‘Yes, he was real. Poor bastard. He’d fallen out with the real Cumberland Development Council people and been the perfect authentic backer for the N.E.C.D.C. An unfortunate casualty, said Peat. I told her to get stuffed. That’s one advantage of having your employee become your boss. You can tell him or her to get stuffed !’
Zeugma poked the peat fire. Outside the air was full of spring warmth, but it took more than a few hours of April sunshine to penetrate these thick stone walls.
‘You’re a bit like me,’ she said diffidently. ‘You’ve found you’re rather less important than you thought.’
‘What?’ he said indignantly, then laughed. ‘I suppose so. Though I did do quite well in the circumstances. Do you know, Peat didn’t send half my stuff out? Needless expense, she said, and in any case, they didn’t want too many people tramping around and blurring the picture ! And guess who turned up yesterday. Bulstrode ! Yes, the Poly-fibre man. Not about a factory, but he had been doing some financial research into turning Blackrigg and one or two other places into holiday dormer villages. You recall he mentioned this in the Old Kith the first time we met? So I wasn’t a total failure, was I?’
It was Zeugma’s turn to be indignant.
‘That fat slob ! Yes, I remember him. What did you say?’
‘Well, I am out of a job,’ said Lakenheath slowly. ‘And there could be a lot of money in the scheme. And I do like it up here. So …’
‘So …?’ Her voice was vibrant with menace.
‘I took a leaf out of the Upas book, told him I’d kept a close eye on him and his Miss Amis, even taken a few snaps, and if I ever heard his name mentioned again in this area, I’d be in touch with his wife. That did the trick. But it’s funny, I felt bad about it afterwards. It’s not a long step to being a Upas, is it? Malcolm, I mean. Not those other two perverts.’
Zeugma didn’t answer, and Lakenheath looked at her curiously.
‘You were close to Malcolm once, I gather. I was surprised …’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I thought of you as, well, sort of …’
‘Inexperienced?’ she snapped. ‘Not many people’s cup of tea?’
‘No,’ he said gently. ‘Not inexperienced. Innocent, that’s nearer to it. As though you were still waiting for the world to arrive.’
‘It must be something to do with good healthy flesh,’ she answered. ‘You can’t spot the scar tissue so easily as in skinny people. Talking of which, whatever happened to Amine, I wonder.’
‘There was no trace of her at the house,’ said Lakenheath.
‘I know. I wondered if Crow had said anything to you.’
‘No. Just that there was a struggle. But he didn’t say who between.’
Zeugma looked at him quizzically and shook her head.
‘You’re quite gone on all this magic bit, aren’t you?’ she said.
‘I lack your calm rationality, perhaps,’ he answered. ‘Things happen. I don’t always understand them, that’s all. What about your own experiences in that house?’
‘Hallucinations,’ she answered promptly. ‘Something they burnt gave off fumes that got to me.’
‘And Crow’s fight with Jonathan? And the way that he died.’
‘It was just a wrestling match. We were out of breath, distraught, it was dark. As for the earth opening up and swallowing him, that was just the fuel silos going up.’
‘They were empty.’
‘Vapour hangs on. You told me yourself. That’s why they sealed them up.’
‘Malcolm said he’d only opened one. And the scientific boys who came up last week can’t understand the way the earth moved.’
‘The heat from the fire must have cracked the doors on the others. Look, you can’t really believe any of this, can you? It’s not even as if there’s any kind of recognizable pattern. There’s bits of everything, medieval magical lore, Stone Age burial rites, Mithraic sacrifices, Nordic earth-mother stuff; I mean it’s a mish-mash, a bit of everything from abracadabra to Aleister Crowley !’
‘You know,’ said Lakenheath with a grin, ‘if you don’t believe in it, you can hardly demand consistency from it, can you?’
Zeugma shook her head in exasperation. Feeling strangely unsettled she got up and went to the open door. There was no sign of Crow though high in the sky to the west she could see a soaring black cross which may have been his falcon.
‘I think perhaps I’ll go,’ she said.
‘Without saying goodbye?’
‘You can say it for me when he gets back.’
‘I mean, to me,’ said Lakenheath. ‘You were going to come and see me too, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. I don’t know,’ admitted Zeugma, then suddenly, surprising herself, she asked, ‘Why were you discharged from the army?’
‘Good Lord !’ he said. ‘Which of my two stories would you prefer? The one about the sergeants’ mess fund, or the one about being shot through the kneecap in Aden?’
She thought for a moment.
‘You don’t have much luck with your legs,’ she said finally.
‘No. I don’t suppose I do. Lucky with love, unlucky with legs. Though it doesn’t bother me much, and my ankle’s back to normal. Crow bakes a marvellous poultice.’
‘Muttering spells as he does it, I’ve no doubt,’ she said sarcastically.
‘Perhaps. Look, if you’ve decided to leave your professional mole to his burrowings and you’ve not yet decided when to go, what’s the hurry? Believe it or not, I sometimes get very tired of my own company. You’d do me a favour, not to say an honour, if you’d sit down and chat till Crow comes.’
Zeugma looked at him, trying to detect mockery either in his face or in his voice. There was none and she smiled, not knowing that her smile was a luminous, joyful thing which had always weighed mightily in the balance against the bitchiness, belligerence and impetuosity of her career at Whitethorn and subsequently in the world at large.
‘All right,’ she said.
‘Great. Then have a drink.’
‘What are you drinking?’ she said.
‘One of Crow’s concoctions. He seems to believe it has some efficacy as a love-potion.’
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘And is it working?’
‘I’m not quite sure. Why not try some yourself?’
‘All right,’ she said.
And she sat down and drank.
Out on the moor, Crow paused beneath the mighty April sky. A rare smile touched his lips and Twinkle came up and rubbed against his sinewy legs.
Through his mind now passed all the images which had come to him on that uneasy winter’s night. All had now surfaced in that unimportant tributary which men call time. All except one, the picture of himself buried deep in some cavern from which only his despairing cries could hope to escape.
He held that one before him thoughtfully for a while. Perhaps it was still to come. Perhaps it had been already, long long ago.
No matter. He shook his head and let the image dissolve.
Twinkle moved ahead, looked back, and barked once impatiently.
Crow turned towards him, glanced sunwards with unhooded eyes to confirm his direction and with long easy strides began once more to trace the great mysterious lines of power which are the sinews of the living earth.
About the Author
Reginald Charles Hill FRSL was an English crime writer and the winner of the 1995 Crime Writers’ Association Cartier Diamond Dagger for Lifetime Achievement.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or loca
les is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1975, 1999 by the Estate of Reginald Hill
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5968-8
This edition published in 2019 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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REGINALD HILL
FROM MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
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