The Dancing Druids

‘In the changing-room when the runners have all set forth,’ said O’Hara, nodding.

‘Oh, well, that takes care of that,’ said Laura carelessly. ‘Now, about this house. When do you think we should go there? Before or after Saturday?’

‘I think to-morrow would be best,’ said Gascoigne at once. ‘I don’t think to-night would be feasible… not for a first visit, anyway. After all, we may be barking up quite the wrong tree, although…’ he glanced at his cousin’s thin, dark face, deep eyes and proudly-carried head… ‘Mike’s hunches are almost monotonously sound.’

Laura looked upon the gifted youth with favour.

‘Attaboy!’ she observed. But she had sighed with relief when she heard that the two young men did not intend to visit the house that night.

Laura was bold as a lion, but was as superstitious as a warlock. She was full of dark fancies drowned in primordial deeps. She also believed, with healthy, female instinct, that dangerous and delicate missions were less unpleasant in the daylight than in the dark. With respect to the house itself, she was torn between a frantic desire to visit it and an equally strong determination not to go anywhere near its boundaries. She was, in fact, like a child who both dreads and longs for a ghost-story just at bedtime. The thrill would be worth it, the aftermath definitely not. In other words, although Laura was both practical and hard-headed, and although she was brisk, jimp and daring in all that she undertook, she was also the prey of an inherited belief in the legends, spectres and bogies of a Highland ancestry. It was one of the many reasons for her adherence to Mrs. Bradley, who was legend, spectre and bogie all in one, for she felt, without realizing it, that the greater demon kept lesser demons at bay.

However, before the three parted that night, they were pledged to visit the house very early on the following morning.

‘Well, now,’ said Gascoigne, climbing into the car, ‘boot, saddle, to horse and away!’ The morning was fresh and fine as the car drove off for the house with the four dead trees.

‘But I can’t see what we’re going to do when we get there,’ said Laura, when they had left Cuchester and were crawling along a very narrow lane on the east side of the level-crossing. ‘It’s been keeping me awake all night.’

‘We’re going to test Mike’s password,’ said Gascoigne mysteriously.

‘Has he got a password? Oh, yes, of course! I think I know it. Mrs. Bradley said something.’

‘1 bet she did,’ said O’Hara. ‘It must have stuck out a mile to anyone with any intelligence.’

‘Ah, well!’ said Gascoigne. As they approached the turning which led to the house, they had to pull over to the right almost into the ditch in order to pass a large lorry loaded with great blocks of ice such as are delivered to fishmongers in the summer. The lorry had broken down, and the two men in charge of it were seated at the roadside smoking cigarettes. The bonnet was raised, and there were tools lying on the edge of the grass verge.

‘Lazy devils,’ grunted Gascoigne, as the car crawled round the lorry.

‘Ice?’ remarked O’Hara. ‘I wonder where they’re going? They’re coming away from Cuchester, and there’s nowhere much down this way until you get to…’

‘Ice!’ exclaimed Laura dramatically. ‘I bet I know where it’s going and what it’s for! Tell you what! When we get to the house we’ll hide and watch it go in.’

‘But we don’t know… how do you?… oh, I see what you mean!’ said Gascoigne. He looked amused. ‘I should hardly think so, you know.’

‘Well, we could hide the car in that little wood we’re coming to, and snake along to the house, and keep watch for a bit. If the ice is delivered there, it might very well mean what I think it means.’

‘Tell you what,’ said O’Hara, who took Laura’s suggestion more seriously than his cousin appeared to be taking it, ‘let’s stroll back in a minute, and ask them where they’re bound for. That can be done without arousing any suspicion. Anyway, they won’t know, ten to one, what the ice is to be used for. That is, of course, supposing it is delivered to the house we’re thinking of. Though, for my own part… Oh, well, it won’t hurt to find out.’

‘It’s a very good idea,’ said Laura. ‘You two go back and ask, and I’ll keep the engine running, ready to make a dash for it if necessary.’

Gascoigne seemed doubtful, but O’Hara’s strange experience on the evening of the hare and hounds had predisposed him in favour of wild schemes, for nothing, he felt, could be as wild as his unforeseen adventure.

‘Come on,’ he said briefly; and the two young men got out of the car and strolled back towards the ice- cart.

They returned in about a quarter of an hour.

‘Go on,’ said Gascoigne to Laura.

‘Well?’ she said, after she had let in the clutch.

‘The name of the house is Cottam’s,’ said Gascoigne. ‘And these fellows are down on their luck. They’ve come from Poole Harbour, lost their way after Brandencote, and have been all night on the road. They’ve just about had enough of it. Ought to have been back by now. Nothing but trouble all the way. Never been to the house before, and will take care they never go again. (I’m glad you weren’t there to hear their language!) Anyway, they’ve given us a reason for calling. The ice is wanted urgently, so I’ve promised to say they are coming with it and I’m to swear it isn’t their fault that they’ve been so long upon the road.’

‘What do they think the ice will be used for?’ asked Laura. Gascoigne laughed.

‘They didn’t say what they thought it would be used for, but they said they could tell the people what to do with it when they got it, which is not, perhaps, quite the same thing. Of course,’ he added, ‘as we don’t know that the house with the four dead trees is now called Cottam’s, it’s quite possible that our destination is not the same as theirs. It was no good describing the house to them, because they only know it by name.’

‘But we do know it’s called Cottam’s! Mrs. Bradley and I know. Are the people called Cottam, or only the house?’ said Laura quickly.

‘The people are called Gonn-Brown.’

‘Gonn-Brown? But that’s a film company! I’ve seen their offices in Wardour Street. Mrs. Bradley vetted the psychiatry in one of their films.’

‘Really?’ said Gascoigne. ‘Remind me of that a bit later. Like the heavenly Yvonne Arnaud, (in Tons of Money) I’ve got an idea!’

‘Well, here’s the house,’ said O’Hara. ‘Drive past it, Miss Menzies, and we’ll park the car where it can’t be seen from the windows.’

Laura took the extremely narrow turning very slowly, and the car bumped over a culvert and then over a humped bridge a little farther along.

‘About here,’ said O’Hara.

Laura pulled up, and the three got out. She locked the car, and then they strolled back along the way by which they had come until they reached the gates. These were propped wide open, and the notice board with its terse instruction to keep out was now covered by a piece of paper affixed to the board by four drawing pins.

The paper read TRADESMEN ONLY.

‘This is us,’ said Gascoigne. ‘Look here, you’d better not come up to the door, Mike, in case you’re recognized. And you, Miss Menzies…’

‘I’m coming,’ said Laura flatly. ‘A man and a woman are far less remarkable than one or other on their own. Just give the message about the ice-cart, and then we’ll see how they react.’

Gascoigne did not argue. They walked up to the ecclesiastical door, and Laura stood looking at it whilst Gascoigne pulled at an ancient bell. They could hear this clanging, and then came the sound of footsteps along a stone-flagged passage. A woman opened the door. She was younger than middle-aged (but not at all youthful), full-fleshed, handsome and blowsy. Laura, with the swiftness of a panther, slipped to the outside of the porch.

‘Good morning,’ said Gascoigne to the woman. ‘We promised to bring a message. The ice you are expecting is on its way, but the lorry has broken down. They’ll be here as soon as they can.’

‘The ice?’ said the woman. ‘I don’t know anything about it. I’ll enquire.’

She went to the back of the house, leaving the front door open. Gascoigne watched her all the way along the stone-flagged passage until a door closed behind her. Laura made tracks for the gate. The woman returned. She looked Gascoigne over as though she were memorizing his face, and then said :

‘Sorry you’ve had your trouble. No ice expected here.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Gascoigne.