'I should get out of your way.' I edged away from him.
'Do ee want to see the ossuary? I got the key here.'
'The what?'
'Ossuary. Old times, when the graveyard flooded, they’d gather up any bones what turned up and store ‘em away. Some folks like to see it. Can't see the interest myself.'
'No, thank you, Mr...'
'John Chunley. I'm gardener for the estate and I looks arter the church, ‘cos no other bugger will. Pardon my language, miss.'
So this was the mysterious gardener. I held out my hand. ‘I’m Miss Wright. Secretary at the Institute. Pleased to meet you.’
The gardener wiped his hand on his trousers before taking mine. 'I know. Molly told me. Sure ee don’t want to see the ossuary? The Professor liked it. But he were a funny old bird.'
‘No, thanks. I should be going.’
Seagulls wheeled overhead, crying mournfully. I had been so full of hope and expectation a few minutes ago. Now I didn’t know what to do.
I should return to work, the work I was paid to do, but the thought of it was intolerable. I would never be a great success as a secretary. Langstone and the others hardly cared what I did. If the Professor’s clues led to real treasure, I might never have to work again.
‘Is there a way down to the shore here?’ I said.
‘The path there away go down to flats. But ee mussen go alone.’ His brow creased in concern.
‘Mr Enfield is down there.’
‘Ah, well.’ He relaxed. ‘He knows what’s what. Them flats be mighty dangerous, see. Tis how the Professor went.’
‘He did?’
‘The tide come in so fast, and the mud be that deep and claggy, there ain’t no running. Even us folks get caught. Tis odd the Professor should agone that way though.’
The way he said ‘odd’ made me stop. 'Odd? How?'
CHAPTER NINE
LEANING ON HIS spade, the gardener gestured towards the sea, flat brown under a leaden sky.
'They found him dead in the morning. Seemed he gone walking at night and the tide caught him. But why go out at all, specially at night? He warn’t no fool. I tole him myself often enough ‘bout the tide.’
The Professor I remembered had been many things but certainly not a fool.
The gardener frowned. ‘Some say he was maized, like. Soft in the head. But I never see it myself.’ He dug the edge of the spade into the turf. ‘Too late now.’
‘Where did they find him?’ I felt ghoulish asking the question but the gardener didn’t seem at all put out.
‘Just down by here, ‘bout fifty yard out.’
Behind the church, a narrow track in the wiry grass descended steeply, zig-zagging down to the shore. I stowed the mail in my coat pocket before admiring the view.
Brown sea and grey sky stretched out endlessly, merging at the horizon. On a clearer day, the hills of Wales could be seen. Today wasn't that clear, and the further shore of the Bristol Channel was only a smudge of darker grey. Nearer at hand, grey-brown mud extended for at least a mile until it was swallowed by the brown sea. Flocks of wading birds, black and white and grey, were busy finding food, their heads bobbing up and down as they probed the mud with long beaks.
I took deep breaths of the sea-scented air. It was not a beautiful scene, or not in the conventional way. Painters wouldn’t be inspired to cover vast canvasses with rolling brownness, with or without a passing tramp steamer. Poets rarely wax lyrical about mud. With the gardener’s words ringing in my ears, the lonely emptiness seemed inhuman, threatening. A man had died here. I shuddered. To be trapped on the mud, with the cold sea rushing in… all too easy to imagine, and too horrible.
But there was nothing to see here. No landmarks at all in the calm hugeness of the mud, the sea and the sky. The tide swept the mud clean every day. Everything forgotten, ready to start again.
Concentrating on the treacherous footing, I resumed my descent. Loose dirt crumbled from the edge of the path. The sea had taken a bite from the bank here, leaving a scar of rough yellow earth. One day a high tide would consume the path, and then the sea would chew away the churchyard, and eventually, the church too would fall.
At the bottom, slime-covered rocks and pebbles formed a narrow margin to the mud flats. Some distance off, Enfield stooped, busy with his rake.
I picked my way over the rocks towards him, aware my shoes were not really suitable for this kind of terrain. The boulders were thickly clothed with weed and small pools of seawater nestled in the crevices. Whiskery creatures darted away from my shadow, tempting me with the childish urge to dabble my fingers after them.
'Hello there,' I said, not wanting to startle Enfield.
He glanced over, then continued raking seaweed. The barrow was nearly full but his efforts had left no obvious gap in the weed clinging to the sea-smoothed stones. Brilliant green, red and black fronds, ruffles, bladders and frills grew in apparently endless slimy abundance.
'This is bladder wrack.' I picked up a piece. 'I know that one. Do you know what the others are?'
'The green one is spiral wrack. I don't know what the red one is. It seems plentiful here but I've never seen it anywhere else.'
Great drifts of red weed carpeted the mud.
'Maybe it's new to science, and you can have it named after you.'
He laughed. 'I doubt it. I expect it's just a species I'm not familiar with.' He threw the rake into the full wheelbarrow, then slipped his hook round one handle and gripped the other with his good hand. The barrow bumped over the rocks, jammed and tipped over, threatening to spill the load back where it came from. I grabbed the side to help right it.
'I can manage.' He wrestled the barrow back onto an even keel.
'I'm sure you can, but I’d like to help.' I smiled sweetly. ‘If it was my wheelbarrow, you wouldn’t mind helping me, would you?’
‘That’s different.’
‘How, exactly?’
He sighed. The wheelbarrow would have been awkward for anyone, however many arms they had, to lift over large boulders and haul out of crevices. I wasn't sure whether I helped or hindered, but willingly pushed and pulled and tried to keep it upright while Enfield applied brute strength to move forward. Getting it up the steep path was another challenge. We hauled it up backwards and collapsed at the top laughing and breathless.
I wondered how he had done this before on his own, though I could certainly believe he had. He was as physically strong as anyone I had ever known and tenacious as a bull terrier.
Once we reached flat ground he needed no assistance and I could have left him to it, but I enjoyed strolling by his side. After the disappointment of the gravestone, fresh air and exercise had renewed my optimism. I was certain I would resolve the mystery, even if it took a while.
Seagulls soared in the cloudless sky, their mewing calls plaintive.
‘I wish I could fly,’ I said.
‘Really?’ He glanced at me. ‘Where would you go?’
‘Everywhere. All the exciting places. The south of France. America. That’s what I’d do, if I had money. What about you?’
‘My flying days are over,’ he said.
It took a moment for me to think that through. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t think. Is that what you did, in the War? Is that how you…?’
He flexed his shoulders. ‘A lot of good young men died. Friends. The laugh is, I didn’t even get this flying. Got kicked by a horse. Funny, isn’t it?’
‘Not really. You must miss it awfully. The flying, that is.’
He was silent so long I thought he wouldn’t answer.
‘I have my work.’
I thought it was a pretty poor substitute. ‘Where are we going?'
We were passing the old stables. He nodded towards the open expanse of the park, spotted with grazing sheep.
'My plots are over there, past the greenhouse.'
I chewed my lip. Should I tell Enfield about the treasure hunt? I thought he could be trusted. Apart from
the cabbage obsession, he seemed rational. It would be a relief to confide in someone, to get an objective second opinion to add to my own. And it might be useful to have a co-conspirator, in whatever lay ahead.
We passed the first of his cabbage plots. Grey-green plants pressed against a wooden fence, rounded leaves leaning over the top rail.
‘Can you keep a secret?’ I said.
Enfield stopped suddenly. ‘The devils.’
The fence of the next plot had collapsed on one side. Two sheep glanced up at us, surprised in mid-chew. After a moment of sheepish confusion, they trotted off.
Leaving the wheelbarrow, he stomped over to inspect the damage. One fence post had broken, leaving a splintered stump, but the rest seemed to have just keeled over. The post holes were full of water and the disturbed earth had the consistency of porridge. He tugged on one of the posts still standing. It wobbled. He kicked it.
‘They haven’t actually eaten much,’ I said.
‘Bloody sheep. Bloody ground. Might as well be bloody salty mud. Damn it.’ He kicked the loose fence post. It fell over. ‘Bloody… cabbage!’
He brushed past me, seized the handle of the wheelbarrow, and dragged it towards an unfenced, empty plot. The bare soil was yellowish against the green turf. With his back to me, he began throwing armfuls of seaweed onto the turned earth. I stood watching him for a minute, feeling uncomfortable.
‘I should get back to work,’ I said.
He didn’t reply. I walked away. I really should get back to work before someone noted my absence. I could puzzle over my mystery again, try to figure out what to do next.
I stopped at the next cabbage plot to look back but he was still at work. The grey leaves of the brassicas rustled gently. Two fat wood pigeons sidled up to the fence. Heads bobbing, they ducked under the bottom rail and vanished from view between the stalks. I wandered over to where they had disappeared. Nothing moved in the jungle of stems.
'Shoo.' I shook the nearest stem back and forth. Still nothing moved. Probably the birds were in there sniggering at me. Evidently, I would have no career as a bird-scarer. I looked round again at Enfield, who now stood in the middle of his empty plot, staring at the earth in gloomy contemplation.
I strode off towards the house. Really, I was better off not involving him. The Professor had told me, ‘Trust in God alone’, and I ought to listen.
By the time I reached the house and banged the front door closed behind me, a new line of enquiry had occurred to me. I didn’t have to look far for an informant. Molly was mopping the hall floor.
‘Molly, who’s the vicar here?’
Molly pushed back the hair straggling over her forehead. ‘Thar an’t any. Reverend Upsticks comes over from Up Uggley for the services.’
‘But there used to be a vicar?’ I couldn’t remember the name from the pamphlet. ‘A Reverend…’
‘Templeton. He went mad.’
‘Mad?’
‘Oh, ah. He were proper rampin, tried to kill Mrs Mudd. Took three men to hold him.’
‘When did that happen?’
She scratched her head. ‘Backalong away, afore the Professor died, God rest him. I were away working in Bridgwater…’
‘Are you paid to talk or to work, you lazy chit?’ Mrs Jones stalked across the hall, lips pursed.
‘She isn’t doing anything wrong,’ I said quickly. ‘I wanted to ask her something. It’s my fault if she’s been distracted from her work.’
Molly began to mop diligently, moving away from me. Mrs Jones approached until we were face to face.
‘Huh.’ She sniffed. ‘You may think you can spend your time how you like, Miss Wright, but I’d thank you not to bother the staff. Some of us have real work to do.’
Reminded of my duties, I dug out the letters from my pocket. Enfield’s letter was on top of the pile. I should have given it to him earlier, but I supposed it would keep. I picked out the ones for Langstone.
‘Is Dr Langstone about?’
She was staring at the letters in my hand. Colour drained from her face.
‘Mrs Jones? Is something wrong?’
She pressed a hand to her chest. ‘No. No. I just remembered something. In the kitchen.’ She scurried off.
Molly and I watched her go.
‘Well. There’s a thing,’ Molly said.
CHAPTER TEN
THE NEXT DAY, I tried to work on the accounts but the dreary work couldn’t hold my attention. All I could think of was the treasure hunt. I should have found the next clue. I had been awake half the night racking my brains, trying to put together the little I knew in different ways.
Somewhere, perhaps very close to me, was the Professor’s treasure. If only I could find it. What was it? Even a small portion of his wealth would be more than enough for me.
Father always said we had been robbed. The Professor had bought Father out with a substantial sum when their business partnership ended. But after that, Father’s fortunes only went down, while the Professor’s business expanded and grew. Professor Dernstrum had been a household name, his face in every medicine cabinet. Father worked on various inventions, none of which made more money than they cost. His bitterness grew with our poverty.
‘We were robbed,’ he would say, and stare into the fire.
Perhaps he was right, and the Professor had wanted to make restitution. It was an appealing, but unlikely, idea.
Then I recalled I’d meant to telephone Rickett’s supplier to check when his order would be delivered. I made my way out into the hall.
Hack was at his photography again. The camera faced an armchair taken from the sitting room. I expected to see Madame, but Mrs Jones appeared to be the subject on this occasion. She favoured me with a disapproving glare as I crossed the hall to where the telephone sat on the side table near the front door.
I took the earpiece from the cradle, half-listening to Hack and Mrs Jones while waiting for the operator to respond.
‘I think I’m ready for you, Mrs Jones. If you’ll just sit here.’ Hack settled Mrs Jones in the chair and disappeared behind the camera. ‘That’s it, exactly. Very regal.’ He popped into view again. ‘You have marvellous bone structure, Mrs Jones. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were related to Cleopatra.’
Mrs Jones straightened and peered down her nose in a suitably queen-like pose. ‘I shouldn’t think so. I’m Welsh.’
‘Well. In the distant past, you know. Very distant.’ He got behind the camera again. ‘Just hold that position.’
‘Operator. What number, please?’ The voice of the operator, coming all the way from the Post Office in Up Uggley, sounded tinnily in my ear.
‘Southampton 952.’
The front door bell jangled while I waited to be connected. After a moment staring at Mrs Jones, who clearly had no intention of moving, I set down the telephone and answered the door.
‘Good morning, good morning.’ The postmaster bustled in. A bulky parcel and some letters dropped into my arms. He strolled into the hall and stood admiring the camera. ‘My, tis a fine apparatus ee have. Miss Wright would make a purdy picture, wouldn’t she, Mr Hack?’ He grinned.
‘Ha ha,’ Hack chuckled nervously. ‘I’m sure I’d be delighted, but prettiness isn’t really the aim. Not that Mrs Jones isn’t pretty. On the contrary, a mature woman can be equally…ahah…’ He trailed off under Mrs Jones’ basilisk stare, and began to cough.
The parcel was addressed to Mr Rickett. Most likely it was the delivery he’d been waiting for. I snatched up the telephone.
‘Hello?’
‘Still trying to connect you, caller.’
I relaxed. ‘Thank you, but I don’t think I need to speak to them now.’
‘Molly says thar’s ghosts yer,’ the postmaster said. ‘You think so, Mr Hack?’
‘Oh, there are spirits everywhere. All about us.’ Hack waved his hands.
‘You don’t say? I do hope my wife’s not one of ‘em.’ He chuckled and turned to Mrs Jones. ‘Is my
daughter about? Only I wanted a word with her.’
‘She’s in the kitchen, or should be.’
He touched his cap and headed off, puffing like a train.
‘He’ll be drinking tea,’ Mrs Jones said bitterly. ‘With sugar.’
I set down the telephone, and leaving the letters on the hall table, set out for the workshop with the heavy parcel. Rickett had been worrying about the parts he needed for days. At least I could make him happy.
The sound of loud and determined hammering greeted my entrance to the stable yard.
'Hell fire!' Rickett's bellow was punctuated by a clang, as of a hammer being thrown to the ground. 'You cack-handed idiot, Sam. Are you blind or just daft?'
I knocked on the door of the workshop to announce my arrival.
Rickett, bright red from his collar to the top of his head, turned to me. 'That had better be my parts.'
Across the workbench from him, Sam stood with his head low. I gave him an encouraging smile which he didn’t return.
I handed over the parcel. Rickett tore at the paper and a flood of smaller packages spilt out onto the workbench. He pawed through them, squinting at the handwritten labels. He threw one at Sam, who caught it awkwardly.
'Here, make thissen useful. The second leg assembly.'
'You're getting on well.' The construction had advanced since I’d last looked in.
He grunted, ripping open a package. Small metal pieces scattered onto the bench, some bouncing onto the floor. He grabbed one and went over to one of the leg assemblies, offering up the part. Shaking his head, he strode to the next leg and tried it there as well. A vein pulsed in his neck.
Muttering to himself, he grabbed up a thick, oil-spotted sheaf of paper from the workbench and leafed through it furiously.
'Here it is.' He seized up a metal rule and measured the part, comparing it with a diagram. 'This is wrong. Wrong!'
'Is there a problem?'
'A problem. A problem?' He turned on me, his face verging on purple. 'They aren't the right size. I can't use these.'
Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute Page 6
