by Eric Brown
‘Langham,’ he called out. ‘Donald Langham. I understand you wanted to see me at eleven, and here I am.’
‘Eleven, by Christ! Surely it’s not eleven yet?’
Langham consulted his watch. ‘Five past, actually.’
The professor grunted. ‘Well, in that case you’d better come on down. What’re you wearing?’
‘An overcoat. Gieves and Hawkes of Savile Row, if you’re interested.’
‘I mean on your ruddy feet!’
‘Gumboots,’ Langham said, smiling to himself.
‘That’s fine and dandy, then. It’s like the Somme down here. Well, what’re you waiting for?’
Langham eased himself down the stepladder, squelched along the bottom of the trench and ducked under the lip of the tarpaulin.
The trench opened out and he found himself in a small, square chamber with scaffolding boards underfoot and a single board spanning the excavation at head height, from which hung a paraffin lamp. Langham was indeed reminded of a dugout in the trenches of the Great War.
Professor Robertshaw was hunkering down on a folding stool, a trowel gripped in his right hand. A trestle table stood to the left of the entrance, scattered with oddments that Langham assumed had been recently excavated. Also on the table was a scale model of a stone circle, constructed from what looked like matchboxes.
Robertshaw stood and shook Langham’s hand. He was stockier than Langham had imagined he might be, and less intimidating. In fact, with the flaps of his deerstalker tied under his chin, he resembled an overgrown baby in a bonnet.
He regarded Langham with bright blue eyes sunk between a big Roman nose and bushy brows. ‘Ever seen an archaeological site before, Langham?’
‘Can’t say I have,’ he admitted. ‘What are these?’ He indicated the oddments on the trestle table.
‘You could say it’s a physical calendar of long-gone epochs, ranged in chronological order. Oldest on the left, newest to the right.’ He picked up a tiny flint arrowhead and passed it to Langham. ‘Neolithic, up to ten thousand years old. Amazing to think that the last person to handle that, before me and thee, was a stone-age tribesman.’
Langham turned over the silvery-grey arrowhead, amazed that its point was still sharp after so many centuries.
Robertshaw pointed a stubby finger at the items arrayed on the tabletop. ‘Then we have the remains of a necklace, potsherds, an axe-head and bone tools. Right up to stuff from the last century – remnants of clay pipes, bits of cups, even an old penny.’
‘Excuse my ignorance, but what exactly are you looking for?’
‘Aha!’ the professor declared, staring down at the model of the stone circle. ‘That!’
He pointed at the model and squinted at Langham as if to gauge his reaction.
‘Ah … Other standing stones?’
‘Precisely. I have a theory. Want to hear it?’
‘I’d be delighted to,’ Langham said.
‘Good man,’ Robertshaw said. He tapped the model of the stone constructed from a pair of England’s Glory matchboxes standing in the centre of the circle. ‘That’s the henge you passed behind the house. Widespread belief is that it’s a singleton, not part of a circle at all. Y’see, there are no other stone circles in Suffolk. They’re relatively common in the West Country, from Wiltshire onwards, and up in Yorkshire and Scotland. All to do with the availability of stone, you see. But there’s no similar stone in this area. So the idea is that a local tribe had it brought all the way from Wiltshire or beyond, even from as far afield as South Wales. Which would fit in with the singleton theory.’
‘However?’ Langham said.
‘However, I made a discovery in the village before I bought the manor ten years ago, and when the house came on the market, I snapped it up.’
‘A discovery?’
‘In the churchyard, or rather in the wall of the churchyard. The wall’s foundation and first two courses are constructed from a stone quite unlike the upper courses, which are of sandstone. The lower ones are of igneous bluestone – the same as the henge out there.’
‘I see. So you think …’
‘It’s not uncommon, at other places around the country, for the stones to have been removed, or “borrowed”, over the centuries and used in the construction of walls, buildings, et cetera. My theory is that there were originally a number of other stones which over the years have been removed – vandalized, if you will – and repurposed, leaving just the one you see out there. Others might simply have toppled over and become buried over time.’
‘I see, and you’re attempting to locate these other stones?’
‘That’s it in one,’ the professor said. ‘Either locate them or find evidence of their erstwhile existence – over the centuries, with the weight of the stones, the earth would become compacted, you see, before they were removed.’
‘And have you located any?’
‘Early days yet, Langham. Early days. I’ve only been seriously excavating for two years.’
Langham gazed down at the model of the stone circle. ‘Does anyone really know the reason our ancestors erected these things? Something to do with an early, primitive religion?’
‘The jury’s still out on that one, old boy. I subscribe to the theory that the various circles up and down the land are vast ceremonial calendars, aligned to the sun and the moon at times of equinox and solstice. Farming was of prime importance to our ancestors, and they were more in tune with the land and the turning of the seasons.’
He tapped the central stone. ‘This is a scale model. I’ve worked out that if this stone were to have been aligned with others at the summer solstice, then a stone of the same height would have been positioned thirty yards from the central stone.’ He gestured about him. ‘In this approximate area, in fact. And, of course, there would have been others, ranged in a great circle.’
Langham nodded, trying to appear impressed.
‘But Rome wasn’t built in a day, Langham. I might be digging around here for another decade before I come up with anything. It’ll see me well into my seventies, at any rate!’
‘Well, it’s important to have an abiding preoccupation,’ Langham said.
Robertshaw unhooked a rag from the scaffolding board above his head and wiped his hands. ‘I’ll call it a morning. I presume I’ve bored you for long enough. How about a hot drink?’
‘I wouldn’t say no,’ Langham said.
The professor extinguished the paraffin lamp, plunging the pit into gloom, and gestured Langham to lead the way along the trench.
As they climbed the stepladder and crossed the snow towards the standing stone, Langham said, ‘In your note, you mentioned Charles Elder.’
‘That’s right. He’s a fellow Mason.’
‘He is?’ Langham said, surprised. He’d known Charles for more than twenty years without learning of this fact.
‘He’s a regular at the Bury St Edmunds Lodge,’ Robertshaw went on. ‘We often put the world to rights over a snifter or two. Old Charles advises me on matters literary, y’see, and I give him the benefit of my knowledge of the Greeks. That was my specialism, Langham – ancient Greece, with especial interest in the Hellenistic period.’
‘Is that so? I was under the impression that you specialized in British history.’
The professor laughed. ‘Not a bit of it. This’ – he approached the standing stone and slapped its flank – ‘is merely a hobby in which I indulge myself in my old age.’
As they walked on, the professor said, ‘You were asking about Charles. As I said, he’s fascinated with the Greeks.’ He shot Langham a glance. ‘Everything about them, in fact.’
Langham steered the conversation towards the reason for his presence that morning. ‘The note you sent yesterday …’
‘Ah, yes. That. Well, rum business all round, Langham. Thing is, the village is full of all sorts of folk you wouldn’t trust with the silver.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Oh, all very civ
ilized on the surface, but underneath …’
‘Still-waters kind of thing?’
‘You have it in one, sir. In one!’
Langham glanced at the professor. ‘Do you have anyone in particular in mind?’
‘Where to start! The Wellbournes are odd sorts, especially the chap. Mad as a coot. Plays classical music to his cows. His wife, Harriet – she claims to be clairvoyant. More like a ruddy witch, if you ask me. Away with the fairies but harmless enough. Then there’s the publican at the Green Man, Newton – wouldn’t trust him with my grandmother. He dabbled in the black market during the war and these days deals in stolen goods, so be warned.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Then there’s young Roy Vickers – the chap’s a scoundrel.’
‘The fellow who lives in the caravan on Wellbourne’s land?’
‘That’s him. Thieving hound, and a poacher to boot. I caught him on my land just last summer.’
‘Poaching?’
‘That or eyeing the place up for a midnight raid, I’ll be bound.’
‘What happened?’
‘Confronted him and threw the blighter out neck and crop. Sent him away with his tail between his legs and told him that if he showed his face in the place again, I’d take my twelve-bore to him and perforate his giblets.’
‘I take it he hasn’t been back?’
‘No fear! But I heard on the grapevine that he’s been sniffing around young Nancy – that’s my niece – so I read her the riot act and told her that if she so much as looks at the chap I’d not let her out of the house for a whole year.’
Langham smiled to himself. ‘A veritable gallery of rogues,’ he said.
‘You said it, Langham; how right you are!’
They squeaked on through the snow. He waited for the professor to continue. When he didn’t, Langham said, ‘So, the fishy business?’
‘Ah, that …’
They stopped outside the French windows and the professor kicked his boots clean of snow. Langham did the same and followed the old man into a room full of antiquated furniture, calf-bound books, framed photographs of standing stones, and three monumental settees positioned before a blazing fire.
‘Leave your boots on, Langham. I’d offer you a whisky, but that filly of yours said you don’t drink.’
Langham stared at the old man. ‘She said what?’
‘Told me you’re teetotal, Langham.’
‘But I’m nothing of the kind,’ he exclaimed. ‘I wonder why she told you that?’
The professor shook his head. ‘Strange beasts, women. Don’t know where the hell you are with ’em. A whisky, then?’
‘Actually, at the moment I’d prefer a hot drink, if it’s all the same. Tea, black, no sugar.’
‘Bit too early for you, eh?’ Professor Robertshaw stomped over to the door, snatched it open and bellowed, ‘Nancy! Nance! We have a guest!’
He unfastened his deerstalker and placed it atop a phrenologist’s pottery head, then returned to the fireside and warmed his buttocks.
‘I think Nancy will still be at our place,’ Langham said, and explained her visit. ‘She said she’d be back at noon.’
Robertshaw grunted and squinted at his fob watch. ‘Just after half past eleven,’ he said. ‘A man can’t be expected to make his own ruddy tea. Are you sure you won’t join me in a snifter?’
‘A small one, then,’ Langham said, ‘with soda.’
Robertshaw poured the drinks and resumed his place before the roaring fire.
Langham subsided into one of the settees and only then saw the dog curled up on the rug. He reached down and scratched it behind the ears.
‘Ruddy animal,’ the professor grumbled. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but Nancy can’t be bothered to train the blessed thing.’
The dog opened one lazy eye and regarded the professor with languorous disdain.
Langham took a mouthful of diluted Scotch. ‘Now, this fishy business?’
Robertshaw crossed to a small walnut bureau, opened it and withdrew a sheet of light-blue notepaper. He returned to the fire and passed Langham the sheet. ‘What d’you make of that, hmm?’
Langham read the typewritten note. I know all about you and your affair. If you don’t pay up, Nancy will find out. I’ll be in touch.
The letter y had a broken tail.
‘When did you receive this?’
‘Three days ago – Tuesday morning, first post.’
‘Can I see the envelope?’
Robertshaw frowned. ‘Fact is I burned the thing. Didn’t think. I collected the mail from the doormat, brought them in here and went through ’em one by one. Tossed the envelopes in the fire.’
Langham read the note again. He lowered the sheet and looked at the professor.
‘“I know all about you and your affair,”’ he murmured. ‘I take it you know what the writer is referring to?’
He watched Robertshaw as he shook his head. ‘That’s just the thing, Langham. I haven’t a clue. I’m no saint, I’ll tell you that – I’ve done some things in my time I’m not proud of, but nothing that I could be blackmailed about. I am not having an affair. The idea is preposterous.’
Langham recalled what Vickers had said about seeing the professor with another woman in the Midland Hotel at Bury St Edmunds.
He tapped the sheet. ‘And this – “If you don’t pay up, Nancy will find out.” What on earth does that mean?’
Robertshaw shrugged his powerful shoulders. ‘Search me, Langham. I’ve been racking my brains for the past couple of days. I was on the blower to old Charles yesterday, and he happened to mention that you’d just moved into the village. I recalled that he’d said, just a couple of weeks back, that you were a writer chappy who dabbled in private detection, so I thought I’d pick your brains.’
Langham waved the note. ‘Do you mind if I hang on to this, Professor?’
‘Be my guest. Any thoughts?’
Langham folded the note and slipped it into an inside pocket. ‘When you picked up the envelope, I take it you read your name on the front?’
Robertshaw pursed his lips in a frown. ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I did. The mail is usually addressed to me, you see. So I assumed …’
‘In that case, there’s always the possibility, as you say you don’t know what the note refers to, that you were not meant to be the recipient.’
‘Well, blow me down.’
‘I understand that just you, your wife and Nancy are resident here?’
‘And our son, Randall – though he’s away on business for a few days. Back tomorrow, I believe. He’s been staying here for the past couple of months following a messy divorce.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘The chap’s not yet twenty, and already divorced …’
‘I suppose the note might have been intended for him or – forgive me for suggesting this – your wife.’
‘My wife? I don’t see how it could be, Langham. She’s bedridden most of the ruddy time.’
‘Then what about your son?’
The professor pulled a face. ‘Well, it’s possible, I suppose. He’s a bit of a dark horse – keeps himself to himself.’ He knocked back his whisky. ‘Anyway, what do you advise?’
Langham thought about it. ‘Sit tight. Don’t do anything for the time being. As the writer states, he or she will be in touch, no doubt with a demand. As soon as you hear from them, inform me.’
‘Will do, Langham.’
‘When your son returns, I’d like a discreet word with him, if that’s all right?’
‘Certainly. Should I tell him about the note?’
‘Perhaps it’d be best not to,’ he said. ‘If I could meet your wife at some point, that might be helpful, too, though I’d understand if she’s too ill—’
‘She has her better days, Langham. Tell you what, I’ll see how she is over the weekend. If she’s chipper, I’ll have you and your better half round for tea at some point, what?’
‘That sounds perfect,’ Langham
said.
Deciding that he was sufficiently roasted, Robertshaw stepped over the dog and slumped on to a sofa, his legs outstretched and his whisky glass lodged on the rise of his stomach.
Langham noticed a framed photograph on the mantelpiece showing Professor Robertshaw in uniform. ‘Where did you serve?’ he asked.
The professor regarded the photograph. ‘That’s when I commanded a unit of the Home Guard in Oxford. During the Great War, I served with the Norfolk Regiment. Yourself?’
‘Field Security,’ Langham said. ‘Mainly in India.’
‘Field Security, eh? Good show. I knew a few security bods over at Oxford during the last shindig. Decent coves. In my opinion, Field Security was vastly undervalued.’
The professor recounted a few stories about his time in the Home Guard, and Langham reciprocated with stories of his time in India. He found himself warming to the man.
A little later, after a short silence, the professor said, ‘Heard that you’ve only recently married, Langham?’
‘A little over six months now.’
‘Going well?’
‘Swimmingly.’
‘Delighted to hear that.’ The professor stared into space, wistful. ‘Nothing better when it’s going well. Nothing like it. Makes the world seem a fine place, doesn’t it?’
‘I’ll say.’
‘It’s later, when things turn sour … That’s when you’ve got to steel yourself. The dashed world seems a dark, hopeless place, then.’
Langham sipped his drink, sensing that the professor wanted to talk.
‘My first wife, Deirdre, walked out on me after ten years. It came as something of a shock, I must admit. Out of the blue. She bearded me one day and said, “Edwin, I’ve met someone and I’m leaving you.” Fait accompli. Not a thing I could do to change her mind. She’d fallen out of love with me and in love with some other chap.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What does a man do in those circumstances, Langham? What could I do? Two choices: mope and feel ruddy sorry for myself or chin up and get on with it. Changes you, though. Makes you wary, suspicious. Hardens the heart.’
‘I should think it must,’ Langham said.
