It was then I realized the Wheatstone Pond was a real killer.
By evening, it was imprisoned behind twisting police tapes and hurriedly-painted warning notices. But it still killed a venturesome Alsatian that night. And would have had the owner too, if he had not been held back, sobbing, by passers-by.
There was a hell of a fuss in the local paper. Some idiots suggesting that the Wheatstone be filled in immediately, before it was even drained. There were women with petitions, going from house to house. For a week, we really became the community we never had been. People talked to strangers in the street, and all about the Wheatstone Pond. And then about the Wheatstone stink. Because, as more and more of the slime was exposed, bubbling and plopping evilly under the early May sun, that peculiar dark living smell crept in through every warped and ill-fitting Victorian window.
But all the fuss, and all the petitions were to no avail. The council said the Pond must be allowed to drain properly before tipping began. Water would be seeping into it from the hillside above, though no one knew how or where yet. Until these water-sources were located and culverted, there was a risk that the whole Park might turn into one uncontrollable swamp, and the forced-out slime might start flowing downhill, to where most of us lived. Blocking the surface-drainage; perhaps even blocking the sewers . . . It was enough to silence the petitioners. We were offered the choice, even, to go back to the Pond as it had been. But there was no going back. Everyone hated it too much by now. Everyone wanted it turned into a nice safe playing-field or tennis-courts . . .
Meanwhile, under the ministrations of the increasingly bored and fed-up fire brigade, the level of the water sank and sank. The weather continued warm, and the margins began to dry out and crack. And Hermione appeared with her first volunteers and a lorry full of wooden industrial pallets and ladders. Lenny, who seemed more fascinated by the Pond than anybody else, came running back in the lunch-hour to tell us. I strolled up there.
A crowd had gathered, of course. Early-retired men, with newspapers under their arm and dogs firmly on a leash. School truants, keeping a wary eye out for curious policemen. And the local female vigilantes, who saw the Pond as a lasting threat to their offspring, and were ready to ring the local paper and howl blue murder at the least provocation.
‘God,’ I said. ‘How can you ever hope to find anything in that mess?’
She pointed at the wide saucer-shaped glistening surface of the mud. ‘Don’t you notice anything?’
‘Nope!’
‘Little mounds appearing on the surface? Well, as the mud dries out and shrinks, the objects trapped into it don’t. They stick up more and more day by day. We’re going to dig out the mounds.’
I eyed the mounds with disgust. ‘They look like little graves . . .’
‘Archaeologists like graves. Where do you think they got Tutankhamun from?’ She left me, and went forward to supervise. Watching, it did seem to me she knew pretty well what she was doing. The first pallet, three feet square and six inches deep, was flung out over the mud with a swing and a cheer. A builder’s ladder was lowered out on to it. The smallest of the students, a girl with long dark hair, stepped on to the ladder. She wore wellies, and had a rope tied round her waist. The pallet sank to half its depth, then stopped. She waved from it, and returned to shore. Two male students carried a second pallet out along the ladder, and, by delicate manoeuvring, placed it on top of the first, which by this time had almost vanished in the ooze. And this second pallet stayed clear, on the surface. Then another pallet was heaved out from the safe platform. They grew so accomplished, it became boring, and all the ghouls, who had been waiting for another disaster, packed up and went home. And I went back to work and sold a three-piece Victorian bedroom suite in mahogany. I was still counting the notes when there were excited voices in the yard out back, and I knew the first discovery had arrived. I ran to see as avidly as anybody else.
Into the Belfast sink it went. Again, those long slender hands teased and pulled at the encrusted slime.
Three inches of shiny grey tin plate, with black lines on it. The tip of a mast . . . a tripod mast . . . a warship mast. My heart was in my mouth. One tip of a funnel, another, another, a fourth. The second mast. A gun-turret, a propeller . . .
Hermione raised it up at last, dripping, shining, as a footballer might have raised the FA Cup. Perfect in every detail, the little lead sailors even, raising telescopes to their eyes, or signalling with bright flags. Two feet long.
‘You know what it is, Morgan?’ She didn’t even try to keep the triumph out of her voice.
‘German tin plate. An armoured cruiser. Probably about 1898. Clockwork motor . . .’
‘Probably by Marklin.’ She would have to have the last word. ‘Probably fetch two thousand at auction, in this condition, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Probably more,’ I admitted. All the students cheered like mad. ‘You’d better hand it over to James. We don’t want it . . . going rusty . . .’
She thrust it into my hands, still leaking water, and in a second they were all running back to the Pond, shouting and laughing. I suddenly wanted to go with them. It was a bit like I imagine a gold-rush might have been, in the nineteenth century. When whole ship’s crews jumped ship and headed for the Klondike, or Ballarat. Infectious, catching.
To everyone but James. He examined the little cruiser with a searching critical eye, looking for faults. Then he pointed to the propeller, which was slightly bent askew.
‘Knocked the propeller, opened up the stern-gland, let in the water and down she went. I’ll bet some spoilt brat went to bed crying that night. Though I expect his rich daddy bought him another one straight away.’ He sniffed, and said, ‘I’ll get it in the oil-bath, afore they bring down any more. I hope you’ve got plenty of insurance cover.’
I found it impossible to concentrate on selling antiques. Every time I heard a noise in the yard, I just had to go through. I even abandoned a man who was contemplating buying a Viennese wall-clock for five and a half. After five minutes he followed me into the shed and grumpily began thrusting notes into my hand. But the moment he saw the excitement round the Belfast sink, he could not resist joining in as well.
This time it was a small bundle of cloth. With shaking fingers, Hermione undid the knots . . .
An old blue linen shirt, wrapped round . . .
The revolver glistened eerily; blue highlights on black steel. I took it off her.
‘An Enfield .45,’ I said. I broke it, to expose the revolving cylinder, with its cartridges. ‘Two shots fired.’
Hermione and I looked at each other. I think the same thought came to us simultaneously. I said, ‘I think you’d better take this down to the police station,’ and she said, ‘Yes,’ her face suddenly grave.
She came back to the workshop half an hour later, with a thin man in plain clothes who she introduced as Sergeant Crittenden.
‘A fine can of worms you’ve opened here, Mr Morgan!’ I don’t know why he blamed me for opening it; but antique dealers get blamed for most things. ‘We’ve sent on the gun to Forensic, and if it tallies with anything criminal, the shirt might give us a lead – there’s a laundry mark on it. You were, of course, quite right to fetch it in. But the problem doesn’t end there. The question is, what else might you turn up?’
‘God knows,’ I said. ‘Anything.’
‘The secrets of all hearts shall be revealed,’ said James sententiously. He’s given to quoting scripture. Sergeant Crittenden gave him a pained look, and went on.
‘And I’ve just chased four youngsters out of your drive. Not that they’ve run far – they’re hanging around the gate now. It seems that these students’ excitement is infectious – there are wild rumours of things buried in the Pond worth thousands.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said. ‘I’ve got five-lever mortise locks, all my windows are nailed up, and I’ve got floodlights, alarms, closed-circuit TV . . .’
> ‘It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s that Pond. A child has almost drowned there already. And if rumours of buried treasure get around . . .’
‘Oh shit,’ I said helplessly. ‘Why couldn’t the bloody students have kept their mouths shut . . .’
‘You can’t help human nature, Mr Morgan.’ He said it rather helplessly too.
‘We can pull out the ladders,’ said Hermione tentatively, ‘when we stop every evening. And chain them all together for the night.’
‘They’ll probably just bring their own.’
‘If we had a couple of caravans,’ Hermione added, ‘some of the students could sleep on site and patrol. If we had permission . . .’
‘I think that might be arranged,’ said Sergeant Crittenden thoughtfully. ‘And I know a man who runs second-hand caravan sales. He might help out. And you could do with some floodlights and a generator. And I could ask the beat-constables to give you regular back-up . . .’
They went wandering off together, Hermione planning and Sergeant Crittenden being helpful and protective . . . amazing girl, Hermione.
Another slime-covered object was carried in. A student washed it. A simple tin tugboat, about a foot long. No engine or anything. Little more than a pressed metal dish with a pointed bow, and a half-deck, and a hinged single funnel that folded down when not in use. Sixpence at Woolworth before the War. But the enamel paint on it was as bright as ever; painted-on doorways and handrails, and portholes with smiling childish faces peering out. Fetch well over a hundred quid, in that condition. Tin plate collectors are among the maddest collectors of all . . . a crying child loses it in 1936, and the next thing is, it’s in the hands of some wealthy gloating adult. The world’s a pretty mad place really.
Hell, here was something else, something big this time, that took two students to carry it. Even under the coating of slime I could tell what it was. That fat porpoise shape and the keel sticking out underneath. A professionally-built three-foot model sailing yacht. The kind grown-up blokes sailed in races, when they still wore boaters and blazers and white flannels to sail model yachts. James joined in the cleaning of it, his blunt fingers gentle, thoughtful, as he disentangled the rigging from the snapped-off mast. I could see I wasn’t going to get much work out of him for the next few days . . .
Chapter 4
By tea-time, she had her caravans. And her generator and floodlights. That girl could twist men round her elegant little finger. Meanwhile, more stuff had been dug out – another priceless piece of German tin plate – an ocean liner this time, with four funnels. And a poor little wooden fishing-boat, with its side stove in by some bigger craft that had run it down, so many years ago. It was beyond repair; even James admitted that. And it was a home-made effort to begin with – the first item with no commercial value. Things in the workshop calmed down a bit. Especially as, up at the Pond, some of the bigger humps had only yielded the usual dumped prams and bicycles.
Still, I felt uncommonly weary, and was glad to lock up for the night. I brought the armoured cruiser and the liner to my living-quarters upstairs. Partly for security, and partly to gloat over. I wasn’t going to have them long. As I cooked my evening meal, I kept picking them up and wondering what stories they could tell, if only they could speak. That’s partly why I went into antiques in the first place – the romance of it. And though the first few times I was swindled knocked a lot of the gilt off the gingerbread, I’m still far from being purely commercial.
After my meal, I fell asleep in front of the telly. Not at all like me. I always associate falling asleep in a chair with being middle-aged, which I dislike intensely. So, half out of curiosity and half to punish myself for being a dozy old bugger, I got into my Volvo and drove up to the Pond. It was about ten; dusk was just falling, but they had their floodlights on already, with the generator running. The Pond, under a mixture of twilight and floodlight, had a faded, haunted look. And the four students were in a high state of excitement, prowling around with pickaxe handles in their hands. And the local beat-bobby was there, with a loud hailer.
‘Expecting a lively night?’ I asked.
‘Little sods have been at it already. We’ve chased them off twice. They’re still lurking in the bushes on the far side.’
One of the students, a red-haired lad called Rory, said, ‘We’re used to it. You always get trouble on a town dig. Even if there’s nothing worth stealing. They come on site and do what damage they can. Kicking earth back into the trenches; pulling the polythene off. Just for the hell of it. We lost a lovely bit of wattle and daub at Colchester last summer. They took off the polythene, and then we had a cloudburst – washed the whole thing away. I could’ve killed them – brainless little sods. I don’t know what the young are coming to, these days.’
I couldn’t help grinning. Such indignation, and he couldn’t have been more than nineteen himself.
‘Here they come again.’
A chain of kids was forming, on the dried mud of the far shore. The loud hailer bellowed out.
‘This is the police. Stay away from the Pond. One boy has already nearly drowned. The pond is dangerous. Stay away from the bank.’
With total indifference, the chain began to edge out into the mud.
‘Oh shit,’ said Rory. ‘Here we go again.’ The students began to run around the shore, two one way and two the other. They ran lethargically, without hope. It was a long way round. But the chain of kids seemed to think they had found something. The one at the end, up to his ankles in mud, was digging with his hands frantically, while the next in line held on to the belt of his jeans.
They left it too long, in their eagerness. The running pairs of students suddenly sensed success, and increased their speed. The kids saw their danger; the ones nearest the shore broke away and headed into the bushes. The next three began casting anxious glances, and shouting warnings to each other, which came across the Pond as faint as bird-calls. Then the three of them broke and ran, leaving just the kid on the end, who had hauled something out of the mud and stood straddle-legged with it in his arms.
He too made a bolt for the shore. But the mud on his boots impeded him; and the weight in his arms. The students closed in, he tried to swerve past them, there was the flash of a pickaxe handle, and a yelp of pain. Then they were manhandling him back around the Pond towards us, one of them carrying the muddy treasure.
The kid was about fourteen. He was smothered in mud from head to foot, and limping badly, where the pickaxe handle had done its work.
‘Ain’t done nuffin’,’ he shouted at the policeman. ‘It’s a public park. An’ what I got is anybody’s property! What gives this lot the right to it? Some kid lost it. Finders keepers.’
‘There is a crime called stealing-by-finding,’ said the bobby, with what conviction he could muster. ‘Anything you find should be taken to a police station, as lost property.’
‘Are this lot doing that, then?’ The boy glared round at the students. ‘The police station must be getting a bit muddy! I heard it was all going down to old Jeff Morgan’s shop!’
‘Everything they find is reported to us,’ said the copper, without conviction.
‘An’ what about the crime of criminal assault?’ shouted the kid. ‘He hit me wi’ that pickaxe handle. I’m sure he’s broke something. I’ll get my mum to get a lawyer on you!’
‘Push off,’ said the bobby. ‘Before I run you in.’ The kid took a hard look at Rory, as if memorizing his face for some future identity parade. Then he slouched off, turning at twenty yards distance to shout again about criminal assault. It was a long time before he finally went away.
‘He’s right, you know,’ said the bobby, turning to Rory. ‘It was you I should have charged. Assault. Carrying an offensive weapon. You shouldn’t have done that!’
‘Well, what are we supposed to do?’ yelled Rory. ‘If it goes on this way, they could ruin the dig.’
‘Kids know more about the bloody
law than we do, these days. I’m afraid they’ve got us by the short and curlies. I’m really here to make sure they don’t drown themselves . . .’
There was a depressed silence. Then I said, ‘What had he got? Anything valuable?’
The object was held up. ‘A Star yacht,’ said Rory. ‘They’re ten a penny. They’re still making them. You can buy them in the shops. Ten quid.’ Then he added, ‘It could have been something priceless.’
‘Look,’ said somebody. ‘There they go again.’ Another line of kids was venturing out on to the mud, on the far side.
It was indeed a lively evening. By half-past ten, the constable was hoarse with yelling through the loud hailer, and the rest of us were exhausted with running. By and large, the luck had been with us; we’d stopped the kids getting away with anything. But a very nice carvel-built yacht had been trodden on, in the fray, and crushed like an eggshell.
‘Hundreds of hours’ work!’ said Rory bitterly, surveying the wreck.
‘I’ll see what my bloke can do with it,’ I said, to comfort him. ‘It’s only down one side. It’ll do for a museum, if you turn that side to the wall . . .’
Suddenly, there was a hiss in the air above my head, and something pinged on the caravan’s side. We stared at a neat round black hole, a quarter of an inch wide.
‘There’s a kid out there with a bloody airgun!’ said the bobby, glaring at the nearest rhododendrons. He took off towards the place it had come from, like an Olympic athlete.
But he came back, sweating and empty-handed. ‘I heard him crashing through the bushes. But it’s like a jungle in there.’
There was another hiss and ping; this time from the direction of the generator.
Spectral Shadows Page 9
