Like a purge.
Mr. Kettle's excitement was dampened then by a bad feeling that just wouldn't go away. When he dug up the stone he thought he could smell it – something faintly putrid, as if he'd
unearthed a dead sheep.
And, as a man who lived by his feelings, he wondered if he ought to say something. About the purge on the stones. About the history of the Court – John Dee, Black Michael and the hangings. And about the legends, which travelled parallel to history and sometimes, if you could decode them, told you far more about what had really happened than the fusty old documents in the county archives.
Mr. Kettle, who kept his own records, was getting more and more interested in Crybbe – wishing, though, that he didn't have to be. Wishing he could ignore it. Detecting a problem here, a serious long-term problem, and wishing he could turn his back on it.
But, as the problem was likely to remain long after he'd gone, he'd taken steps to pass on his fears. With a feller like this Max Goff blundering about the place, there should always be somebody who knew about these things – somebody trustworthy – to keep an eye open.
He supposed he ought to warn Goff, but the thought of 'something sinister' would probably only make the place more appealing.
'And, anyway, you can't tell these New Age types anything, can you, Arnold?' Mr. Kettle was scratching the dog's head again. 'No, you can't, boy.'
Ten minutes later Goff was back, puffing, the flush in his cheeks making his close-mown beard seem even redder. Excitement coming off him like steam.
'Mr. Kettle, let me get this right. According to your calculations, this is line B, right?'
'That's correct.'
'And by following this line, as you dowsed it, we suddenly come across what could be the only remaining stone in the alignment. Is it exactly where you figured it'd be?'
'Well… Mr. Kettle got to his feet and picked up his bag. Max Goff eyed it.
'Got the rods in there? Can we dowse the line some more, maybe find another stone?'
No, we bloody can't, Mr. Kettle thought. You might as well ask, how about if we grabs hold of this electric cable to see if he's live?
He saw, to his dismay, that Goff was looking at him in some kind of awe; he'd found a new guru. It was not a role Mr. Kettle fancied. 'Getting late,' he said. 'I ought to be away. Don't like driving in the dark these days.'
'When can you come again?'
'Look,' Mr. Kettle said. 'I'm an old man. I likes my fireside and my books. And besides, you got it all now. You know where they all are. Or used to be.'
This Goff was a man whose success in business had convinced him that if you knew a source, knowledge and experience could be bought like… what would this feller buy?…
cocaine? Mr. Kettle, who still read two newspapers every day, knew a bit about Max Goff and the kind of world he came from.
'Maybe your role in this is only just beginning,' Goff said. 'How about I send a car for you next time?'
Money was no object for this bugger. Made his first million by the time he was twenty-seven, Mr. Kettle had read, by starting his own record company. Epidemic, it was called. And it had spread like one. Now it was international magazines and book publishing.
'Well,' Mr. Kettle said. 'Isn't much more as I can tell you, anyway. You've got the maps. Nothing more to be found, even if you excavates, I reckon.'
'Hmmm.' Goff was making a show of being unconvinced, as they followed what Mr. Kettle now thought of, wrote of in his journal – but never spoke of – as the Dark Road, the Thoroughfare of the Dead. Returning at dusk, back into Crybbe, a town which had loitered since the Middle Ages, and probably before, in the area where England hardened into Wales.
On the very border.
CHAPTER III
It was the seventh bell they always rang, for the curfew. Almost rang itself these days. Seventeen years Jack had been doing it. Didn't need to think much about it any more. Went regular as his own heartbeat.
The bell clanged above him.
Jack let the rope slide back through his hands.
Seventy-three.
His hands closed again around the rope.
Seventy-four.
He hadn't been counting. At any point during the ringing Jack could tell you what number he was on. His arms knew. His stomach knew.
One hundred times every night. Starting at ten o'clock. Newcomers to the town, they'd asked him, 'Don't you find it spooky, going up there, through that graveyard, up all those narrow stone steps, with the church all dark, and the bell-ropes just hanging there?'
'Don't think about it,' Jack would say. And it was true; he didn't.
There were eight bells in the tower, and that was reckoned to be a good peal for this part of the country.
For weddings, sometimes in the old days, they'd all be going. Even fairly recently – though not any more – it had been known for some snooty bride from Off to bring in a handful of bell-ringers from her own parish for the big day. This had only been permitted for weddings, sometimes. On Sundays, never. And not Christmas. Not even Easter.
And also, every few years some bearded clown in a sports jacket would pass through. And then the church or the town council would gel a letter from the secretary of some group of nutters that travelled the country ringing other people's bells.
The town council would say no.
Occasionally – this was the worst problem – there'd be somebody like Colonel Croston who'd moved in from Hereford, where he was reckoned to have been in the SAS. He liked to keep fit. Jogged around the place.
And rang bells, as a hobby.
He'd been a pain in the neck at first, had Colonel Croston. 'No bell-ringers apart from you, Jack? That's appalling. Look, you leave this one to me.'
Jack Preece remembered the Colonel putting up posters inviting all able-bodied folk to come to the church one Friday night and learn the ropes. 'Give me six months. Guarantee I'll knock them into shape.'
Jack had gone along himself because he didn't like the thought of youngsters running up and down the stone steps and swinging on his ropes.
When the two of them had been waiting around for nearly an hour he let the despondent Colonel take him for a drink.
'Doesn't deserve these bells, Jack, this town.'
'Aye, aye,' Jack had said non-committally, and had permitted Colonel Croston to buy him a large brandy.
He hadn't bothered to tell the Colonel that even he only knew how to ring the curfew using the seventh bell. Well, no point in buggering with the others, see, was there? No point in making a show. They could have pulled the other bells down and flogged them off for scrap, far as Jack Preece was concerned.
Anyhow, what they'd done now, to save a lot of bother and pestering was to take down all the ropes. Except, of course the one that rang the seventh bell.
Some nights, Jack would be real knackered after a day's dipping, or shearing, or lambing. He'd stagger up them steps, hurting all over his body, dying for a pint and aching for his bed. Some nights he'd grab hold of that rope just to stop himself falling over.
Still the hundred would be done. And done on time.
And it was on nights like this that Jack felt sometimes he was helped. Felt the belfry was kind of aglow, and
