'Mmm.'
'So Ma Wagstaff and Milly Gill and co. and… Willie? Is Willie in this?'
'Willie used to be a carpenter.'
'He did too.'
'And he's good with doors and locks. And then there's that mate of his, the other chap in the band…'
'Eric.'
'He works for a security firm now, in Manchester. The same firm, as it happens, that was hired to keep an eye on the Field Centre.'
'Bloody hell.' Moira slumped back in her chair, it's beyond belief. It's like one of those old films, where everybody's conspiring. Whisky Galore or something. So the body's back home, in Bridelow soil.'
'It didn't go completely right. Milly says that right at the last minute Ma started getting funny feelings about it going in Matt Castle's grave.'
'I'm no' surprised.'
You've got to purify yourself. Of course.
'So she made up this witch bottle to go in Matt's coffin. It's got rowan berries in it, and red cotton and… the person making up the bottle has to pee in it.'
Moira said, 'Rowan tree, red thread / Holds the witches all in dread.'
'What?'
'It's a song,' Moira said.
'Well, it's the wrong way round. Mostly it was the witches themselves who use the bottles, to keep bad spirits at bay. The spirits are supposed to go after the red berries or something and get entangled in the thread. It's all symbolic.'
'So she wanted to save Man from evil spirits?'
Or maybe she wanted to save the bogman from something in Matt.
'I don't know,' Cathy said. 'I'm the Rector's daughter. I'm not supposed to know anything. We turn a blind eye.'
'But the bottle never got in the coffin, did it?'
'I don't know.'
'The supposed contaminant remains.'
'I don't know, Moira.' He stood at the edge of the grave looking down. Forcing himself to look down.
Sometimes when he prayed he thought he heard a voice, and the voice said. You have a task, Joel. You must… not… turn… away.
Sometimes the voice called him Mr Beard, like the voice on the telephone, a calm, knowing voice, obviously someone inside the village disgusted by what went on here.
One day, Joel hoped, he would meet his informant. When he encountered people in the street or in the Post Office, he would look into their eyes for a sign. But the women would smile kindly at him and the men would mumble something laconic, like 'All right, then, lad?' and continue on their way.
He stepped back in distaste as a shovelful of grave-soil was heaved out of the hole and over his shoes. Surely they had to be six feet down by now. He wondered whether, if they kept on digging, they would reach peat – the Moss slowly sliding in, underneath the village.
Insidious.
He looked over his shoulder and up, above the heads and umbrellas of the silent circle of watchers, at the frosty disc of the church clock, the Beacon of the Moss.
The false light. The devil's moon.
Perhaps that had to go too, like the pagan well and the cross and the monstrosity above the church door, before the village could be cleansed.
'More light, please.'
One of the policemen in the grave.
'You there yet?' The Inspector, Ashton. 'Swing that light 'round a bit. Ken, let's have a look.'
'Deeper than we expected, sir. Maybe it's sunk.'
'That likely, Mr Beckett?' The light swept across the verger's face.
'Aye. Happen that's what… happened.' Alfred Beckett's voice like crushed eggshell.
Ashton said, 'Right, let's have this one out, see what's underneath.' Ernie Dawber had returned after dark from his weekly mission to the supermarket in Macclesfield, bringing back with him a copy of the Manchester Evening News, a paper that rarely made it Across the Moss until the following day.
The front-page lead headline said.
MASSIVE HUNT FOR BOGMAN
A major police hunt was underway today for the Bridelow bog body – snatched in a daring raid on a university lab. And a prominent archaeological trust has offered a?5000 reward for information leading to the safe recovery of The Man in the Moss.
'We are taking this very seriously indeed,' said…
'Oh, dear me,' Ernie Dawber said to himself, the paper spread out on the table where he was finishing his tea – toasted Lancashire cheese. 'What a tangled web, eh?'
Trying to keep his mind off what the doctor'd had to say. Well, what right had he to complain about that? Least he'd got a doctor of the old school who didn't bugger about – while there's life there's hope, medical science moving ahead at a tremendous rate; none of that old nonsense, thank the Lord.
Might just drop in and see Ma Wagstaff about it. Nowt lost in that, is there?
The doorbell rang.
Ernie didn't rush. He folded up the Manchester Evening News very neatly, preserving its crease. If it was Dr Hall, he didn't know what he'd say. As an historian he was glad the experts had got their hands on this particular body, been able, with their modern scientific tests, to clarify a few points. But equally Ma Wagstaff, with her instincts and her natural wisdom, had been right about putting the thing back.
Thank God, he thought, pulling at his front door, for instinct. All too aware that this was not something he himself possessed. Bit of psychological insight perhaps, now and then, but that wasn't the same thing.
So it had to be done, putting the bogman back in Bridelow earth. Commitment fulfilled.
All's well that ends well.
Except it hasn't, Ernie thought, getting the door open. It hasn't ended and it's not well. Lord knows why.
'By 'eck,' he said, surprised. 'And to what do I owe this honour?'
On his doorstep, in the rain, stood four women in dark clothing – old-fashioned, ankle-length, navy duffle coats with the hoods up or dark woollen shawls over their heads. A posse from the Bridelow Mothers' Union, in full ritual dress. Could be quite disconcerting when you saw them trooping across the churchyard against a wintry sunset. But always a bit, well, comical, at close range.
'Can we talk to you, Mr Dawber?' Milly Gill said from somewhere inside whatever she had on.
Ernie identified the others in a second: Frank's wife, Ethel, Young Frank's wife, Susan. And Old Sarah Winstanley, with no teeth in. Probably the only remaining members of the Union fit enough to go out after dark this time of year.
He felt a warm wave of affection for the curious quartet.
'Now, then,' he said cheerfully. 'Where's Ma?'
No instinct, that was his problem.
'Thought you knew everything,' Milly Gill said in a voice as cold and dispiriting as the rain.
'I've been out,' Ernie said, on edge now.
Milly said quietly, 'Ma's died on us, and the churchyard's full of policemen digging up Matt's grave. Can we come in, Mr Dawber?' Matt Castle's coffin came up hard.
It was like a big old decaying barge stuck in a sandbank; it didn't want to come, it wanted to stay in the dark and rot and feed the worms. They had to tear it out of the earth, with a slurping and a squelching of sodden soil and clay.
'Hell fire, you'd think it'd been in here years,' one of the coppers muttered, sliding a rope under one end, groping for one of the coffin handles.
