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?”
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
