Landscape of Lies

by Peter Watson

  Michael laughed as well and handed her a plate of breakfast. ‘Now I see why the paper sent you to all those hotspots—bravery verging on the foolish, incredible powers of recovery, the ability to concentrate on the job in hand–’

  ‘The ability to fall for the man I work with–’

  ‘I rest my case. Let’s stay here.’ He clambered back into bed and slid his hand down Isobel’s thigh.

  She caught it by crossing her legs and holding it in a scissors grip. ‘Slowly, Michael. Look at our day on the Broads. Sail, not steam.’ She uncrossed her legs and he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek.

  She swallowed a mushroom. ‘Mmm.’ Speaking with her mouth full, she went on, ‘In any case, I don’t know about you, but I can’t get my mind off Grainger. You said yourself that his violence must mean we are very close. You talk of kissing but do you really want to kiss all that goodbye?’ She took his hand in hers and placed it on her thigh. ‘I want you just as much … I shall want you even more tonight.’ She stared at his breakfast plate. ‘If I give you another kiss, can I have your mushroom?’

  After breakfast Michael tried first to phone his sister Robyn, who now didn’t live too far away. She could perhaps lend him some money. When he got through, however, there was a message on her machine to the effect that she had taken an injured tiger to London Zoo for emergency treatment and wouldn’t be back for forty-eight hours.

  ‘Robyn has a lot in common with the big cats,’ said Michael, turning back to Isobel and smiling. ‘She used to be a man-eater too.’

  Her absence in London, however, meant that he now had to explain their predicament to the hotel’s Sunday manager. He was understanding and said that, if Michael would leave his watch and Isobel her gold necklace, he would advance them £200 in cash until the following day.

  Their clothes were ready by ten o’clock. The police constable rang up from Woodsford and said that though it was Sunday he had persuaded the nearest Mercedes dealer, in Yeovil, to bring down to Dorchester the whole range of keys—for a fee, of course. Finally, Michael was lent a pair of wellingtons so he could collect his car. All this took time and it was 2.30 before Michael and Isobel could get into the car and retrieve their cases. Isobel did not have much money in her handbag but she was relieved to be reunited with her make-up. They drove back to the hotel, changed into fresh clothes, then went back to the boatyard, where Michael gave the youth his address and assured him that he would pay for the lost boat. The youth did not appear at all concerned—the boat was insured. Finally, Michael stopped off at a garden centre on the outskirts of Dorchester where he bought a garden fork and a scythe. ‘If we do meet up with Grainger again,’ he said in response to Isobel’s curious looks, ‘he may still have his boat-hook. This is our reply.’ He put them into the back of the car and then, just after three o’clock, they headed for Woodsford.

  Mercifully, the road took them south of the river, opposite the bank on to which they had been forced the day before. For a while they followed a railway line, then ran parallel with the river at the edge of the valley. The river looked glassy, the silvery reflections of the clouds disguising the strength of the current which they both knew was there. They saw the spire of Woodsford church before they came to the village and Michael slowed. On the left a track led to the bridge where, the day before, they had first tried to put ashore. Michael stopped, then drove in.

  Isobel stiffened as they drew near the river. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Looking for Grainger, for his boat. If he’s here, we need to know. To be prepared.’

  But there was no boat moored by the bridge. Michael got out of the car, walked halfway across and looked upstream and downstream. He could just make out White Mead and the leaning tree. There was no sign of any craft at all.

  Michael returned to the car. ‘No launches, though of course he may by now have changed to a car.’

  He steered the Mercedes back to the road and turned towards Woodsford, again moving slowly. After a hundred yards a brown wooden sign announced, ‘Woodsford Castle’. He pulled in through a gap in the hedge. With misgiving, he counted two parked cars and a van. Carefully, keeping a lookout for people, Michael turned the Mercedes so that it was pointing back to the road, just in case there was the need for a hurried exit. He looked at the other vehicles.

  ‘Hold on here while I have a look inside the van. The picture could be there. That would explain why he’s changed from a motor bike.’

  ‘Be careful, Michael. I’m getting nervous again.’

  ‘I’m not going far. You’ll be able to see me. Keep the car locked while I’m away, just in case.’

  He got out and walked leisurely towards the van, passing close by its bonnet and looking in casually as he went by. There was no one in the front but the back was screened off by something. He was alone in the parking area so he went quickly to the back of the van. The windows here were high and he would have to climb on the bumper to see in. Before doing so he looked around again. Still no one. Gingerly, he stepped on to the bumper. As he did so, the van moved under his weight and he also heard something move inside the vehicle.

  His heart beating faster, he straightened his legs and lifted himself up. As his eyes came level with the window, he was startled to see another face staring out. As soon as the other face saw him, its mouth opened and a ferocious barking filled the van. The first Alsatian set off a second, which was also cooped up inside, and between them they made enough noise for a hundred dogs. Michael jumped down and ran back to the car.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ve announced our arrival so we might as well walk straight on in.’

  Two figures, both women, approached them as Michael and Isobel walked into the castle ruins. They crossed a grassy ridge from where they could see that the place was more ruin than it was castle, more a layout than a real structure any more. And it was immediately obvious that Grainger wasn’t there. They could see a bald man with a child, and a young couple who looked Dutch or German. That made three groups of people, accounting for the three vehicles.

  They relaxed and wandered around the site. The ruins were well kept; there wasn’t much rubbish and the grass had been cropped recently and was otherwise well tended. They could find no signs of recent digging or excavations—nothing dislodged or broken which might have indicated where Grainger had searched. The ruins consisted essentially of three concentric walls, with the remains of most of the buildings within the inner wall. There was also the rubble of a couple of towers on the outer line. Isobel and Michael explored each of these. They were thorough, and, by the time they had finished, everyone else had left.

  Isobel found a grassy place in the afternoon sun—it was nearly five by now—and got out her photograph of the painting which, thankfully, she had left interleaved in one of the reference books in the back of the Mercedes when they had hired the boat. Michael’s photo had gone down with his jacket.

  ‘The next clue,’ she said, ‘is a skeleton. See—the figure carrying the ivory crosier. That must refer to a cemetery, don’t you think?’

  Michael nodded. ‘Or a tomb.’

  ‘I didn’t notice either around here, did you?’

  Michael shook his head. ‘Can a skeleton have another meaning, do you think?’

  They went back to the car and looked at the books again. ‘All I can find is the Last Judgement,’ said Isobel after a while. ‘And that doesn’t help much.’

  ‘I suppose it might imply it is the last figure, the last real clue. We already know that the ninth figure is facing the wrong way.’ He looked at her. ‘Do you get the feeling we’ve been in this situation before?’

  ‘Something is being underlined for us, you mean?’

  ‘Not exactly. I can’t help thinking that we are missing something. Like the Jesse window at Godwin Magna.’

  ‘But we must be close. Why else did Grainger stop at White Mead?’

  ‘We never asked him exactly. Maybe it was simply a call of nature.’

&nbs
p; ‘Michael! You don’t believe that.’

  ‘No, I don’t. But I’m not so sure this castle is the site, either. It’s too old. It may have been a ruin even by the sixteenth century. No one could have buried anything here—it would have been too risky. If we do find the final hiding place, it will make sense in relation to Monksilver, it will be a place they would have known and trusted. This castle doesn’t fit the bill.’ He paused, then said softly, ‘Which perhaps means that White Mead is wrong.’

  ‘It was your idea!’

  ‘I know. I’ve been wrong before, remember. We were guessing that White Mead was named after the almond flowers. Maybe it was a wrong guess.’

  ‘But we saw Grainger there!’

  ‘Maybe he had the same thought process and maybe he thought it was wrong too. Don’t forget, he saw us coming upstream. All he knew is that we had been further down the river—so he may have thought that we had the right solution all along. Perhaps that’s why he went for us. He may have been in the process of concluding that White Mead didn’t matter when he saw us coming from the general direction of where the treasure is actually hidden. That’s why he was so vicious—he thought we were ahead of him at last, might even have found it already. That would explain a lot. It would explain his violence.’

  ‘But that Nora woman seemed so certain the flower is almond.’

  ‘Okay. It’s just that we are misunderstanding the allusion.’ Michael asked Isobel what the time was. It was half past five. ‘We had a rough day yesterday. There’s no sense in stretching ourselves today. We’ve got a lot of thinking to do. More work with the books. I don’t know about you but I don’t feel like The Yeoman again. Too many odd looks last evening.’ He drummed his finger on the driving wheel. ‘We’re not too far from Burning Cliff, where I know there’s a smashing hotel overlooking the sea. I could stroke your back again.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘To both things.’

  He called the hotel from a phone box in Woodsford. Yes, he was told, there was a room. Burning Cliff was no more than five or six miles away and so they arrived not long after six. They checked in, took a walk along the cliff to the old village of Ringstead, had a whisky in the pub, then strolled back to the hotel in time for dinner. All evening they tried out ideas on each other but reached no conclusion.

  After dinner, up in their room, they sat for a while listening to the waves and watching the Channel traffic far out at sea. Then, while Isobel was in the bathroom, Michael took out the maps and a sheet of paper. He started scribbling.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said as she came out. Tonight, reunited with her clothes, she was wearing a white lace nightdress.

  ‘I’m making a list of every place marked on the map that could have been a burial site in the sixteenth century and is visible from the river. Then we can see what possible links the things on the list could have with skeletons and almonds.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather come to bed?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to solve this puzzle.’

  Isobel got into bed. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all day.’

  Michael smiled, put down the maps and started to undress.

  When Isobel awoke next day, Michael was already sitting on the balcony in his dressing-gown. She put on hers and joined him. Below them the Channel was already alive with craft, busy in the early sunshine.

  She stroked his hair. ‘Come back to bed.’

  ‘No.’ He looked up. ‘Not this time.’ He smiled. ‘There’s no hurry. The list is nearly done. Order breakfast up here in the room. By the time it arrives, I’ll have everything down on paper and we can talk it through over coffee and toast.’ He kissed her, then gently pushed her away.

  The breakfast took fifteen minutes to arrive and Michael was as good as his word. He buttered some toast and said, ‘I’ve got seven names in a fourteen-mile stretch of river.’

  ‘Okay, tell me.’

  ‘Some of them are better candidates than others—but here goes.’ He ate some toast. ‘Fossil Farm. I thought fossil might relate to bones, as in skeleton. Not too convincing, I agree. Whitborne. That’s a village that could, I suppose, be a corruption of White Bones—not very convincing either. Four churches—at Moreton, Pallington, Stokeford and Woodsford—which will all have cemeteries and which also border the river. And, the best candidate, Black Hill.’

  ‘Black Hill—why is that so good?’

  ‘Because it’s the site of an ancient tumulus—a burial chamber that would definitely have been around in the sixteenth century.’

  Isobel shook her head. ‘Michael, you’re getting carried away by your own cleverness again. The reason you ruled out Woodsford Castle is because it had no link with the monastery at Monksilver. How can Black Hill have any link? We may recognise it as an ancient burial site, but they didn’t have archaeologists in the sixteenth century, so the site may not have been recognised for what it was. Like White Mead, Black Hill may be a neat solution, but it is wrong.’

  Michael munched his toast. She was right. His silence told her she had scored a direct hit.

  ‘I don’t much care for Fossil Farm, either,’ she continued. ‘Whitborne is slightly better but—well, you know, Michael, I’ve been thinking, and I wouldn’t rule out Woodsford Castle entirely. Not yet. Grainger may have had his problems and may not have been able to get there yesterday. Or he may be lying low. After all, he did attempt to murder us—me. He may think we have brought in the police.’ She helped them to more coffee. ‘I think we should go back to Woodsford this morning and look again, only harder.’

  After they had dressed, they did as Isobel suggested. First, though, they had to go back to The Yeoman to settle their bill. Michael had called his bank manager in London from Burning Cliff and, by the time he reached the Dorchester branch of his bank, the money transfer had come through. At The Yeoman, they thanked the manager again, paid what was outstanding and retrieved the watch and the necklace. Then, having put the incident on the river behind them, they sped off for Woodsford. It was another glorious day and they drove with the sun-roof open. The wind was rising and the wheat swayed in the fields like crowds cheering at a rally.

  When they reached the castle there were several visitors who had beaten them to it. Grainger was not among them. They searched again for signs of disturbance and for a cemetery or tomb. They could find neither. Even Isobel began to have doubts that the castle was the right place. After an hour they gave up and drove into Woodsford village where they found a pamphlet on the castle in the church. It was no help. The details were skimpy and there were no references to burial sites or practices.

  ‘In any case,’ said Michael, ‘people were rarely buried in castles. Unless they had their own chapel, they would have been buried here, in the local church.’

  Michael stood outside the church, looking across to the river, at the far side of the cemetery. Isobel stood in the sun watching a woman weeding the churchyard which was, for the most part, beautifully laid out. After a moment, the woman tidied up what she was doing and came towards them. As she drew close, they could see she was carrying a basket of apples which she must have picked earlier. She offered them both one.

  ‘Isn’t it unusual for apple trees to be growing in a churchyard?’ said Michael.

  ‘Very,’ replied the woman. ‘But this is the church of St Dorothea. The church was founded by pilgrims who had been to her shrine in Asia Minor. Her symbols are roses and apples, so rose bushes and apple trees have always grown side by side here in the churchyard.’

  The apples were delicious and Michael and Isobel strolled back to the car munching them.

  ‘Apples and roses … There are so many beautiful and poetical things about Christianity,’ said Isobel. ‘It’s a pity more people don’t believe.’ She looked up at the sky. ‘Shall we have a picnic today?’ She looked across to Michael. ‘If we found a quiet spot, you could stroke my back. You haven’t done that in the fresh air.’

  ‘What did that Nora woman say
about almond?’

  ‘Yes, you are English, Michael Whiting. I’m talking about making love and you mention another woman.’

  ‘Seriously. What exactly did she say?’

  ‘That the flowers were almond. Very common in the Mediterranean countries, not so common here. That she didn’t know where to direct us—we were supposed to be on a treasure hunt, remember?’

  They had reached the Mercedes and Michael immediately dipped inside and reached across the back seat. He snatched at a reference book, straightened up and riffled through it. ‘Useless!’ He bent again, threw it back into the car, grabbed at another book and riffled through the pages of that. Again: ‘Pitibloodyful!’ He tried a third.

  ‘Yes!’ He banged the palm of his hand on the open pages of the book. ‘The almond is rare in Britain. That should have been our clue. Whoever painted the picture wasn’t directing us to look for real almonds. He knew they were rare and would be hard, if not impossible, to find. That was a clue of sorts. We keep forgetting we’re dealing with a religious mind. A poetic Christian mind, as you put it a moment ago. For him, almond was a symbol, just as roses and apples are symbols for Dorothea. White Mead was a red herring. Look, read this.’

  He passed Isobel the reference book and pointed to a paragraph.

  She read it out loud. ‘“Almond: The allusion is to the Book of Numbers, chapter seventeen, verses one to eleven. Among all the tribes of Israel, only Aaron’s rod flourished, with ripe almonds. Fulfilling this poetic prophecy, the House of Levi became the foremost, the royal house, and the white blossom of the almond became a symbol of the Virgin’s purity.”’ She looked at him, her eyebrows arched. ‘The Virgin?’

  ‘Easy, isn’t it?’ said Michael. ‘When you know how.’ He kissed Isobel’s cheek. ‘Like everything else in this damn trail, it’s simple, if you can only work it out. Somewhere along this river, right next to it, is a medieval church dedicated to the Virgin.’