He never did get a reply to his question. A vacant-faced youth stood up from a table by himself and giggled idiotically. Tweed noted on his left wrist he wore a Rolex with a gold expanding strap, the kind of timepiece which registered the moon phases and God knew what else.
Grimes swung round in his chair but before he could react the youth spoke. In a sing-song tone which was chilling.
'No one died. No one died tonight. No one was buried…'
Grimes turned on the youth, who smiled fatuously. Jumping up, he grabbed him by the arm and propelled him to the door. The rain had stopped slashing at the windows, the storm had worked itself out. Grimes heaved the heavy door open, took the youth by the shoulders and hurled him into the night, slamming the door shut.
'He be soft in the 'ead,' Grimes informed Tweed as he returned to his chair and took a large gulp of whisky. 'Simple Eric we calls 'im.'
'Every village has one,' Tweed agreed.
From outside the inn he heard the faint sound of a car crawling past The Bluebell, moving towards the cottages. He looked at a hard-faced woman, middle-aged and grey-haired with the hair tied back in an old-fashioned bun. She sat knitting, watching Tweed, the only sound inside the pub the click-clack of her needles. Les triocoteuses . Why was he reminded of the women who had sat by the guillotine during the French Revolution – watching the heads roll? An absurd thought. Grimes followed his gaze.
'Mrs Sporne, postmistress,' he remarked.
'Good evening to you,' Tweed addressed her.
She dropped her eyes and started counting stitches, making no reply. Two of the male drinkers were now talking in whispers, their eyes on Tweed. Under the surface he sensed something deeper than the animosity he had felt when he first entered the pub. The rank smell of fear.
He finished his drink, was about to leave, when something happened which caused the drinkers to freeze, staring at each other in horror. The distant chiming of a bell began tolling. A murderous look came over Grimes' face as the chiming continued. He hastily composed his expression when he saw Tweed watching him.
'Can't be far away that church,' Tweed commented. 'I'm interested in churches.' He strolled towards the door as the mournful chimes continued their dirge, pausing by Grimes' chair. 'Oh, a couple of my friends may arrive at any moment. SAS men. They drove up with me from London in their own car. We lost each other in Thetford. I gave them the same instructions to find Cockley Cley -the other village. Turn right off the highway. Think I'll just take a look at your church before I go…'
'I'm coming with you then. Least I can do – seein' as you're so interested.'
It was pitch-black outside. Rain dripped from the branches of a fir tree which spread out towards the inn like huge hands. Tweed collected a large torch Newman had left in the car, a torch which might be described as a blunt instrument. He turned towards the darkened cottages.
Grimes walked beside Tweed, his boots clumping on the tarred road. By the light of the torch beam Tweed crossed a small footbridge over a gushing stream where the road sloped into a ford. There were lights in the cottage windows behind drawn curtains. One was drawn aside as they passed. A man's face peered out and the curtain closed hurriedly. The road curved again as it climbed and Tweed saw the silhouette of the church raised on an eminence. He switched off the torch to gain night vision. A moment later he stopped.
'Something's wrong?' Grimes demanded.
'It's got a pepperpot bell-tower. I haven't seen one of those except on the coast. At Brancaster, places like that. Never so far inland.'
'Just a church. Seen all you want?'
Tweed didn't reply. He strode to the gate in the flintstone wall, pushed it open and walked along the moss- covered path leading up to the church. Also constructed of flintstone, he estimated it at hundreds of years old. The chimes were very loud. Grimes hurried after him.
'Don't want to go in there. And those men comin' to look for you. Who be they?'
'Special Air Service. Elite anti-terrorist troops. Very tough types. They're on leave,' he continued, elaborating the lie, 'on holiday, I mean.' He went inside.
Tweed stared at Simple Eric, who was hauling on the bell-rope as the chimes echoed weirdly above, sweat pouring down his face. Reaching up to pull the rope, Eric's shirt cuff was rolled well up his forearm and Tweed saw his wrist-watch was definitely a Rolex. Suspended from the wooden ceiling in the circular bell-tower was a naked forty-watt bulb which cast menacing shadows. Grimes pushed rudely past Tweed and swore foully.
'… idiot child. Go home! '
'Toll for the dead. Toll for the dead. Toll for the…'
Eric seemed in a trance as he chanted his chilling litany. He let go of the looped rope as Grimes seized him with his left hand, then struck him a savage blow to the face with his right. Eric blinked. His soiled shirt was drenched with sweat.
'Take it easy,' Tweed advised.
'Go home, I said!' Grimes roared in a frenzy. 'You want me to strap the hide off you?'
Tweed glanced to his right, surveying the tiny church. Seven rows of worn wooden pews stretched on either side of the central aisle towards the altar. He stiffened. The altar was completely covered with a black velvet cloth. Grimes slammed the door shut as Eric ran outside and noticed Tweed's gaze at the altar.
'Crazy loon,' he rasped. 'Best wait outside while I turns off lights. Wait by the gate.'
Tweed left the church. Instead of heading back down the moss-covered path he wandered through the wet grass round the bell-tower to the back of the church. Before him stretched a graveyard hemmed in by the high flintstone wall. He had a trapped feeling but walked on. An old gated railing sealed off a huge mausoleum with steps leading down beyond the gate. He flashed on the torch. The padlock holding the chains on the gate was brand new. He wandered on. Headstones thrust up out of the grass, slanting at different angles. Six were standing erect, close together. He swung the torch beam, examined the engraved lettering on the stones.
Edward Jarvis. Died April 1986. RIP. He swivelled the beam to the next one. Bertha Rout. Died April 1986… Joel Couzens. Died April 1986… Benjamin Sadler. Died April 1986…
Altogether there were six people who had died the same year, the same month. He had just examined the last headstone when Grimes ran up behind him. Tweed turned and the villager was panting for breath. When he spoke he was hardly coherent.
'What the hell are you doing?'
'Now, Ned, what have we here?'
Round the end of the bell-tower a tall figure had appeared. Tweed swung the torch beam full on the newcomer. He had a hawk-like nose and a pince-nez was perched on its bridge. The eyes had an odd opaque look in the glare of the torch, were unblinking. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat, a long black overcoat. For a moment, before he doused the torch, Tweed thought he was a priest.
'I am Dr Portch. I heard the bell. Then Eric ran past me in a panic. Has he had another epileptic fit? And perhaps you would introduce me to the stranger, Ned?'
A soft, almost hypnotic tone of voice. Years of practising the bedside manner, Tweed assumed as Grimes replied.
'Mr… Now I never was one for remembering names…'
'Sneed,' said Tweed.
'That's it. This is Mr Sneed, Doctor. He has two SOS men who come lookin' for 'im.'
'SOS?'
'He means SAS,' Tweed interjected. 'We share a common interest in bird-watching. I took the wrong turning -I was heading for Cockley Cley. I'm glad I had a chance to look at your ancient church. Most unusual in this part of the world.'
'And you are also interested in headstones, Mr Sneed?'
Tweed was trying to place the strange doctor's accent. He detected an undertone of Norfolk burr but it was overlaid with a quite different regional accent. The brown eyes behind the pince-nez stared coldly at Tweed, as though struggling to come to some decision.
'I was curious to see that six people died in the same month,' Tweed replied. 'A heavy toll for one tiny village.'
'Meningitis. Unfortunately I was away for a few days when the outbreak started. Then it was too late. A
