Dialogues of the Dead

34

Hat Bowler’s lunch had passed with much less drama.

He had taken Rye first of all into a wooded gully where they spotted enough birds to justify the expedition. She listened to his expert commentary with apparent interest but he was careful not to go on too long and risk boredom setting in. Also he was aware that the clouds were getting ever lower and wanted to make sure that their lunch at least was not spoilt by the inevitable rain.

They found a sheltered spot under a huge outcrop of rock from which several loose boulders had detached themselves over the years. He set about kicking it clear of sheep droppings and, when he caught her watching him with some amusement, he said apologetically, “Yeah, I know, it’s like eating in a sheep’s toilet, but they know a thing or two about shade in summer and shelter in winter.”

“Where there’s shit there’s shelter, isn’t that what the shepherds say?” laughed Rye.

“I’ll have to remember that. OK, that does it, I think.”

They sat and ate the assortment of sandwiches he had provided. Despite his promise to be founder of the feast, Rye produced from her knapsack a chocolate-iced sponge cake which she sliced in two.

“Hey, this is good,” he said. “You bake it?”

“That’s not surprise I hear, I hope?”

“Gratitude and delight,” he said.

Things were going well, he felt. She gave every sign of enjoying his company as much as he was enjoying hers, but any hope he had of their growing closeness easing itself into a bit of al fresco grappling vanished when as they drank the rest of the coffee, the rain began, not much, more an undeniable moistness of the air than real spots, but enough he guessed to dampen ardour if applied to naked skin.

Quickly they packed up.

“What do you want to do?” he asked.

“I haven’t come all this way to leave without taking a look at the famous tarn,” she said. “And I’ve not forgotten your interesting bits.”

The rain still hadn’t really taken a hold by the time they reached the tarn, with the dampness in the air manifesting itself in the form of a general mistiness rather than a downpour. They stood at the water’s edge, straining their eyes through the vaporous air towards the further bank where a low stone building was just visible.

“Isn’t that the view that Dick painted?” said Rye.

“More or less. Slightly different angle, and a lot better visibility. But that’s certainly Stangcreek Cottage.”

He put the binoculars to his eyes and added, “Looks as if there’s someone there. I can see smoke coming from the chimney.”

“Oh, good. Somewhere to shelter if this gets any worse.”

“Look, we can head back to the car now if you want,” he said anxiously.

“Worried your make-up might wash off?” she mocked. “I thought you were the tough outdoor type. Can we walk right round the lake?”

“Well, it’s all right as far as the cottage but then it starts to get a bit boggy as you get near to Stang Creek itself. That’s the main feed stream for the tarn, but all the water that comes running off the hills back there is looking to find a way out too, and the ground’s full of little creeks and inlets. No way you aren’t going to get your feet wet …”

“You must have been bitten by a rabid duck, all this hydrophobia,” she cut him short. “Come on. Let’s move!”

He followed her, mentally noting that macho protectiveness cut no ice with Rye.

As he’d promised, there was a track of sorts round the northern side of the mere, dangerous to a car’s springs but easy terrain for walkers.

The mist thickened as they walked, cutting visibility down to about twenty yards with occasional tantalizing glimpses across the water, and wrapping them in a grey but not unpleasing cocoon. There was very little sound and what there was came mysteriously as from a great distance. No birds sang and the gentle lapping of the lake water in the reeds was more a foil against which to measure silence than a noise in its own right. After a while Hat let his hand brush Rye’s and she took it and locked her fingers in his, and so they walked on, hand in hand.

Neither spoke. It felt to Hat that there was a spell on them which words could only break and if it remained unbroken, they might walk on like this forever. Was it possible to make vows without speaking? he wondered. And the strangely unconstabulary thought flitted across his mind that perhaps it was the vows made without words that were kept forever. In fact a wordless world might in many respects be a better place. Men name things to have power over them. Leave them nameless and we cannot dominate but may still love them.

Part of his mind thought with horror of the reaction among his peers of the CID if he tried enunciating any of these ideas in the nick. Another part wanted to tumble them all out in front of Rye and invite her reaction. But to do so would require words. And words in this silence were sacrilege.

And then came a sound unholier than any words, a sound that ripped through the silence, whirring and grating, now harsh, now edgy, rising and falling, now metal, now stone.

“What kind of bird is that?” asked Rye in a hushed and fearful tone.

“No bird that I’ve ever heard,” said Hat. “It sounds more like …”

He hesitated, not at all sure what it did sound more like.

Then, so sudden it was almost as if the sound had taken shape before them, the squat black shape of Stangcreek Cottage leapt out of the mist a few yards ahead.

The sound was coming from behind the cottage. They went round the side and saw a mud-spattered Fiesta parked outside a timber-framed lean-to which rested against the building’s rear wall like a drunk against a charity worker.

Under the minimal shelter of the lean-to a man stooped over a foot-driven grinding wheel against which he held the head of an axe. The wheel turned, sparks flew, the metal screamed.

“Goodness me,” said Rye. “It’s Dick. Dick, hello! Dick!”

At the sound of her raised voice, Dick Dee turned and stood still for a moment, the axe held tight in both hands, regarding them blankly.

Then the slow rejuvenating smile spread across his face and he said, “Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”

In a surprisingly fluent movement for one whose comfortable shape gave little promise of athleticism, he swung the axe high in the air, letting his hands slide from the head to the shaft, then brought it down with sufficient force to bury it in one of several heavy logs scattered around the lean-to floor.

“So here you are. How wise I was to light a fire. But let’s not hang around out here. As we say in rural Yorkshire, won’t you step in-by, you’ll have had your tea?”