‘You mean a stronghold of pagan worship?’
‘Still rich in stories of curses and the devil. So I guess what you had was a wilderness place for early Christian hermits to test their faith. A retreat for hermits and seers and prophets, riddled with springs – life-force. And I guess what you have now, Merrily – battered, hacked-at and under-esteemed – is the remains of an altar.’
‘An altar to Elgar?’
‘Sure, for some people. Hell, for a lot of people. But where was Elgar’s altar?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘He pulled music from out the air. He used to say that.’
‘And he listened to the trees.’
‘He had a thing going with trees,’ Winnie said. ‘This is true. I’ll explain all this to you one day, but not right now. I…’ She took Merrily’s arm. ‘You’re a spiritual person. Syd, too, but Syd was a soldier and he doesn’t talk about it.’
‘He’s a priest. He has to talk about it.’
‘He doesn’t talk about himself. You don’t know how he’s reacting. Sure, he’s helped Tim, but that doesn’t mean he understands.’
‘And you’re a writer.’
‘It’s a living,’ Winnie said. ‘Just about. Listen, I… Thank you for hearing me out. We can be friends, right?’
‘I hope so.’
‘I don’t have too many friends in Wychehill. It’s like I said about the rocks. Wychehill’s built on a place hacked out from the rocks. A great open wound, prone to infection. Part of what Tim’s doing at the church, with the music… it’s about that.’
‘Healing the rocks?’
‘As a priest, you should maybe think about that. Meantime, you remember what I said about Tim. And you tell… whoever… that wherever they’re holding him they should look out for him, you know what I’m saying? Day and night.’
Merrily had just a few minutes to get back to Wychehill to meet Annie Howe, for whatever reason. Only about three miles, so no problem. She drove past the British Camp car park at the foot of the Beacon, where two marked police cars were on display. Also, outside the hotel across the road, a bill for the Worcester Evening News which read: HUNT ON FOR MALVERN RITUAL KILLER.
Maybe the holding of Tim Loste was not yet official. But he looked far more guilty to Merrily now than he had before she’d spoken to Winnie Sparke.
26
Weight of the Ancestors
On the computer in the scullery, Jane tapped in the URL that Eirion had dictated. She found, with an unexpected sense of shock and dismay, the picture of herself looking what he’d described as pissed-off but sexy. Behind her, Cole Hill was serene and enigmatic in its morning gauze of bright mist.
Oh God, why had she let him talk her into this? Probably all that stuff about the firm young breasts inside the school blouse. Underneath, she was just a whore.
‘Yeah, got it,’ she said into the mobile. ‘What site is this?’
‘EMA,’ Eirion said. ‘Earth Mysteries Affiliates. It’s a campaigning outfit – kind of a mystical Greenpeace. Didn’t waste any time, did they? But then it’s probably the best story they’ve had all year.’
Under the picture, it said: Jane Watkins – fighting for Alfred’s ley. Below that, the hand-drawn map that she and Eirion had scanned, showing all the points on the Cole Hill line.
‘But it’s only been up a few hours. How could the Guardian have got on to it so soon?’
‘They wouldn’t have. What’s obviously happened is that one of the guys who runs the EMA site saw there was a potential news story here and scored himself a tip-off fee. I mean, I could’ve tried that, but the papers are never as interested if it comes from the people involved – just looks like you’re desperate for publicity.’
Eirion was at home in Abergavenny. He’d left school early; you could apparently do that on the smallest excuse when your final days as a schoolkid were ebbing away.
‘I’m not sure I am now,’ Jane said.
‘Not sure you’re what?’
‘Desperate for publicity.’
Feeling a little intimidated, to be honest. She told him about Morrell.
‘Jane, you can’t have it both ways. You started this. When are you going to call him back?’
‘The Guardian guy? Don’t know whether I am. I mean, the national press? Like, I thought it was OK pissing off the council, but that bitch can really damage me. And Mum, probably.’
‘I doubt it,’ Eirion said. ‘She’s only a councillor, isn’t she? A servant of democracy.’
‘ She doesn’t think she’s a servant. Vice-chair of Education? She thinks that’s serious power. It’s obvious she went straight to Morrell and told him that one of his students was making trouble for her mates.’
‘It’s the way they work. He’s their employee. But she couldn’t really threaten him. Least, I don’t think she could.’
‘Irene, Morrell is, like, insanely ambitious, and he’s quite young. Moorfield’s just a stepping stone. He’s not going to offend a powerful councillor for the sake of one student… who he hates and would really like to get rid of anyway.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘You’ve never seen him! All right… what should I do?’
There was a silence.
Come on, there shouldn’t be a silence! Eirion’s dad was a BBC governor in Wales and he had a cousin who was news editor on the Western Mail in Cardiff. Eirion was, like, totally steeped in the media.
‘I don’t know,’ Eirion said.
‘Thanks.’
‘Let me think about it. I’ll call you back.’
‘Soon?’
‘Soon. I’m sorry, Jane.’
‘It’s OK.’
She sat staring at the screen, feeling terminally forlorn.
Jane Watkins – fighting for Alfred’s ley. As Lol had pointed out, there was no proof that it was Alfred’s ley. Alfred might not even have known about it. Or, worse, he might have discounted it. There could be some element here that totally disqualified Coleman’s Meadow. Just because it looked right…
Could be she’d stitched herself up.
Jane couldn’t face looking at that smug pout any more and switched off the computer. Just sat there waiting, dolefully stroking Ethel who was sitting in the in-tray. Best thing would be to leave it for a day or two, give the dust time to settle.
On the other hand, the planning committee would be meeting next week to make a decision on Coleman’s Meadow.
Sure, she could leave it. She could walk away and spend the rest of her life regretting it, despising her own cowardice.
Or she could take some more time off school, in open defiance of her head teacher, and follow it through, because…
… Forget earth-energy, forget spirit paths; at the very least, whether Alfred Watkins had known about it or not, this was a rare alignment of ancient sacred sites which had somehow survived for maybe…
… Four thousand years?
Four thousand years of mystical tradition against one more year of schooling for somebody who wasn’t sure whether she even wanted to go to university at the end of it.
