe’.
He walks quickly back across the cellar, takes the stairs two at a time and hurries along the servants’ corridor and into the housekeeper’s office. To all appearances this is an immaculate restoration of a working room at the turn of the 20th century. The desktop is covered in a square of scuffed red leather, framed with studs. There’s a pad of blotting paper, a wooden rack of letters, a penholder and inkwell. A wooden chair on castors is parked in the space between the desk drawers. The fireplace is sombre marble, and to one side of it a fat rubber snake balances on a brass hook. Lambert unhooks it, puts the earpiece to his head and blows sharply into the mouthpiece. As he takes it from his mouth there’s a hum of response and a slim ring of green light appears just inside the rim. Lambert says,
‘Billy, my dear, I know I say this every time, but you really are a very clever chap. If only we could patent your skills and put all our antiquated communication devices to fresh use. Receiving you loud and clear, old chap! Do go on’.
Lambert’s eagle face slumps as Billy’s voice flows through the pipe-transmitter and into the minuscule receiver lodged in his ear canal.
‘I see’ he says eventually. ‘I was rather afraid of that. I must say, I hadn’t expected it quite so soon’.
He stands in the sepia light of the office as more words reverberate in his ear, without disturbing the mellow, Edwardian air. Then he says,
‘Very well. Nothing for it, I suppose. Best alert Mrs Price’.
48
Wilf and Aggie sit facing each other in the chairs, surrounded by orgiastic onlookers. Wilf has mopped his face and is studying the damp tissue in his hands.
‘How come you’ve always got a tissue to hand?’ he croaks. He meets her doleful gaze. She’s cut her hair short—really short, so that he can see the curves and dents of her skull. It suits her. Makes her face look thinner. Or maybe she’s just lost weight.
‘Wilf,’ she says, ‘I’m so sorry’.
His mind is jabbering through scenes and conversations. He makes an almighty effort to slow it down, and considers what to say next.
‘I met your friends’ he says, presently. ‘The Bloggers’.
Aggie smiles. He notes the way her cheeks rise into tight little curves, and the hint of a gap between her front teeth.
‘They’re a funny bunch, aren’t they?’ she says. ‘Great fun’.
‘Looked a bit dodgy to me. One of them was downloading dirty pictures’.
‘They do whatever they want’ says Aggie. ‘Some of it’s appalling. “String up the immigrants”, that sort of thing. Not nice. But the point is—’
‘Free speech. I know. Lambert said’.
Aggie’s searching his face, measuring the tone of his voice. She says,
‘Lambert’s OK. He’s a good guy’.
‘A good guy who lied to me, scared me witless more than once and just locked me in a room full of 18th-century sex maniacs’.
He glances over Aggie’s shoulder at the bandaged man and his companion, whose back is now turned towards the room. Even now he can’t make out the hairline division marking the section of wall that revolves to swallow or spit out its secrets.
Aggie says,
‘Don’t be too hard on Lambert. He didn’t want to bring you to Hestyn at all. I insisted’.
‘Bring me here? And there was I thinking I came here to write a cruddy guide. My mistake’.
Aggie nods slowly and Wilf adds, throwing up his hands,
‘Oh, yes! That’ll be the guide that will never be published, won’t it? So—’ he pauses and frowns, hands still in the air, appealing for help—’So are we saying Paul is in on this too? Whatever “this” might be?’
Aggie says,
‘Not really. I wasn’t sure he’d go for it at all. I had to beg him…’
‘You spoke to Paul?’
Wilf’s watches her eyes, watches the dark patches appear under her eyes.
‘I couldn’t risk any contact with you directly, Wilf’ she pleads. ‘I thought it was the safest thing to do.’
‘So you and Paul thought up a wild goose chase for me to—’
‘No, it’s not like that,’ she says, and almost takes his hands, then thinks better of it. ‘I promise’ she says. ‘There’s no conspiracy and we haven’t been playing you for a fool. I didn’t even tell him where I was—just somewhere on the coast. I was desparate, Wilf. I thought I might never see you again.’
‘You spoke to Paul. And he never told me’. Wilf’s voice is contained and small.
‘I made him swear not to tell you.’
‘Why?’
‘I just thought, the less you knew, the better. Until you were safely here, and the others were happy to accept you’.
There’s a long silence. Wilf’s jaw is working to a slow rhythm. Finally he says,
‘I feel like I’ve been living in a world of double-think ever since I walked into Paul’s office and stepped on a farty floorboard.’
Aggie giggles nervously. ‘No, you haven’t. I never knew anything like this went on—not until all that business with my computer.’
‘You were the innocent abroad, then, were you?’ Suspicion hardens his voice and Aggie reaches towards him: ‘Oh, Wilf…’ He drops his arms and recoils. She holds up her palms in a pacifying gesture.
‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me’ she says. ‘How could you, after all this? But it really is true. All I did was get on to the Blogging network. Just to do some research. That really was it. And then, when they searched my flat, I thought—shit. I could see how it might look. I panicked.’
‘And you buggered off’.
‘I just… I just wanted to clear my head.’
‘Right. So where did you go?’
There’s a pause. Aggie spreads her fingers, warning him not to overreact, then says, ‘Hisham’s’.
Wilf’s head flings back and she gallops on:
‘Only for a couple of nights, Wilf. I dossed down on his sofa. My head was in such a mess. And then I thought—well, this isn’t very sensible. Poor Hisham, probably already on a wanted list or something. So I was going to come back’.
‘But?’
‘But then Hisham told me he knew someone …’.
‘Good old Hisham!’ Wilf’s arms are folded high on his chest now. Aggie presses on.
‘He said a Mr Stokes would ring me. Tell me how to shake them off.’
‘Them?’
‘You know. Whoever was getting into my flat, onto my computer. So, anyway, Lambert rang. And he was so … reassuring. So… certain. He knew what to do. That was what I needed, Wilf. Someone to tell me what to do’.
They sit in the wake of her explanation for a while. Around them, tongues loll and eyeballs roll, and the half-dressed woman’s skirts bulge over the back of the dwarf.
‘So’, says Wilf, his voice beginning to thaw, ‘Lambert Stokes rang, and told you to chuck your ID and your mobile down the loo and take yourself off to the coast’.
‘More or less’.
‘And you fell off the radar’.
‘Yes. I became a stray’.
Wilf’s arms relax. He sits forward. ‘What for?’ he asks, suddenly earnest. ‘I mean, why are you here? To sit in a garage with a load of pensioners and key in your diary? To form a terrorist cell with Millie and Vic? Bring down civilisation as we know it? What?’
He can see the tension seeping from her face, now that the worst is over. She says,
‘None of the above. It’s not about a cause. It’s about … taking a broader view’.
She too shifts forwards in her seat, so that their foreheads are only inches apart.
‘The cause’, she goes on, ‘the labels, the short-term aims and objectives—this god, that nation, any ism you can think of … they’re all froth. All surface rubbish. Stuff the tide brings in’. She makes fists on her lap. ‘It’s about something deeper than that, Wilf, something more permanent. Human nature. What drives people—what always drives them. Power. Whichever flag you fly, that’s what it’s all about. Everyone wants power, of one kind or another. That’s what I’ve learned’.
‘What about you?’
Their faces are almost touching now.
‘Me too’ she says. ‘I want the power to live my own life.’
There’s a pause. Then, abruptly, she sits up.
‘You’ll see what I’m blathering on about’, she says, ‘in a few hours’ time’.
Wilf doesn’t sit up. He closes his eyes.
‘You know what?’ he says, at last. ‘You sound a lot like Lambert Stokes. Or whatever his real name is.’ His eyes open at her. ‘Do you know his real name?’
Aggie shakes her head. ‘Noone knows that. And by the way’, she adds, sheepishly, ‘I’m Biddy, now. Biddy Weaver’.
‘Biddy Weaver?’
‘Yeah … Lambert’s choice. From one of his gravestones, I reckon.’
She’s on her feet now. Wilf follows.
‘All right,’ she says, but not to him. ‘We’re ready’.
Then she steps towards Wilf and hugs him, so tight he expects his ribs to buckle, kisses him fervently, and steps away again, composing herself, as they hear a scrabbling at the door. While they wait for the bolt to draw, Aggie speaks quickly, mischievously:
‘Hey, Wilf, where’s your ID? And your mobile?’
‘In my—’
Wilf pictures his backpack in the garage, and a group of Bloggers, ferreting through the pockets like elves.
The door opens and Lambert says,
‘Well, Wilfred, it seems we’re going to need another new name’.
49
Chairs have been placed at the trestle tables. Rickety, loose-limbed wooden chairs—the kind that are always ranked around community halls. Covered metal dishes, plates and cutlery have been set out.
‘You must be famished’ says Lambert. ‘Gwennie has very kindly provided extra portions so that we can sneak in before the first sitting’.
‘Yum’ says Aggie, rubbing her hands. She lollops past them to lift one of the covers and bask in the mouthwatering steam that rises from the food. Wilf feels the familiar caving of his stomach.
‘Gwennie’s here?’
‘Not here as such. She has her feasts delivered’.
‘Delivered? Through the rhododendrons?’ Wilf looks round. No sign of anyone. ‘Who brings them? The fairies?’
Aggie is already spooning portions of sunny mashed potato onto their plates.
‘Come on,’ she urges, ‘or I’ll eat it all myself. Bangers and mash—my fave’.
She uncovers another dish and begins serving sausages, sizzling, glistening, chocolate-brown. Wilf’s mouth aches with lust. The urge to eat overcomes everything else—all his questions, even the sight of Aggie here, in Hestyn House, dishing up a meal and patting the seat next to hers.
The sausages yield to his knife after a tease of resistance. The meat is moist and firm and round with unexpected flavours. He’s missed this. They eat in silence, scrape the dishes clean, and only then does he return to his interrogation.
‘Do the fairies wash up, as well?’
Lambert laughs.
‘They do’.
‘And what do we do, in the meantime?’
‘We wait’.
Aggie puts a tentative hand on Wilf’s thigh.
‘Not long now’ she says ‘and you’ll see what all this is about’.
‘Why not just bloody tell me?’
Wilf’s whole body twitches. Aggie quickly withdraws her hand but he catches it, clings to it with both of his. Lambert says,
‘Precautionary measures, that’s all, my dear’. He’s distracted, Wilf can tell. ‘We have a system’ he continues. ‘Information released in stages, you see, to avoid—’ His head turns sharply, though Wilf has heard no sound.
‘I’m a stray now’ Wilf protests to Aggie. ‘You said yourself—’
Aggie holds up her free hand as a warning. Lambert seems to be muttering some kind of incantation. Then he turns back to them and says,
‘Righty-ho! Slight hiccough in the schedule. Unexpected visitor. I’ll toddle off and warn the first sitting that lunch is delayed. You two—off to the mural, till I give the word’.
Aggie jumps up and leads Wilf—still clutching her hand—back to the Sorcerers’ Room. Everything’s happening at bewildering speed. Wilf wonders whether something in the food has accelerated time. They’re in the room, at the mural; Aggie’s touching the raised hand of the bandaged man and in a fraction of a second the wall has scooped them up and gulped them into darkness. Wilf finds himself sandwiched between a solid surface and the inside of the wall, facing the shadowy form of the handsome man’s back. So the painted man must be looking into the room again, Wilf thinks, and then it occurs to him that he’s doing exactly the same. There’s a faint sheen, which he gradually realises is tinted glass, shaped into two perfect almonds and set into the brick.
‘False eyes!’ he hisses, and starts to giggle. Aggie gives her trapped hand a sharp shake to shut him up.
They stand together. The Sorcerers’ Room is only dimly visible. Nothing happens. Wilf strains to hear what’s going on outside, but the only sound is his own heart, and the delicate stirring of air as Aggie breathes in and out. Oddly enough, he’s not afraid at all. She’s here. He’s got her. All his questions are about to be answered.
50
Eternity. Trapped between stone and the glass eyes of a painted buck. Aggie’s hand sealed in his. Barely able to stand, unable to fall, Wilf lapses into semi-consciousness. Episodes flicker and fade: Gwennie’s meals; climbing the stairs in his underwear; John Auvrice, 1798; puddles vibrating in the abandoned Casino … He’s a dead sailor, floating from the sea bed, captive under the marsh grass, whispering his name … his name …
His name splits the air.
‘Wilf!’
Was he asleep?
Aggie speaks again:
‘All clear. We can go’.
They topple back into the room and bounce on their toes to propel the blood back into motion. The door opens and a sound of mild activity laps in. The cellar has been transformed into a canteen. More dishes have appeared and a procession of people is approaching across the room, apparently materialising from thin air. Young men, mostly, in loose and grimy tracksuits and cheap rainjackets. There are a few women, too, with lifeless eyes and matted hair, a couple of them lugging babies on their hips. Three older children are jostling, grabbing at each other around the adults’ legs. Their laughter bursts like fireworks over the general murmur. Wilf and Aggie stand in the doorway of the Sorcerer’s Room and watch as the phantoms take their places along the tables and start to eat. Something about their listless endurance reminds Wilf of another place.
‘Refugees?’ he asks, in an undertone.
‘All sorts’ replies Aggie. ‘Refugees. Illegal immigrants. People who’ve been chewed up and spat out, one way or another. Some arriving, some leaving’.
‘Strays’.
‘That’s right. Dropped through the net. Or off the radar, as you put it. Some of them were destined for Special Interrogation. Some of them have already had it—you can usually spot them. They’re shaky on their feet’.
‘You mean, you’ve got suspects here?’ Wilf glances swiftly along the ranks of weary diners.
‘Yeah,’ says Aggie, with her old sarcasm. ‘Suspects, right. Like me’.
Wilf moves his mouth close to her ear. ‘OK, you’re not a terrorist. But some of these might be. If they’ve been interrogated it’s for a reason. You might be harbouring murderers.’
Suddenly Lambert is at his side.
‘Every ordinary citizen you pass on the street on your way to work might be a murderer’ he says, smoothly. ‘The chap wearing an inappropriate jacket. The girl with a covered face. The Big Issue seller who’s had enough of being ignored. Who knows? A risk-free life is a form of death, my boy. And look!’ He gestures towards the tables, where a busy percussion of cutlery and crockery has struck up. ‘The vast majority are merely harmless souls who wish to move on and get by’.
‘Where do they all come from?’ asks Wilf. ‘I mean, how did they get in here?’ Lambert and Aggie smile at each other and Wilf suffers a knifethrust of resentment.
‘Let’s find out’ says Lambert. They follow him round the edge of the cellar to a corner, where the vaulting meets the wall in a wide, jutting extrusion. Lambert’s fingers hover over the bricks. He turns to Aggie.
‘Your memory is so much better than mine, Biddy, dear’.
Aggie counts rapidly under her breath, pinpoints her brick and presses it hard with the heel of her hand. It slides inwards and clunks downwards. Aggie reaches her arm in to the elbow and grapples with something on the other side. There’s a sucking sound, and now she’s pushing the whole ridge of brick, revealing an opening wide enough for one.
‘More tunnels’ remarks Wilf. Lambert winks and says,
‘Dear chap, you ain’t seen nothing yet’.
They slip through the gap one by one. Wilf braces himself for another tight squeeze and almost falls flat on his face as they enter a great void. They’re standing in the exact twin of the cellar.
‘Clever, eh?’ says Lambert, patting his back. ‘Every rib along this wall is an entry point. And now—’ he strides across the stone floor—’for the final part of your guided tour’.
There are bundles scattered around the columns—the phantoms’ belongings, Wilf supposes. Before he can ask, Lambert is leading them into another opening, in the opposite wall, and Wilf is dismayed to find himself following the others along a tunnel, crouching under its low ceiling. It seems to take forever. He concentrates on breathing steadily. Lambert calls back to him:
‘You may already have discerned that we’re tracing an outline, so to speak, of the manor. We are actually inside the exterior wall. Ingenious, isn’t it?’
They turn two sharp corners and start climbing steps, almost on all fours; there’s a rumble, an influx of light and they’re stumbling into the circular room of the tower. Wilf blinks and takes his bearings. The leaded windows and the engraving in the sill, which were on his left the first time he entered this room, are now on his right.
‘How many routes are there?’ he asks.
Lambert circles the room, flapping his arms vigorously.
‘Astounding, eh? His most remarkable achievement by far!’
Aggie sits cross-legged on the floor. Wilf sits next to her and reclaims her hand.
‘Whose most remarkable achievement?’
‘The brave and cunning Saint Nicholas, my friend. Nicholas Owen, builder, joiner, and concealer of priests’.
‘These are priest-holes?’ says Wilf, incredulously.
‘Well … I have a theory about that.’
‘Lambert’s an expert’ says Aggie. ‘He knows all about hiding places and ancient dens. He calls them wormholes’.
‘There have been so many reasons to hide along the millennia’ comments Lambert. ‘Custom, creed, colour … In Owen’s day a chap could be hanged and disembowelled for saying a Mass. So he created a secret city of holes and corners from Rome to Norfolk’.
‘And what’s your theory about Hestyn?’ asks Wilf.
‘I may be wrong. But I suspect this was a training ground. Where he tested his methods and passed them on to his apprentices. We have our old chum Lord Lane to thank, of course, for maintaining and extending the whole affair. But Nicholas Owen was the giant on whose shoulders he perched.’
Aggie butts in, eager to share the story.
‘Lambert reckons John Auvrice escaped to France using these tunnels’.
‘They continue’ adds Lambert ‘for a mile west and east. Handy access to any conveniently anchored ships’.
‘East to the sea’ muses Wilf. ‘West to…’ He tries to form a picture in his mind.
‘To the church!’ explodes Aggie, in triumph. ‘That’s where they get in and out!’
Wilf absorbs the information. Lambert is still eulogising about the passageways.
‘Marvellous, really … an escape route through layers of rock and history … a tunnel linking one generation to the next …’
Wilf says,
‘And what about Martha Crick?’
51
The sun’s going down. Sand and sea hoard the light greedily, flaunting gold and silver, detailing the curve of pebbles and the grain of driftwood and shells. Dusk congregates in pockets—in the lanes leading to town, in the alley behind the Sunbeam Café, in the tangle of bushes on Great Hood. A dark breeze picks up, and she’s grateful for it. It’ll cover the rhythmic shiver of leaves caused—she suspects—by her pounding heart. She doesn’t know how long she’s been here. She desperately wants to pee. She might have to soon, right here, in her clothes, without moving—just to remove the distraction. She needs every ounce of concentration, every skill she’s ever learned. Another gust jostles the bushes and she takes the opportunity to adjust the weight on her thighs and ankles. Through a scribble of branches she can see about a yard up the track; if she turns her head fractionally and strains her eyes to their corners’ limit, she can just about see the ocean’s surreal evening glow. A rustle freezes her blood and breath. She watches the track. Her mouth is ajar, her eyes open as far as they’ll go, accentuating her squint. They’ll come, any instant, they’ll come: her expectation almost summons them into view: sensible shoes easing into every step; short-sighted eyes strafing the undergrowth; corrugated fingers closing around the triggers.
No.
Nothing.
It’s getting cold. Martha decides it’s time to relieve herself. A warm cloud seeps through her underwear and spreads along her legs. As her bladder relaxes her anger intensifies. Stupid. Stupid. Going it alone, just to prove a point, just to show the boss. Idiot. Cretin. And her boss, as it turns out, was right all along: she’s incompetent. Outwitted by a hapless backpacker and bunch of geriatrics. Noone to call, noone to send backup and a car-ride back to the centrally heated office for a ticking-off. Now wonder they confiscated her mobile, and all the other tools of her trade. She’s a liability. She’s a—
Crack!
She barely registers the footfall before a click of metal tells her she’s been spotted. An impulse stronger than all her years of training drive her backward, scuttling fast as a spider, crashing through the rhododendrons and into space.
52
‘And what about Martha Crick?’
Only a fiery thread on the horizon remains of the daylight. The parkland, the woods and the tower room are subsiding into the dark. One last needle of flame touches a pane of glass in the window and gashes Lambert’s profile. Aggie waits hopefully for Lambert’s answer. When it fails to come she turns to Wilf and assures him:
‘She’s being led away from the scent. Isn’t she, Lambert?’
Lambert’s head dips, once. It could be a nod, or an admission of defeat.
‘She’s some kind of state agent, we reckon’ Aggie gabbles on. ‘Don’t we, Lambert?’
Wilf peers at her in the failing light: her eyes are as guileless as her voice.
‘Martha Crick’ says Lambert suddenly ‘is a pursuivant. She and her ilk spend a great deal of time and energy creating traitors, then hunting them down’.
The window and Lambert’s face are blotted out as the sun finally disappears. The temperature drops abruptly. Wilf says,
‘Was she following me? I mean, turning up at Beaumont Beach and all that?’
‘So we believe’.
‘But you still brought me back here? Wasn’t that a bit … reckless?’
Lambert turns away from the window, masking his reaction in deeper shadow, and Aggie says quietly,
‘That was my fault’. She gives Wilf’s hand an apologetic squeeze. ‘I sort of insisted’.
‘Amor vincit omnia’ says Lambert. ‘Love conquers even the wariness of a stray’.
A violent tremor passes through Wilf’s body. Aggie slides nearer and leans against him. Lambert says,
‘Nevertheless, since we did not succeed in shaking off Ms Crick’s attentions, we’re obliged to move on. Tonight shall be Hestyn’s last crossover’.
‘Crossover?’
In the gloom Wilf sees Lambert beckoning them to the window.
‘Our last chance to see a masterpiece of engineering at work’.
From the woods, their window must be visible only as a glimmer, a brushstroke of reflection within the density of the tower’s silhouette. Three figures standing behind it would be no more than tricks of shade, optical illusions. To anyone on the outside, thinks Wilf, we might be ghosts. But there is noone on the outside. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, and he doesn’t know what’s causing this bizarre sensation, this prickling all over his skin, up his legs and spine, over his skull. Is it the chill? It certainly seems to be growing colder with every minute. Lambert shispers, so softly that the words might be forming in Wilf’s own mind:
‘This is always a time of fear’.
Many years ago, before Aggie and Paul and the Cutting Edge Guides, when Wilf was just an ordinary bloke, getting on with life, worrying about his ticklists, he was on holiday in Turkey during a minor earthquake. Not even a quake: a tremor. A small belch, way down in the planet’s gut. He woke in the youth hostel in a cold sweat, taut with horror, thinking he’d had a nightmare. Then he felt it: the inexorable approach, a thundering crescendo within his bones. Later he told himself it must be like that—the rapid accumulation, too fast, too late—for a hunted animal, cringeing under the final assault. Or for a family huddled under the stairs, as a missile homed in on its target. But instead of the plunge of fangs, instead of the flash and oblivion, he felt an invisible force pick up the end of his camp bed and pummel it up and down. Wilf screamed. He was ashamed, afterwards, learning that this had only been a shifting of earth. But at the time there had been only pure, helpless terror.
So Wilf tells himself, now, that he knows what’s going on. He’s been through this before. He must not scream. Except this isn’t a tremor. This is the tower itself, Hestyn House, the grounds around it, coming to life. Under the floors, inside the walls, beneath the grass, a thrum of movement is building up: no more than rodent scratchings at first, but thickening, deepening, filling Wilf’s veins. Outside, the wind nudges the treetops. There’s not a soul to be seen. The buildings roar. Wilf is sure the floor will cave in under his feet. He’s about to lose the battle with his will and cry out, when Lambert makes a sharp, restrained gesture with his arm, indicating the treeline. As Wilf squinnies through the dark he sees a section of the wood dip further than the rest, recover briefly, then swing down, exposing a slab of the dying sky.
‘They’ve lifted the flood barrier’ murmurs Lambert. ‘They’ve reached the cliff edge’.
Aggie winds her arm around Wilf’s.
‘It’s the scariest part of the route’ she tells him. ‘I’ve done it myself. Beyond the barrier, you’re going downhill. Steep. And you can smell the sea, feel it in the walls’.
She’s having to work hard to rein in her adrenalin.
‘I suspect’ says Lambert ‘there were old mining works there. Nicholas Owen himself may have exploited the structure: he was a master of opportunism. Lord Lane certainly developed—’
He’s listening to another voice. He swivels away and cups his hand to his ear.
‘They’re here’ he says. ‘Proceed to the outflow’.
‘Who’s here?’ whispers Wilf to Aggie.
‘The boats’. She hugs his arm. ‘Just like John Auvrice!’ she squeaks. ‘And just like the Jesuits! Forget museums, Wilf—’
A signal from Lambert cuts her off. The rumble is diminishing now. Wilf’s sinews start to relax. Lambert’s smile flashes in the gloom.
‘Always a relief’ he says, at his usual pitch, ‘to see a crossover complete. Such a vulnerable time. If there were any interception, when they’re all beneath the ground …’ He shudders, then lightly touches the thick window-glass. ‘Ah, well! The exodus is complete. The final ingress took place a couple of days ago. Who knows how long these wormholes will lie empty—another few centuries perhaps…’
He blows out a short breath and crosses the room to the secret panel. Before stepping behind the wall, he strokes the wood and says with pride,
‘One of Owen’s crannies hid a priest for four days, while his persecutors tore the house apart. They didn’t find him.’
‘And what happened to Owen?’ asks Wilf, following Aggie into the passage and swinging his foot over the lintel.
‘He was betrayed’ calls Lambert ‘and tortured to death’.
53
Bacon, sausage, liver and kidneys, eggs, potato cakes, fried tomatoes, toast, home-made marmalade…
Lambert and Aggie labour away at their heaped plates and Gwennie stands by, arms folded. Aggie surfaces and tries to fit a grin between hamster cheeks.
‘Good to see healthy appetites’ says Gwennie. The carriage clock on the mantelpiece chimes a polite quarter hour. Aggie clears her mouth enough to say,
‘Wilf will be gutted that he missed this. He loves his food’.
‘I don’t hold with all this dashing about on an empty stomach’ says Gwennie, and her chignon wobbles indignantly. ‘If he’d only waited for the next train I could have saved him a helping. There’s plenty to go round’.
‘Time is of the essence, Gwennie,’ says Lambert. ‘If our young friend is to tie the threads, as he so eloquently put it, he must do so swiftly’.
Gwennie raises an eyebrow.
‘It’s not the usual way’ she warns. ‘Going back—always dangerous.’
‘I must say, it does rather go against my better judgement…’ says Lambert, and pulls fretfully at his earlobe. Aggie’s knife and fork pause in a crucifix over her plate.
‘He’ll be really careful’ she promises. ‘I know he’s a bit wide-eyed sometimes, but actually he’s much less likely to let anything slip than I am’. She looks pleadingly from one to the other. ‘I’m the impulsive one. Going off on the spur of the moment—he’d never do that. He’s cautious. He’ll keep to the plan. He always does’.
Lambert’s crowsfeet multiply. He’s a sentimental man.
‘Well’ he concedes, ‘I suppose it does make sense for him to feed his employer a plausible tale…’
‘Yeah, exactly, that’s what I mean. If Wilf just vanished Paul would never let it lie.’
Lambert smiles at her, and Aggie resumes her meal. Gwennie is as still as a statue, her face unmoved and inscrutable. After a while she speaks to Lambert.
‘We’ll be sorry to see you go. We’ve grown used to you here, Mr Stokes’.
Lambert says, ‘And I shall be sorry to leave, Gwennie.’ He sits back and his eyes glaze over. ‘I don’t know what we shall find on our travels, but I doubt whether I’ll ever see the like of Hestyn House again’.
The clock ticks on.
Aggie’s chewing slows to a halt.
‘What did happen to that woman?’ she asks, in a small voice. ‘Martha Crick?’
Gwennie’s arms unravel and she lays a motherly hand on Aggie’s shoulder.
‘We sent her down the wrong road, that’s all, Biddy, dear. Easy enough to lose your bearings hereabouts’.
Aggie raises puppy eyes to her, begging to be convinced.
‘So she might come back?’
‘Well.’ Gwennie smooths her apron briskly. ‘It’s as well to play safe, isn’t it, Mr Stokes? Best to shut up shop and close the wormholes for now. Who knows—maybe when the dust has cleared we can open the channels again. Now—who’s for second helpings?’
54
The sheet covers everything but her head and feet. Her Marcel-wavy hair has crinkled into a helmet of wire wool. The lower jaw has dislodged and slid out of kilter, giving her a wry expression. The skin is grey-blue, retreating into black under the eye and in the hollows of the cheeks. One foot still wears a shoe. The other is bare. Even in death, her feet have opened into a wide V. Fifth position.
‘Socking great plates she’s got’ comments Paul. He passes a hand across his forehead. ‘Christ, I hate these morgue lights. I’m sure they fry your brain’.
‘Where did they find her?’
‘Washed up at Fairend. Halfway to the Lido, like a stranded seal. Poor cow.’ Paul tweaks a corner of the sheet. ‘’Fell a long way down. Either that or they beat her up and threw her’.
Wilf shakes his head.
‘Don’t think so. Not their style’.
Paul takes a pod from his pocket and reads from the screen, his pupils juddering rapidly from side to side.
‘System Name: Crick, Martha. Birth Name: Trent, Alice’.
Wilf studies the drained face.
‘Alice. Suits her’.
‘Went awol after suspension for irregular activity…’
‘Irregular?’
‘Too keen on the job, by the looks of it. Tailing suspects without official sanction, that sort of thing …’
Paul goes on reading for a moment, then replaces the pod. ‘Come on’ he says with a shrug of distaste. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here’.
They study Paul’s computer screen, heads nearly touching. Wilf points at it.
‘That’s the first tower entrance … Not very clear. Sorry. Hate these gizmos.’
He runs his finger around the metal strap of his wristwatch. Paul taps the keyboard to change the picture.
‘That’s the mural’ says Wilf.
‘Jesus wept!’ Paul juts closer to the image. ‘Dirty old buggers, these Sorcerers!’
He swings his chair round to face Wilf.
‘Where are you meeting them?’
‘Eastern Point. Another armpit of a place. Lambert Stokes reckons there’s a safe house there—an old one, I mean. Another place kitted out by the priest-hider.’
Paul picks his teeth and looks askance at the images still blaring from his screen.
‘Religious, is he, this Stokes?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Just … interested’.
Paul shuts down the picture of the mural and ejects the disk.
‘Funny how such a clever guy can be such a dork’.
Wilf runs his hand through his hair in a reflex of irritation.
‘He’s not a dork’ he insists. ‘He’s all right’.
‘Trouble with you, old son—you get too fond of these strays. If I didn’t know you were a sound bloke I’d have you tailed an’ all’.
‘Wouldn’t surprise me’ says Wilf petulantly. ‘It’s pretty bloody obvious you don’t trust my judgement. I can’t believe you spoke to Aggie and never even told me’.
Paul’s hand weaves the air.
‘Don’t start on that again. Like I said, I can hardly afford to let you in on every detail, any more. Not after our string of little disasters.’ His chair swings again so that his knee knocks hard against Wilf’s leg. ‘I’m already walking the line for you, Wilf mate. All that “beetlebrowed” crap—all that publicity—you really landed me in it, there. I had to work my butt off to convince them it was a double bluff. And then our Ags goes missing again …’.
‘You should never have recruited me’ says Wilf miserably. ‘Or at any rate, you should have reassigned me. Anyone else, I could have coped with …’.
‘Bollocks’ says Paul, cheerfully. ‘If an agent falls in love with his assignment, so much the better. Just learn from your mistakes, that’s all I ask. And know where your loyalties lie, when push comes to shove.’
‘She’d never hurt a fly, you know’ says Wilf.
‘Oh, I know, mate. But when it comes to troublemakers, our Ags is a walking Sat Nav. Indispensable. As long as our man stays on her tail …’
‘It wasn’t all my fault’ Wilf protests. ‘If the boys in blue hadn’t gone tramping all over her flat …’
‘Yeees … Very unfortunate’ agrees Paul. ‘Very crass. Had a word about that. They won’t be treading on our toes again’. He ejects the CD and snaps it into a plastic case. ‘There we go. Gems of the Coast: A Guide to Britain’s Secret Places, Chapter One. Cool’.
‘They’re all convinced you won’t publish it’ Wilf remarks.
‘Yup. Well, sorry to disappoint, but … you know, we all need to make a living. And agency work alone isn’t going to make our fortunes, is it, mate?’
He slaps the arms of his chair conclusively and gets up. ‘I’ll have to bring it up to date. Our guys are tidying up as we speak. You should see what Mrs Price keeps in her attic’.
‘Don’t mess up my text’ warns Wilf. ‘This is for public consumption too, don’t forget. I’ve got a reputation to maintain’.
‘Relax. Your purple prose is safe with me. By the way’ Paul puts on his jacket in one fluid move ‘I’ve downloaded Lambert Stokes’ details. You’ll laugh when you see what he’s really called’.
‘I doubt it’. Wilf zips up his cagoul. ‘Talking of which’ he adds ‘he said I could choose my own Stray Name. Any thoughts?’
Paul searches the ceiling.
‘Let’s see … ‘
‘Something a bit snappier this time?’ suggests Wilf. Paul raises his hands disingenuously.
‘Don’t know what you mean, mate! Wilfred’s a noble name!’ He puts his arm around Wilf’s shoulders and steers him towards the door. ‘Tell you what—how about Percy?’
‘Oh, ha ha, hysterically funny’.
‘Yeah, that’ll do—Percival Pursuivant!’ Paul’s head jerks back with the force of his laughter. ‘Only, you’d better pick another surname. Don’t want to give the game away!’
55
Until recently a slow train connected Hestyn with its coastal neighbours, Beaumont Beach and Fairend. But since the closure of the branch line this quiet backwater has been accessible only to car-owners. Speculation is rife, at the time of publication, that a new dual carriageway will cut through a considerable swathe of town, but plans are as yet inconclusive. The area’s convoluted geography is bound to provide a few construction headaches. Hestyn is a tangle of streets, largely untouched by time. Tucked under the high cliff known as Great Hood, it was once all but hidden by a riot of rhododendron bushes, planted in the 1890s for the local manor, Hestyn House. The rampaging bushes had since become a health and safety hazard, and a clearance project is currently underway. The house itself, originally built in the 11th century, was said to conceal a network of secret passages, some dating from the 1600s. However, the structure had latterly fallen into ruin and its remains have now been demolished, paving the way for a state-of-the-art Climate Monitoring Centre (closed to general public).
Note to printers: final version. Ready to print.
Chapter Two to follow.
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