other hands were pulling on the rope beside his own.
Spooky?
Well, he didn't think about it. Where was the point in that?
They walked slowly into the town over a river bridge with old brick walls which badly needed pointing, the river flat and sullen below. Past a pub, the Cock, with flaky paintwork and walls that had once been whitewashed but now looked grey and unwashed.
A dark, smoky, secretive little town. There was still an afterglow on the fields, but the town was already embracing the night.
Mr. Kettle had never been to Paris or New York. But if, tonight, he was to be flown into either of them, he suspected he wouldn't feel any more of a stranger than he did entering Crybbe – a town he'd lived within twenty miles of all his life.
This town, it wasn't remote exactly, not difficult to reach, yet it was isolated. Outsiders never had reason to pass through it on the way to anywhere. Because, no matter where you wanted to reach, there was always a better way to get there than via Crybbe. Three roads intersected here, but they were B roads, two starting in Wales – one leading eventually to Hereford, the other to Ludlow – and the other… well, buggered if he knew where that one went.
Max Goff, almost glowing in his white suit, was striding into the dimness of the town, like Dr Livingstone or somebody, with a pocketful of beads for the natives.
They'd take the beads, the people here. They wouldn't thank him, but they'd take the beads.
Henry Kettle didn't claim to understand the people of Crybbe. They weren't hostile and they weren't friendly. They kept their heads down, that was all you could say about them.
A local historian had once told him this was how towns and villages on the border always used to be. If there was any cross-border conflict between the English and the Welsh they never took sides openly until it was clear which was going to win. Also, towns of no importance were less likely to be attacked and burned.
So keeping their heads down had got to be a way of life.
Tourists must turn up sometimes. By accident, probably. Mr. Kettle reckoned most of them wouldn't even bother to park. Sure the buildings were ancient enough, but they weren't painted and polished up like the timber- frame villages on the Hereford black-and-white trail. Nothing here that said 'visit me' with any enthusiasm, because there was no sense of pride.
From the church tower, above the cobbled square, a lone bell was clanging dolefully into the musty dusk. It was the only sound there was.
'What's that?' Goff demanded.
'Only the curfew.'
Goff stopped on the cobbles, his smile a great gash. 'Hey really…? This is a real curfew, like in the old days?'
'No,' Mr. Kettle said. 'Not really. That's to say, people are no longer required to be off the streets by nightfall. Just tradition nowadays. The Preece family, it is, performs the duty. One of 'em goes up the belfry, God knows how many steps every night, summer and winter; nine-thirty, or is it ten?'
He looked up at the church clock but it was too dark to make out where its hands were pointing. He was sure there used to be a light on that clock. 'Hundred times it rings, anyway.'
'Might only be a tradition, but there's still nobody on the streets,' Max Goff observed. 'Is there?'
'That's 'cause they're all in the pubs,' said Mr. Kettle. 'No, what it is, there's some old trust fund arranges for the bell to be rung. The Preeces get grazing rights on a few acres of land in return for keeping up the custom. Passed down, father to son, for four hundred-odd years. Being farmers, they always has plenty sons.'
They stood in the square until the ringing stopped.
'Crazy,' Goff said, shaking his big head in delight. 'Cray-zee. This is the first night I've spent here, y'know?'I've always stayed in Hereford. It's magic, Mr. Kettle. Hey, we still on the line?'
'I suppose we must be. Aye, see the little marker by there?'
A stone no more than a foot high, not much more than a bump in the cobbles. Goff squatted next to it and held his palms over it, as though he expected it to be hot or to light up or something. The dog, Arnold, watched, his head on one side as if puzzled by a human being who went down on all fours to sniff the places where dogs had pissed.
Two middle-aged women walked across the square talking in low voices. They stopped talking as they walked past Goff, but didn't look at him, nor Mr. Kettle, nor each other.
Then they went rigid, because suddenly Arnold's head was back and he was howling.
'Jeez!' Goff sprang up. The two women turned, and Mr. Kettle felt he was getting a very dark, warning look, the women's faces shadowed almost to black.
'Arnold!' With some difficulty – beginning to think he must have a bad spring under his own house, the way his rheumatism had been playing up lately – Mr. Kettle got down on his knees and pulled the dog to him. 'Sorry, ladies.'
The women didn't speak, stood there a moment then turned and walked away quickly as the howling subsided, because Mr. Kettle had a hand clamped around Arnold's jaws. 'Daft bugger, Arnold.'
'Why'd it do that?' Goff asked, without much interest.
'I wish I knew, Mr. Goff.'
Mr. Kettle wanted some time to think about this. Because for a long time he'd thought it was just a drab little town, full of uninspired, interbred old families and misfits from Off. And now, he thought, it's more than that. More than inbreeding and apathy.
He unclamped the dog's jaws, and Arnold gave him a reproachful glance and then shook his head.
There were lights in some town houses now. They lit the rooms behind the curtains but not the square, not even a little, folk in this town had never thrown their light around.
'OK?' Goff said, feet planted firmly on the cobbles, legs splayed, quite relaxed. Wasn't getting it, was he? Wasn't feeling the resistance? Didn't realize he was among the descendants of the people who'd pulled up the stones.
Mr. Kettle was getting to his feet, one hand against the wall, like his old bones, the brick seemed infirm. The people here, they cared nothing for their heritage.
And their ancestors had torn up the stones.
Goff was just a big white blob in the dim square. Mr. Kettle walked to where their cars were parked in a little bay behind the church overhung with yew trees. His own car was a dusty VW Estate. Goff had a Ferrari.
'Come to dinner, OK?' Goff said. 'When I've moved into the Court.'
'You're going through with it, then?'
'Try and stop me.'
'Can I say something?' Henry Kettle had been thinking about this for the past fifteen minutes or so. He didn't much like Goff, but he was a kindly old chap, who wanted at least to put out a steadying hand.
'Of course.'
Mr. Kettle stood uneasily in the semi-dark. 'These places…' he began, and sucked in his lips, trying to concentrate. Trying to get it right.
'I suppose what I'm trying to say is places like this, they – how can I put it? – they invites a kind of
A harsh laugh came out of Goff. 'Is that it?' he asked rudely.
Mr. Kettle unlocked his car door and opened it for Arnold 'Yes,' he said, half-surprised because he'd thought he was going to say more. 'Yes, I suppose that is it.'
He couldn't see the dog anywhere. 'Arnie!' he called out sharply. He'd had this problem before, the dog slinking silent away, clearly not at ease, whimpering sometimes.
He hadn't gone far this time, though. Mr. Kettle found him pressed into the churchyard wall, ears down flat, panting with anxiety. 'All right, Arn, we're leaving now,' Mr. Kettle said patting him – his coat felt lank and plastered down, as if he was the first dog ever to sweat. This was it with a dowser's dog – he'd pick up on the things his master was after and, being a dog and closer to these matters anyway, his response would be stronger.
