Gates rose and saw him out.
Thunstone walked back toward the center of the little business district. He savored the pleasant mildness of the bright afternoon. The first day of July here was more like the middle of May at home in America. England was so far north, he reminded himself; without the warm Gulf Stream to cuddle it, England might be subarctic. England had been subarctic, not too many thousands of years ago.
He paused to stand and gaze up the street and down. This was England, he reflected, this little community called a hamlet by Hawes and Gates because it was not large enough to be called a village; Claines, this strew of houses along a main thoroughfare called Trail Street—Trail, as though it ran through a wilderness.
For England was like this. Like this everywhere, the small as well as the great. Great London was an English marvel. Samuel Johnson had said to Boswell that when a man was tired of London he was tired of life. Johnson had been right, as usually he had been right about things. But London, for all its Englishness, was also international. It could be all things to foreigners as to Englishmen. Thunstone had heard a friend say bitterly that London was no longer a white man's town, one who in saying that had sounded like the diehard, death-or- glory voice of the Empire that now was no more. Without agreeing, Thunstone saw what his friend had meant about throngs of swarthy people speaking in strange tongues. Away here in Claines, with nothing to bring strangers, there were no strangers except for himself. There were only the English.
All the more English because the houses were mostly small, matter- of-fact, here and there even shabby. Because along Trail Street were only a few modest shops, the Moonraven pub where buses stopped, the post office, Ludlam's store, the fish-and-chips cubicle, the garage with the surly-looking man with the beard. Upon Claines the antiquity of England somehow rested, like the hem of a strangely figured mantle wrought long ago.
Trail Street, so named, Gates had felt, because it must have been a trail before it ever was a street. Along it, perhaps, pilgrims had trotted their horses eastward toward London and the Tabard Inn where they would join Geoffrey Chaucer and the Knight and the sweet Prioress and the Miller and the buxom Wife of Bath for the pilgrimage to Canterbury. Before those had been cross-gartered, wheat-bearded Saxons, not yet whipped in battle by the Normans and by them willy- nilly refined, taught new words, new laws. Before the Saxons, Roman legionaries with shining helmets and shields and javelins, on their invading march in or their abandoning way out. And yet before them, before even the Celts, those dimly defined first Britons, those chip- pers of stone, those who must have cut down to the chalk on Sweep- side to outline the figure of whatever god or hero or monster it was that today the people of Claines called Old Thunder.
This was England because England had been England so long, could not be wholly smothered out by modern matters. England was immemorial, and immemorially alive and mighty. Thunstone’s America was mighty, too. He loved America. America was ancient. But you couldn’t know ancient America, could only vaguely imagine America before those four brief centuries of the overlay of civilization which now was America.
That overlay, and the heritage of what had been America before it. You ate corn, you smoked tobacco, you paddled a canoe, you lounged in a hammock. Yes, and if you plowed a field you sometimes turned up stone arrowheads, beautifully chipped into graceful points. Just as here in England, sometimes the share turned up a stone point, amazingly like the ones in America. In such things as those, America and England had a facet of agreement, the stone implements of vanished tribes. Lost things found again, making you turn your face to look back upon unknown beginnings.
He might be the only foreigner just now in Claines, but he was not truly a foreigner, because he saw and felt things so vividly.
He looked across Trail Street at a very small cottage, hardly larger than a tool shed. In the yard stood a sign, POLICE STATION, and by the doorstep stood Dymock, the policeman he had met earlier, of whom Gates had spoken sympathetically. His helmet was off, and he held a china mug in his hand and sipped from it. On impulse, Thunstone strolled across and into the yard.
“Yes, sir?” said Dymock. “Anything wrong, sir?”
“Not a thing/' Thunstone assured him. “You sent me to Mr. Gates, and he spoke about you in a way that made me feel I'd like to be better acquainted."
“He spoke of me?" Dymock asked above his mug.
“Yes, and quite cordially. He said that you and he were somewhat alike. Both university men, and both called to fine careers—he to uphold Christian faith, you to uphold the law. And that both of you had come here to Claines, in hopes of advancement in your careers."
“That's kind of him," said Dymock. A smile twitched his mustache. “Yes, I always wanted to do police work, and after I graduated at Reading I took criminology courses at Hendon. I hope to get into the CID, all that. But they start you out at the bottom, and let you find your own way up from there."
“The bottom," said Thunstone after him. “In the police department at Claines."
Dymock smiled again. “I'm the whole police department in Claines, the one constable on duty here. I daresay that makes me the chief, and the whole force as well."
It was a new notion to Thunstone. “You make it sound as if you're always on duty."
“Well, yes, I suppose I am. When I'm needed, wherever I'm needed. If more is needed than just myself, Gerrinsford will send over help—even a sergeant, even an inspector. But that almost never happens. I watch the little children get on and off the school bus to Gerrinsford. At night I check along Trail Street to make sure that shopkeepers have their doors locked. It’s been some months since any true emergency rose here."
“Tell me one thing," said Thunstone. “Is there anything unusual in Claines? I mean, a hint of something supernatural?"
Dymock took a sip from the mug. “You've been talking to Mr. Gates, the curate, haven’t you, sir? Well, if you look for it, you may find it, then. Some people here do have interesting beliefs. You're staying at Mrs. Fothergill’s, as I think. Well, Mrs. Fothergill has a young girl to help her out there, and—"
He stopped a moment. Then: “But perhaps I shouldn’t speak of that."
“I wish you would,” said Thunstone earnestly. “The supernatural happens to be a chief study of mine.”
“Well, someone else is bound to tell you; it’s a known thing. That girl's name is Constance Bailey, and she calls herself a witch.”
“But witchcraft's no longer a crime in England,” Thunstone pointed out.
“No more it is. There are witch groups all over, very public about themselves. Some of them call themselves churches. Constance Bailey makes a point of being a white witch, using sorcery for good.”
“And is there anything else out of the ordinary?”
“Only talk here and there. Some do think there are shadowy shapes on the move after dark, just at this time of the year. I haven't taken any such talk seriously.”
“Naturally not.” Thunstone shook hands with Dymock. “It's been interesting to hear about this. 1 think I'll go and hunt up some dinner.”
“And it’s been interesting to hear what you say, too,” said Dymock.
Thunstone went back across Trail Street. It was well past five o'clock. He had been in Claines for less than three hours, and he felt a sense of mystery there. Mystery was an active preoccupation with Thunstone.
Swinging his cane, he strolled back along the line of shops. At the fish-and-chips stand, someone came out with a package rolled in newspaper and someone else went in, probably to buy another package. He stopped at the post office to buy stamps, then went to the Moonraven and entered.
Customers lined the bar and several sat at tables. Thunstone went to the bar for a pint of bitter, carried it to an empty table. He brought out his notebook and studied it. Pen in hand, he underscored words and phrases in what he had written, and added the name of Constance Bailey he had heard from Dymock.
CHAPTER 3
“Yes, sir?�
� It was a chubby, brown-haired girl in a red and yellow apron, smiling beside his table. “Could I bring you something?”
“If it's something to eat,” said Thunstone, smiling back. “What’s for dinner this evening?”
“Well, the ordinary is a cut off the joint—leg of lamb today. But if you’d prefer, we can do you a chump chop with two veg and a boiled potato.”
“Thanks, I’ll have the chop.”
“Right, sir.”
She scurried away on clicking high heels, fetched back a knife and fork and a folded paper napkin, then clicked away again. Thunstone returned to writing in his notebook. Now and then he glanced around the room. Customers here and there looked back at him, the American stranger in town. One, at least, rather glowered. That was black- bearded Porrask, the garageman, as big as Thunstone, heavily built in his crumpled blue shirt. From that first moment along Trail Street, Porrask had seemed not to like Thunstone, and Thunstone wondered why.
The plump girl waited on customers at other tables. People sitting there greeted her genially. Thunstone heard them call her Rosie. She called them by their first names, too. At last she came to Thunstone again, bearing a plate with meat and vegetables and another with bread and butter. He thanked her and paid for the food. She smiled when he gave her a florin for herself. He began to eat the savory chop, a thick one cut off the loin. He felt hungry enough to relish everything, even some rather watery peas. Rosie came yet again to ask if he would have a dessert. He declined with thanks and sipped at what was left of his pint of bitter.
Someone else came and stopped beside his table. Not the waitress; this time a young woman, not much more than a girl, with a round face and a pointed chin. Her hair, as softly black as soot, hung in banners to either shoulder of the green dress she wore.
She sat down opposite him before he could rise. “Mr. Thunstone, I want to talk to you/’ she said, in a murmuring whisper. “Would you give me a drink?”
“Of course,” he said. “What will you have?”
“Might I have a pink gin?”
He went to the bar and ordered the pink gin and brought it back to the table, then sat in his own chair. She took a sip. The glass trembled in her hand.
“My name’s Constance Bailey,” she said in her whispering way. “I help at Mrs. Fothergill’s. I was there and heard you talking to her, and I watched you go out.”
“I knew that somebody watched; I could feel that,” Thunstone said. “And I’ve heard your name. I’ve heard that you call yourself a white witch.”
She widened her eyes when he said that. They were eyes of flecked green. Her lips parted as if to speak, then closed, then opened again.
“Oh,” she said at last.
“A white witch is supposed to use her spells for good,” said Thunstone, and took another sip of bitter.
Across the floor, Porrask watched from his table and scowled. His hairy hand clamped his beer mug.
“I do try to use my spells for good,” said Constance Bailey. “I’ve cured poor sick children; I’ve charmed a pest away from gardens. I’ve told fortunes when somebody wanted a fortune told, and didn’t ask for pay. But you make me realize I’m talked about in Claines. And you’re talked about in Claines, too, Mr. Thunstone.”
“Well,” he said, “I suppose a stranger is a rarity.”
“You’re the sort of stranger who’s noticed by people. They wonder about someone like you. Mrs. Fothergill has told some of the neighbors about you, said you’re curious about traditions here.”
“Which is the truth,” said Thunstone. “Will you help me about traditions?”
“Should I?” she asked, her glass at her lips again. “Mr. Thunstone, there are shadows in Claines, and some people realize the shadows are here. Claines is only a small place, but it's so old that nobody knows how it began.”
“Mr. Gates said something like that, Mr. Gates, the curate. And so did Constable Dymock.”
“You've been questioning people, finding out things. That can cause talk, can't it then? And the questions you ask—perhaps you're sensitive? Psychic?”
“I wouldn't want to claim that,” said Thunstone. “That's a special sense that has to be developed. I do observe things and try to puzzle them out.”
“Well,” she said, “I'm psychic, right enough. I was psychic when I was a little girl, when I was getting my basic training, if you care to call it that, in my white witchcraft. I'm able to see and feel that Claines is haunted.”
“Haunted?” Thunstone repeated.
“Please, sir, not so loud. You'd not want to include these other people in what we're saying. Yes, haunted. I look out nights, here and there. And this time of year, there's shadows close at hand. Sometimes I see them in the dark.”
She shuddered.
“Ghosts of the dead, you think?” he asked.
“And how long dead, it's not for me to say. Maybe all the way back to the beginnings here, whenever those were. Thousands of years ago.”
“I'd like to be with you after dark and see if I could sense them, too,” he said.
“No,” she said, and took a swallow of pink gin. “Be careful, sir. Especially now, this time of the moon.”
“I’m always careful if I can manage,” and again he smiled to reassure her. “Not always clever, but always careful. But what about this time of the moon? I've heard about this time of year, but what about the moon?”
"It’s like this,” said Constance Bailey, drawing out her words. “The moon's on the wax now. It'll be full a week from now. And as it grows in the sky, the shadows are easier to see. Maybe the moon brings them. And then, there are folks here and there in Claines who come on to act strange like when the moon's full.”
“There are folks all over the world who act strange at that time,” said Thunstone.
She had finished her drink. “I've been trying to warn you,” she said, “and I don't seem to be doing a good job of it.”
“I've been interested in everything you say, and I thank you.” She rose, and he rose with her. She walked away to the outer door. Porrask scowled after her, then turned back to scowl at Thunstone. When Constance Bailey had gone out, Porrask rose heavily, with a hunch of his big shoulders. He clumped toward Thunstone, carrying his mug. Reaching the table, he stared down. His lips looked loose and ill-humored in his beard.
“Your name's Thunstone, they tell me,” he growled.
“Yes, it is.”
“Mind if I sit down here a moment?”
“Please do.”
Porrask took the chair where Constance Bailey had sat. He put down his mug and crossed his arms on the table. It was a gesture that big men know, to make themselves look bigger.
“My name's Porrask,” he said. “Albert Porrask.”
“I saw your name on your garage,” nodded Thunstone.
“You mean to be in these parts for long?”
“For several days, at least,” Thunstone replied. “I'm studying Claines, in a way.”
“Ahr,” grunted Porrask. He stared into his mug. “I want another of these. Can I bring you one?”
“No, I thank you,” said Thunstone, looking into his own pint pot. “I have enough here.”
For just then, he had no wish for any favors from this big, resentful garageman.
Porrask got up and stamped to the bar. All his movements were of a bear like heaviness. He brought back his filled mug, sat down again, and drank noisily. “I'm a plain man, Mr. Thunstone,” he said, “and I’ll just ask you a plain question. Wot is it youTe up to in Claines?” “A plain question,” agreed Thunstone, “and Pll give you a plain answer. What I'm doing here comes under the head of my business.” Porrask blinked, but refused to be snubbed. “People do say you ask about Old Thunder and the Dream Rock. And you've been at the curate and Constable Dymock about them.”
“News about me seems to travel fast in these parts,” said Thunstone. “Maybe I ought to feel flattered.”
“Ow,” said Porrask, “ain't much as goes
on here but wot I hear word of it. And then, you're smarming up to Connie Bailey.”
“I talked to her about Claines,” said Thunstone evenly. “She came to my table to talk, just as you did.”
“Talk about wot?”
“That also comes under the head of my business.”
Porrask blinked again. “Look 'ere, sir, you ain't being friendly like, but I'll speak as a friend. Connie Bailey's a witch girl.”
“Is she, now?”
“Likely you don’t believe in witchcraft.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well then, Connie Bailey's a witch. And they used to hang witches, they used. Or burnt them or drowned them.”
“Those old laws have been repealed,” Thunstone reminded. “Witches can practice their arts today, if they don't break some other law. Anyway, I hear that Constance Bailey is a white witch, does no harm.”
Porrask grimaced so fiercely that his beard crawled on his face. He drank a great gulp of beer.
“Just let me tell you a home truth, Mr. Thunstone. If you've come to pry into things about Claines, you'd best go have some talk with Mr. Gram Ensley.”
“I've heard the name,” said Thunstone. “I believe he owns the big house called Chimney Pots.”
“He owns not only that 'ouse but near all the 'ouses in Claines,” said Porrask. “Likewise land hereabouts, a good bit of that, all directions. He's rich, is Mr. Ensley, spite of the 'eavy taxes, 'eavy expenses. Why, he's even got servants. You've got to respect such a man as that."
Thunstone wondered to himself why such a man must be respected. “And what else about Mr. Ensley, beyond the money and property he has?"
“Ow," said Porrask, “he's got brains, too. Knows things as goes on 'ere. Likely by now, he’s 'ad word of you. My advice is, go 'ave some talk with him."
“That sounds like good advice," said Thunstone. “I’ll try to follow it. To meet him."
“Yus," said Porrask. He swigged down the remainder of his beer, got powerfully to his feet, and tramped away.
Thunstone, too, sipped the last of his own drink, picked up his cane, and went out at the door.
Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 01 Page 3
