half-doors. I found the finger hole after groping, and pulled. Naturally I fell beneath it as it tumbled out, but that's what comes of slow mental processes. Doors open, rotten doors fall outwards. The interior was a revolting mess of bird droppings and feathers. A set of wooden steps and a platform on the riverward side seemed more trustworthy than the outside planks, perhaps because they were protected from weathering. I crept up, jogging cautiously and waiting for the creaks to subside before trying the next step. The wheel was visible through a slit. I pulled at the edges. Rotten pieces came away in my hands. The whole structure was dicey. Only the gears were intact and they were practically perfect.
The wheel was a working model, connected through its gear to an internal cogwheel about four feet across. Every single depression had been packed by grease, lovely thick grease, and the cogs were as clean as the day the gears had been cast. A solid locking lever held the teeth. Carelessly I unslipped the chain peg to see what happened. The wheel gave a great scream as its gears clanked round. I yelped and almost went through the crumbling floor. The outside rushing noise lessened instantly as the water pushed the wheel blades.
I looked out. The great bow wave had gone from the waterfalls. Instead the millrace was busily turning the waterwheel, but nobody could get near the thing to examine it while it was heaving round. The great thing sounded alive, whining and groaning and sighing like that. It unnerved me. I leaned back. More wood came away. I judged the turning cogs exactly right and hauled the lever into place. The distressing human noises stopped and outside the bow wave spurted again. I'd rather have that going all the time than the horrid shrill whines from the wheel. I locked the lever firmly with its peg.
It was rigid enough without it, but accidents happen. One kick and the wheel'd be off again, so careful. I'd had enough risks to last the day out.
The bird droppings below showed no disturbance for years. Every sign in the whole narrow millhouse indicated somnolence with nothing moved or replaced. I glanced upwards into the roof beams. You could see the entire recess, even to the odd feather stuck to the ties. Take away roof and walls and floor, and that leaves what? I couldn't reach any of the windows but they too looked as untouched as the rest. There was no real door. I stayed where I was for a minute to work it out.
Yet somebody, a devoted old engineer weary with years and illness, had carried a heavy tin of grease - not to mention a Roman lead coffin - along the glen and restored the simple machinery to pristine state. He'd greased axles, levers, every cog. That alone was a labour of love, because the wheel must have required stopping and starting a few dozen times. It had been a nervy business for me. For him less so but at least as exhausting. I pulled at the platform. A piece of wood came away near the gear wheel's axle. Nothing hung there. And a Roman casket's no matchbox. It's not the sort of thing you can tuck in a spare corner. No ledges, no shelves. A hollow millhouse. The gears themselves?
I felt in my pockets. A comb, a pencil, a few coins. I scraped at the inner gear with a milled edge. Whatever the metal, it was solid and not gold. That only left the outside. I stuck my head out through the slit. Seen from out there, the whole world seemed full of surging waterfalls. The waterwheel was inches from my face. Despite the wind and spray I could see the millrace's surface where the wheel blades deflected the torrent. I noticed the water-run for the wheel. How clean the stone slabs were down there. How very, very clean.
Now, why leave the wheel stopped? Engineers say machines are always better used.
But it was locked. So the millrace channel obviously needed to be kept dry. Perhaps while somebody went down and removed a slab - one of those clean slabs - below? Or perhaps to show the way? If you risked a climb down the millrace while the wheel was turning you'd be squashed like a strawberry between two stones. Thoughtful old Bexon.
I pulled back in, ecstatic. My bell was clanging delightedly. That old chest feeling was still there even when I heard her shout.
'Lovejoy! She was below, but very close. 'Are you in there?'
'Yes. Stay there. I'm coming down.'
I’ll come in.'
'No need, love. The platform's unsafe.'
She came crawling in anyway. I reached the top of the wooden stair.
'Did you find them?' Nichole's eyes were shining unnaturally bright. She looked lovely.
'Why did you bring that bloody gun?' She must have been scared by the gloomy woods.
She was smiling impishly. One good thing, she was as out of breath as me. 'I came after you, Lovejoy. To help, in case you got hurt. Did you find them?'
'I've guessed. It's here. The millrace, behind the slabs.' I'd been first. The coroner would have to acknowledge that.
'Show me, darling.'
She hurried creaking up towards me. I yelped and tiptoed back. The struts couldn't take both our weights.
'For Gawd's sake style='font-style:normal; mso-bidi-font-style:italic'>!' I told her to go easy.
'Show me!'
'Not here, darling.' I smiled and reached a hand to her. She smiled up at me and pointed the twelve-bore.
'Yes. Here, darling.' There was something funny about her smile. Her eyes were brighter still.
'Eh?'
'Show me, Lovejoy.' It was her eyes. She wasn't making a polite request. I was being told.
'It isn't up here,' I said lamely. 'It's down in the millrace.'
'Where?'
'Have you loaded that?' I asked.
Her smile became a little less diseased. A trace of humour showed. 'Certainly.'
'Look, Nichole, love.' I'd have to treat her gently, if only for the wonky platform's sake.
'All this has upset you. Let's get outside. This place isn't safe.' I edged towards her.
'I ran over Dandy Jack,' she said brightly, all confidence. 'So don't think I'm chicken, Lovejoy. I'll pull this.'
