Death of a Burrowing Mole

Priscilla agreed. Then she said, ‘If you like me, I wonder you never came for a holiday with me before this. I’ve often wished you and I could hire a horse-drawn caravan and lead a gypsy life for a week or two.’

‘It would bore me to death. Besides, there would be the horse to look after and feed, and the ever-present problem of finding somewhere to pull in for the night. Oh, no! Give me rock-climbing in the Cuillins!’

‘You must have a good head for heights.’

‘I’ve never thought about it.’

‘That’s the whole point, I suppose. Anybody who did not have a good head for heights would have to think about it.’

‘Oh, nonsense. They wouldn’t do it, that’s all. One soon learns one’s limitations.’

‘I climbed the stair in the keep, but my head swam. Fiona, exactly why did you accept Dr Lochlure’s invitation to come here?’

‘The sixty-thousand-dollar question! I don’t know. I’m already bored with the scenery and bored with the people. Oh, well, at least we’ve got the car now.’

The reason for Fiona’s having been able to test the lock on the boot of Tom’s car was that she had persuaded him to agree to her proposal. Once the young men had surveyed the young women and had decided that amorous dalliance was what Tom described as a non-starter, the possible advantage of having two cars at their disposal had disappeared, so when, earlier that afternoon, Fiona had approached him with her offer, he had accepted it.

‘I suppose you’ve got a driving licence?’ said Priscilla.

‘Of course. I’m a very experienced driver. If there is an accident, it certainly won’t be caused by me.’

‘How I envy you your self-confidence!’

‘You envy me my self-confidence, but you don’t envy Susannah her beauty. I don’t, either. Being large and unbeautiful keeps one out of a lot of trouble.’

‘I also envy you your rude health and your physical fitness. I was always a sickly child.’

‘You have compensations. I wish I could write good essays and make up poetry. Will you get a First, do you think?’

‘Oh, yes. Examinations hold no terrors for me, not even the vivas.’

‘Well, there’s self-confidence for you! And you envy me mine!’ Fiona ran seawards, laughing, a Scandinavian giantess from Jotunheim, a veritable Hyrrokin, her hair streaming in the wind. Priscilla sat clasping her knees, her thin shirt flattened against her undeveloped breasts by the same seawind as was tossing Fiona’s hair. She thought of Susannah in the arms of Nicholas Tynant, and the first line of a sonnet came into her mind. ‘Put out the light and be my body’s balm.’ She fumbled in the large basket she used as a handbag, took out notebook and pencil and unclipped the sunglasses she had fastened on to her powerful spectacles.

Before her the sun gleamed on the wet, pale sands against which the few scattered pebbles looked black; behind her rose limestone cliffs, and to her left a long, flat rock of the same stone ran out into the sea and would be covered at high tide. A gull, with wings incredibly white against the blue of the sky, hovered for a moment and squawked an insult to the poet before it soared and flew off. Priscilla, completely absorbed, saw and heard nothing. She wrote, frowned, crossed out, rewrote, and only looked up when Fiona put a sea-wet hand on the back of her neck and said it was time to think about tea.

‘Yes, all right,’ said Priscilla. ‘I think I’ve got the octet, so I can let the sestet wait. I’ll just make a fair copy of what I’ve done, if you’ll leave me alone for five minutes.’

‘Something for the college magazine?’

‘No, it’s going to be too good for that. I don’t want it printed until I really publish.’

‘God bless the work,’ said Fiona. ‘You are a genius.’

‘I bet you someone else will find our well before we do. I think we’re on to a mug’s game,’ said Tom, straightening his back.

‘It doesn’t matter who finds a well, so long as we know where it is. The only concern of the others will be to locate it and clear it down to five or six feet and then put a grating over it. They won’t attempt to do any more excavating than that. Why should they?’

‘How deep were these castle wells?’

‘Goodness knows!’

‘They could go down a couple of hundred feet, I suppose,’ said Tom gloomily. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether the story about the treasure is true. I mean, even supposing the stuff was chucked down a well to stop the enemy from getting hold of it, how were the owners – and how are we – going to get it up again?’

‘First find your well and then I’ll lower you down in a bucket. Banish these morbid thoughts. The lark’s on the wing, the hillside’s dew-pearled.’

‘That bird up there isn’t a lark; it’s a kestrel. It probably nests in the keep. They like old buildings if they can’t find a rocky cliff.’

‘Oh, well, so long as it isn’t a magpie, we’re all right. Magpies are the birds which bring bad luck.’

‘One magpie wouldn’t matter. It’s two or four together you have to beware of, according to our cook, who comes from Northumberland. You know, I don’t see why we should have been fobbed off with clearing up this gatehouse. All the outer walling on the east side as far up as the ditch has disappeared. The stone has been carted off by the locals, I suppose. Once Veryan and Tynant begin their digging, we shall be much better off working with them than with Saltergate. Besides, they are paying for our meals; he isn’t.’

‘True enough. There’s another thing: when Veryan begins the actual trenching, he won’t go anywhere near where the old stable block used to be.’

‘How do you make that out?’