by Gwen Moffat
“Look,” he said.
In the light she saw the marks of cleated boots in the mud. Instinctively she looked behind her, her light swinging over the walls and rotting timbers. She turned to Ted but he was starting to worm his way through the hole. In her torch beam a huge boulder which roofed the hole moved slightly. She opened her mouth to call him back but with a sudden scrabble his boots disappeared. She stared at the boulder dumbly.
“Right, come on. It’s not too tight a squeeze.” His voice came distantly.
“Ted!”
“What? What’s that?”
“This boulder moved. The one above the hole.”
“Oh. Did it. How much?”
“Very slightly. But I think it’s jammed.” She was stooping, examining its edges. Among the surrounding rubble it was difficult to see where one rock ended and the next began.
“Oh damn,” she muttered, and aloud: “I’ll have to risk it. I’m coming through.”
She lay down gingerly and started to work forward. She was underneath the pile of rocks and could see. Ted’s light a few feet away when, holding her breath for another wriggle, she felt something light drop on her back. She gave a convulsive heave on her elbows, her fingers clawed slime — and a hand gripped her under the shoulder.
“Oh, my God,” she gasped as he helped her up, “This is appalling!”
“Yes,” he said absently.
She recovered her breath and then, seeing what he was doing, joined him in directing her beam outwards.
They could see nothing at eye level but in front of their feet an uneven floor faded into infinity.
“It’s the old face,” he told her, “where they were working when the mine closed. It’s a cavern.”
She followed him through a strange place of fallen rock and occasional level stretches where she tripped over small-scale railway lines. Once he stopped and showed her a chain of little trucks loaded with slate slabs: the last load.
They came to the now familiar entrance that marked the start of another level. After they’d gone a few yards there was a gleam of red on the fringe of her light.
“Here’s a brick,” she said, “several. They’re stacked!”
They stopped and shone their lights ahead.
It was neat and colourful and totally incongruous: the remains of a brick wall which had blocked the way completely but now, with a large hole in the middle, it was merely a brick arch.
*
The return seemed interminable because it was difficult to talk while they were moving in single file. They had decided to go back the same way partly because this was quicker, but also because they envisaged complications and possibly even danger if the first people they encountered on the way to the main exit should be armed young soldiers over-sensitive to the sinister atmosphere of the place.
As they plodded through the tunnels Miss Pink’s mind was full of questions. Were those lorries loaded with gelignite when she passed the camp site yesterday morning? Was someone just emerging from the mine entrance when the guard — for that was surely what he was — stepped in front of her? Where had they come from? What story had they given the Centre to account for their presence in the valley?
They crossed the floor of the great cavern and crawled through the rock-fall without incident, almost without her noticing. After more passages steps appeared. She started to climb, reaching automatically for the handrail. She bumped into Ted. They both apologised.
“It’s the break,” he said, “above the loom.”
She waited while he crossed. In the loaded silence she heard a slight grating noise above. She looked up, her light sweeping the wall. Shadows loomed and leapt and something pale moved back from the edge of the light. There was a flutter like a bird’s wings and she held her breath. From far below came a faint splash.
“Right,” Ted said, “come on.”
She glanced up again, looking for something that wasn’t a shadow but nothing moved.
She climbed across carefully, concentrating less on her footing than on what she might hear from above. A climber on steep rock is never sure what may come down but Miss Pink had the feeling that she had more than natural hazards to contend with at this moment.
“There’s someone above us,” she whispered as she joined him, and told him about the falling stone.
“Did you actually see anyone?”
“No, only an impression of movement; of something, someone, dodging back from the light.”
“It’s a sinister place,” he said, “I used to imagine all kinds of things.
“We’ll take it carefully,” she insisted, “and we’ll keep close together.”
But nothing untoward occurred and when they came to the mouth of the mine and stood blinking in the sunshine, the woods below appeared empty and guileless.
“There’s someone in the mine,” she repeated with emphasis.
“It’s rats.”
“What would they live on — down there?”
They were moving down the ramp now and the sun was warm on their faces.
“The odd body perhaps?” he speculated cheerfully.
She glanced at him in reproof. The remark was in poor taste. He wouldn’t have made it above the loom, she thought, and then paused. Had she been mistaken? Had it been a rat, or could the stone have fallen from some natural cause? You didn’t have frost underground but perhaps they’d disturbed it as they descended and it had lain precariously on the edge until something, a current of air, a vibration, unbalanced it. Then what moved when she looked up? Or had that, after all, been imagination? Speculation was fruitless. Firmly she blocked out the incident and concentrated on the present.
They went to the Lithgows’ cottage to telephone the police but the house was unoccupied and locked. They considered returning to the hotel but decided on reflection that there was no urgency. The explosives were gone and it could be only a matter of hours before the police discovered the means of access themselves.
The directors’ original intention had been to see the canoe expedition come in to the estuary and they saw no reason for cancelling this, but since their way lay through the village of Bontddu, they did make the gesture of stopping at the police station there and trying to find Superintendent Crichton. They were told he was on the road, returning from county headquarters and could not be contacted. They left a message saying they would telephone him that evening and they continued to the estuary.
*
The sun was low on the water as they drove down a road parallel with the river.
“I thought the sea trips were finished for the season,” she remarked.
“The calm weather must have been too much of a temptation for Jim and, after all, they have the safety boat.”
“It can’t prevent a ducking, only pick them out of the water — and the sea’s pretty cold at this time of year.”
“No colder than the river.”
“But much farther to go before you can get a hot bath and a change of clothes. No, I don’t like it. I’ve no desire to have the coroner asking me if I thought it wise to send children to sea in canoes in winter time.”
“Hallo,” he said, not listening to her, “what have we here?”
A wooden slip ran down to the water and at the top there was an open space where a Mini van and the Centre’s Land Rover were parked. A canoe trailer was coupled to the ’Rover which was jacked up on three wheels. Slade was stooping over the fourth, examining it. He looked up at their approach. He appeared annoyed but Miss Pink reflected that he never looked pleased to see anyone, except Nell.
“Slow puncture,” he said sullenly as Ted stopped beside him.
“Is the spare all right?”
“I think so. I was just looking to find a nail or something but I can’t see anything so it must be a slow. I was pumping it up last week.”
Miss Pink stared at him. He was on the defensive. She left the car and Ted moved on to park it. Slade was taking the spare wheel off the ’Rover’s bon
net. She glanced from the Mini to the Centre’s vehicle.
“I see,” she said slowly, “two of you drove to Porth Bach to pick up the Land Rover and trailer, and now Nell’s going to drive you back to the Centre.”
“Not her. Wright.”
“Where is he?”
“He sloped off while I was changing the wheel. He wouldn’t be any help.”
Ted came up, glancing seawards at a cluster of specks on the water.
“They’re coming in,” he said, “better drop that wheel at the garage as you pass, Joe, and see if they’ve got one to lend you. We can’t afford to have the ’Rover off the road.”
“Yes, sir.”
Miss Pink’s eyebrows rose a fraction.
“What happened to your patrol this afternoon — and to Wright’s?” she asked.
“She’s got them all on B.O.D.s —” he glanced at Ted who nodded. Biological Oxygen Demand was a test to assess the oxygen content of streams. He turned back to the wheel nuts. “We had to leave our lads and come here because the canoe people would’ve been without transport else, and she said if they was wet, we’d got to get them back quickly.”
“She?” Miss Pink repeated pointedly.
“Nell.” He was awkward and belligerent and she realised that he had a curious reluctance to pronounce the name.
“The programme’s a bit disrupted today,” Ted said agreeably. Slade glanced sideways at him. “I take it you’ve been questioned by the detective?”
“Yeah. He questioned all of us.”
“But surely Hughes and Lithgow were on the water,” Miss Pink said.
“I mean, all of us at Plas.”
“Could you help them?”
“No, sir.”
“What do you know about the Army?” Miss Pink asked.
He gave a powerful twist to the last wheel nut and she sighed; unscrewing wheel nuts always gave her trouble.
“I don’t know anything about the Army,” he answered. He threw the wrench in the back of the Land Rover. “Wright!” he shouted suddenly.
“In a hurry to get back?” Ted asked.
“We’ve got enough on,” the man grumbled, rolling the spare wheel towards the Mini, “lost a lot of time this afternoon, and she’ll want the van.”
Paul Wright came up from the direction of the shore and greeted them. He looked inquiringly at Slade.
“Got to get back,” the man called. Wright smiled easily.
“Such a worker,” he observed to the directors in gentle mockery, “I’ve been watching some ducks. Little black and white fellows.”
“Goldeneye,” Miss Pink said absently, “Have you been down here long?”
“Most of the afternoon. It’s high time we were back. That detective has messed up the routine. Funny chap; hasn’t a clue, has he? As if you’d notice anything odd going on in the cwm, from the ridge, and at night! And what are the odds that they came on the particular night that we happened to be up there?”
“But they didn’t —” she began, to find herself over-ridden by Ted: “I understand the police were after any curious happenings anywhere in the locality, not confined to Cwm Caseg. There are other entrances to the mines.”
“Are there?” Wright’s interest was obvious. “You don’t mean — but surely there can’t be other means of access to the explosives? That’s impossible. Or outrageous,” he added as an afterthought.
“There was,” Ted told him, “but it was sealed off.”
He related the story of the pot-holers’ discovery but didn’t mention their own adventure that afternoon.
Wright said with amusement: “You know, if someone unblocked that passage it would be a far more reasonable way of getting the stuff out than using the main entrance, unless of course, they had inside help for the job.”
Slade, tired of waiting, had started the Mini and was now sitting stolidly behind the wheel with the engine running. Beside Wright’s pleasant manner, his behaviour was oafish. The young man raised his eyebrows helplessly, took his leave, and the van left with a spurt of gravel.
“Slade is uncouth,” she observed, “it’s amusing how he defers to Nell though.”
“He gets along with most of the boys,” Ted commented. “Not with the sensitive ones, of course.”
“I think Paul copes with him.”
“Yes, that lad’s not quite so ingenuous as he appears. And he caught on to the significance of the alternative entrance immediately, didn’t he?”
“Well, it’s so obvious when you know there was once another way to the store. It was an opportunity waiting to be exploited.” She looked pleased with her choice of words.
The canoes were close now, their wheeling paddles catching the last of the sunlight. Accompanying them, but at a distance, the safety boat chugged softly through the water.
“Very pretty,” Ted remarked, “and all going well.”
With a sudden increase of engine noise the safety boat circled round the canoes and headed for the slip. They walked down to meet it. Jim Lithgow cut the engine and handed Ted the painter, then he stepped ashore.
“Been waiting long?” he asked, not looking at them.
“Not long. Have a good trip?”
“Reasonable for the time of year.” He surveyed the approaching canoes. He didn’t comment on the Mini being so long in the car park.
“We’ve had the C.I.D. at the Centre,” Miss Pink said.
He turned then, his eyes like broken glass in the sun.
“They’ve discovered that a lot of the explosives are missing,” Ted added.
“Why did they come to us?”
Miss Pink explained. By this time Hughes and the boys were coming in to the ship and the directors and the chief instructor moved up to the river bank. Hughes stared after them until the horseplay of the boys coming ashore recalled him to his duty.
“Don’t people who come to climb in the area inform you beforehand?” Miss Pink asked Lithgow.
“Only if they’re in a group. Not individuals.”
“What was the unit at the camp site this weekend?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But there’ll be a record at the Centre?”
“We don’t always write it down.”
There was a heavy silence.
“But as rescue co-ordinator,” Ted said, “shouldn’t you know who’s operating in your area?”
“Not necessarily. We know who they are if something happens to them and we’re called out, of course. Not much point if there’s no accident.”
“Not to keep track of what’s happening?” Ted urged.
Lithgow shrugged, then thought better of it.
“Someone will know,” he said, “they’ll have rung the Centre before they came. Sally will know — or Nell.”
*
Contacted by telephone from the Goat neither Sally nor Nell knew anything about the Army unit. They had a record of most organisations that camped in the valley but this one appeared to have come and gone without recording its presence or attracting attention. Feeling tired, Miss Pink relinquished the telephone to Ted, leaving him to report their discovery in the mine to Crichton.
She repaired to the lounge where he found her some time later with not only two glasses, but a bottle of Tio Pepe in front of her. She poured him a drink which he accepted with gratitude.
“None of the storemen is missing,” he said as he sat down, “so apparently it wasn’t an inside job, but here’s something significant: an Army unit in the Midlands reported four of its vehicles stolen some time on Friday night!”
“Four isn’t enough for the amount of explosives stolen.”
“It would be if several units each reported a batch of missing vehicles. Or it could have been done in instalments, over a period.”
“Stealing a few lorries at a time? Surely that would be giving the game away — and if our lorries on the camp site were the stolen Midland ones, where are they now?”
“Yes, Crichton is very interested in tho
se and wasn’t at all happy when I told him that there was no record of them at the Centre. I’ll bet the wires are humming to the local bobbies at this moment as he tries to find out how the military operates in an area without their knowledge — that is, assuming they didn’t leave any trace.”
“What did he say about the break-in at the mine?”
“Astounded firstly, then angry, finally philosophical. He mentioned the horse and the stable door, but he’s putting a strong guard up there and they’ll have to seal off that level again. There’s a tremendous amount of stuff in the mountain; it will take weeks to evacuate. They’re starting tomorrow.”
“I hope that means we’ve seen the last of it.”
“Yes, it’s someone else’s pigeon now: both the stuff that’s gone, and what’s going to be removed legally.”
*
He dined at the Goat as her guest. It was an excellent meal since the kitchen knew well in advance and Miss Pink had approved the menu without change except to delete the pudding. It was tournedos à la Béarnaise.
The beef was tender and the Stilton couldn’t have been better, he told her, had she chosen it. Two elderly gourmets, they leaned back from their good coffee and smiled at each other. They were both tired but now they could relax. At that moment Olwen came trotting down the dining room and Miss Pink frowned. They were in need of nothing, least of all more shreds of village gossip, but she felt a rising thrill of anticipation for Olwen’s face was alight with excitement.
The blue Jaguar had been found.
Chapter Seven
Left alone while Ted telephoned the police for confirmation, Miss Pink felt deflated. Olwen didn’t know where the car had been abandoned, but that seemed unimportant. They had been pretty sure what had happened; this was an anti-climax.
Ted was a long time on the telephone and when he returned she regarded him with a trace of annoyance which passed as she realised that he was puzzled.
A car was lying on its side below the cliffs west of Puffin Cove. At low water the first three letters of its registration, JCA, were visible. Although the make wasn’t known, it was pale blue — and the registration of Martin’s car was JCA. Because it had been submerged at least since Sunday afternoon there was no possibility of any occupants being alive, so frogmen would not be going down until tomorrow morning.
