Dialogues of the Dead

35

The next hour passed very comfortably, a little too comfortably in Rye’s case for Hat’s peace of mind.

That easiness between her and Dee which he had observed before was even more apparent outside the workplace. As they talked and laughed together, he felt, if not excluded, at least cut adrift and moving ever further from that blessed closeness he and Rye had shared during their mist-wrapped walk around the lake.

Dee had made tea and toast for them on the very welcome woodfire which crackled and sparked in the grate. The tea was a bit smoky, but the toast-thick slices of white bread impaled on a long thin carving knife and held up to the heat till they were almost black then generously loaded with cool fresh butter and apricot jam-was delicious.

Dee sat on the floor, Hat perched on a three-legged stool, while Rye sat in the only chair. This was a lovely thing, carved out of oak, with lion-head armrests and claw feet, all possessing that deep patina which only age and the polish of use can give.

“Found it in the barn,” explained Dee. “One of the arms was broken and someone at some time had thought a coat of whitewash would improve it. So I neglected my painting for a while on the grounds that putting this back to what it was made a greater contribution to art and beauty than anything I could do.”

“It’s lovely, Dick,” said Rye.

“Yes, isn’t it. And at last there is someone here worthy to sit in it. No doubt about it, eh, Hat? Rye must be our chairman. ‘Queen and huntress chaste and fair …’”

As he spoke he took her hand and urged her to take her seat.

Hat, resenting the contact and thinking to earn some Brownie points by a quick flash of linguistic correctness, said, “Chairwoman, I think you mean. Or at least Chairperson.”

“That’s what you think I mean, is it?” said Dee pleasantly. “Yet man in its origins was never gender specific. There are those who derive it from the same Indogermanic source posited for mind, that is men or mon, to think or remember, thus referring to that power of rational thought which differentiates us from the beasts. Whatever the truth of this, it’s certain that its reference to the male of the species is a much later development, and therefore to say that those instances where it still retains its original sense of human being, such as mankind, demonstrate masculine arrogance and exclusivity is as absurd as saying that the internal combustion engine was invented because Henry Ford started making motor cars. However, I acknowledge that among ignorant people I cannot forever be giving my little lecture, so yes, back there in the land of hoi polloi, I usually observe the conventions of the new ignorance. But here, among friends, no need to hide our lights under bushels! Rye, you shall be our chairman, Hat, you shall be our stoolie, and I as usual shall take the floor.”

Hat felt he ought to feel patronized but found it hard not to feel flattered instead. It was a rare art, he reluctantly admitted, to be able to rattle on like Dee without getting right up your nose. Remove the element of sexual jealousy, and he guessed he’d be really impressed by the guy, who gave the impression of being not unimpressed by Hat. At every opportunity he went out of his way to offer cues for him to display his ornithological expertise, showing what seemed a genuine rather than just a polite interest, and being modestly self-deprecating when Rye drew attention to several of his paintings which included birdlife.

There was no doubt about it, he might not be a bird painter in the Aubusson or even the Hon. Geoffrey style, but his touch when it came to painting the feel of a bird in flight was indisputable, and Hat was able to join his praise to Rye’s with, he hoped, no discernible element of grudgingness.

It was some comfort to see that this apparent closeness between the two librarians didn’t extend to details of Dee’s private life. Rye was clearly as surprised as he was to find her colleague in residence. Not that residence seemed the right word. The cottage was primitive in the extreme with no modern utilities.

“I used to come up to the tarn to paint,” explained Dick, “and I took shelter in here one day when it started raining, I mean really raining, not this soft breath of god stuff. And it occurred to me that I would find it really useful to have a place like this where I could store some gear and work inside when the weather was inclement. So I made enquiries, discovered that it all belonged to the Stang estate, that’s the Pyke-Strengler family property, and I was able to use my slight acquaintance with the Hon. Geoffrey to persuade them to let me take out a lease on the place for a nominal rent. I take care of basic upkeep, it’s in my own interest of course, and everyone’s happy.”

“Do you actually stay here?” asked Rye.

“I occasionally camp out overnight,” he admitted. “I’ve got a sleeping bag and a camping stove and various bits and pieces. I’ve tried to avoid nest-building. I don’t want a rural retreat, just a workshop. But it’s amazing how the stuff builds up! And, as you can see, I am nesh enough to like a fire when things get a little too chilly or damp.”

“But a place like this on the open market would surely bring a good price,” said Hat.

“Oh yes. And Geoffrey’s father, the famous absentee, would have dearly loved such a good price. He sold off everything he could, but the bulk of the estate land and its properties are entailed. The revenue comes from letting. Now Stangcreek Cottage refurbished and modernized would be a desirable holiday rental, but that costs money and the late lord wasn’t about to spend hard cash on anything but his own interests. What Geoffrey will decide to do remains to be seen, but I think that on the whole he so loves this bit of the estate for his own activities, whether artistic or atavistic, that he won’t want to encourage trippers.”

“Like us, you mean?” said Hat.

“Genuine bird-watchers he doesn’t mind, though it must come as a shock to some of them to see the duck they were just admiring through their glasses explode before their eyes. More tea?”

Hat glanced at Rye, trying desperately not to look too eager to be up and off. She put her mug down and said, “No thanks, Dick. Not for me. I came out to enjoy the fresh air and see some birds, though Hat here might like to hang around in the dry for the rest of the day. He seems to be allergic to water.”

Dick Dee smiled at him. The fact that there was more of sympathy than mockery in the smile didn’t help. He stood up and said brightly, “Ready when you are.”

Outside the rain was no longer dismissable as romantic mist.

Dee said, “Going back along the track, are you?”

“No,” said Hat firmly. “All the way round.”

“Oh. Bit wet along there, you’ll find. And there’s a lot of water in the Creek. You know the crossing, do you?”

“Yes,” said Hat shortly. “No problem.”

“Good. I’ll get back to trying to put an edge on that damn axe. See you tomorrow, Rye.”

“Can’t wait,” grinned Rye, giving him a peck on the cheek.

Hat turned away and set off at a rapid pace. Male chivalry didn’t seem to cut much ice with her so let’s see what a bit of physical equal opportunity did! Behind him he heard the screel of the axe-grinding resume but it was soon drowned in the noise of running waters.

The curve of steep hills to the west formed a natural watershed, funnelling rapid becks down through narrow gills with enough force to continue carving deep passages through the peaty ground levelling off to the tarn. The smaller streams were easily crossable, often with a single step or at most a bit of help from some natural stepping stone, but he deliberately chose a route which required maximum strength and agility. From time to time he glanced back to check Rye’s progress and always found she was matching him stride for stride, so he tried smiling encouragingly in an attempt to imply that he was holding himself in check for her benefit. His reward for such silent braggadocio was just. His foot slipped off a greasy rock into a tumult of icy water and, as his boot filled, she swept past him, laughing, and took the lead. If anything, her chosen route was more difficult than his and soon she’d opened up a gap between them. Eventually, however, not without satisfaction he saw her come to a halt as she reached the bank of Stang Creek itself, the most significant of the many water courses running into the mere. Crossing it was a problem if you didn’t know the exact location of the stepping stones, which weren’t easy to spot, most of them hiding beneath a couple of inches of water, except at times of greatest drought. Your first sight of someone crossing probably got you as close as modern agnosticism could manage to what the disciples felt on the Sea of Galilee after the feeding of the five thousand.

Looking forward to a bit of miracle-making, Hat called out as he approached, “So what’s the hold-up? Top athlete like you, I thought you’d just leap across.”

She turned to look at him and he immediately regretted his frivolous words. Her face was set, her eyes wide and startled. After her previous showing he couldn’t understand why such a small obstacle should cause such a strong reaction, but he hurried forward to reassure her there really wasn’t any problem.

Before he could speak she pointed and said, “Hat …down there …”

He looked downstream, his brain anticipating a distressed animal …a fox with a gangrenous trapped leg perhaps …or a drowned sheep …

And at first he saw nothing.

Then he made it out.

In the water, mostly submerged, held by the fast moving current against the hidden stepping stones over which he had planned to run so miraculously, was a body.

Or perhaps it wasn’t a body. The eye is easily deceived. Perhaps it was just some green plastic farm-feed bag, blown here by the autumn gales, bulked out by trapped air and floating vegetation.

He ran along the bank, hoping to be able to turn to Rye and with his laughter at her error bring the colour back to her face. But as he stepped out along the hidden stones and bent down for a closer look, he saw there was no cause for laughter here.

Rye was on the bank alongside him.

He looked up at her and said warningly, “I’m going to pull it out.”

She turned away with affected indifference and said, “There’s a boat down there. I’ll take a look.”

He glanced downstream. Thirty yards or so, just before the creek entered the tarn, a flat-bottomed boat was moored.

The policeman in him wanted to say, No. Don’t go near. This could be a crime scene and the less we contaminate it the better.

Instead he said, “Yeah, why don’t you do that?”

He’d only seen one drowned body before, but that had been enough to demonstrate what water without and decay within could do to weak human flesh. Rye looked shaken enough already without that.

She moved away, and he stooped and with both hands took hold of what looked like a waxed outdoor jacket. It was difficult to get a grip but finally he succeeded and began to drag the body out of the water.

“Oh shit,” he said as he got the torso on to the bank.

It was a body all right, but not all of it. Or not all a body. Or only part of a body. Or a body with a bit missing. In fact, was a body a body if you didn’t have all of it?

Which questions of semantics were only occupying his mind to divert it from the fact that the corpse had no head.

He forced himself to concentrate.

From the look of it, the head hadn’t been detached through the depredations of water life. In fact he doubted very much if this fast-flowing freshwater stream harboured denizens capable of inflicting such damage.

No, if he had to make a quick pathological guess based on the evidence of his eyes, he’d say that it had been chopped off. And it had taken several blows.

He dragged the corpse fully out of the water and stood up, glad to put even the distance of his height between himself and the monstrous thing at his feet.

He looked to see where Rye was.

She had clambered aboard the moored boat and was stooping over something.

Now his police training got the upper hand. This was beyond doubt the scene of a crime. He recalled the advice of a police college training officer. “At a crime scene, put your hands in your pocket and play with your dick. That way you won’t be tempted to touch anything else.”

“Rye,” he called, moving towards her.

She stood up and turned to him. Even in these circumstances he could admire the graceful balance of her body as she adjusted easily to the gentle rocking of the boat beneath her feet.

She was holding something, a basket of some kind, the sort that fishermen use, what was it called? A creel, that was it. And she was pulling the straps from the buckles that held the lid down.

She shouldn’t be doing that. And not just because of the risk of contaminating the scene.

No, there was something else.

Precognition, instinct, detective work, call it what you will, but he knew beyond all doubt what was in that basket.

“No!” he cried running towards her. “Rye, leave it!”

But it was always going to be too late.

She pulled up the lid and peered inside.

She tried not to scream or perhaps it was just that her vocal cords were too constricted to produce anything more than a dim echo of the grate of the grindstone on the axehead. For a moment he thought she was going to topple backwards into the water, but her weakening knees flexed, and as if in acknowledgement that something had to go, either herself or what she held in her hands, she hurled the basket from her on to the bank.

It hit the ground, bounced, turned over, and out of it rolled a human head.

Even before it came to a halt at his feet, Hat had recognized that in one sense at least it was not out of place in this setting. If a man has to die, then let him die on his own land.

This was beyond all dispute the head of Geoffrey, Lord Pyke-Strengler of the Stang.