‘I don’t think there’s anything random in its execution, do you?’
‘I suppose not. It’s just so strange. I was expecting to find a large damp patch, not a work of art like this.’
He took in the strange human-like face surrounded by a wilderness of long hair which flowed down over the scaly body. It had two thick arms and two chunky legs ending in a pair of feet, but there was something about it – an eerie quality – which gave the impression that it wasn’t altogether human.
‘I wonder how old it is and what it means,’ Orla said. ‘Do you think anyone in the village will know?’
‘I’d say it’s been hidden for a fair few years, but we could ask Bill, couldn’t we?’
‘Good idea. He’s been in Lorford all his life. If anybody will know, it’ll be Bill.’
Orla was the one to ring Bill, calling his mobile number for the first time.
‘I can pop over right now if you like,’ he told her. ‘I’m just at the allotment. Give me ten minutes to put my tools away.’
Sure enough, ten minutes later and he was knocking on the door, setting One Ear off and alerting Orla to his arrival. He looked anxious, standing there, his cap in his hand as if he was about to enter a holy place.
‘Come on in, Bill.’
‘Everything all right? Young Luke okay?’
‘Oh, he’s fine. He’s discovered something in the basement and we’d like you to take a look.’
Bill blinked. ‘Nothing wrong, is there?’
Orla looked at Bill’s anxious face. ‘Don’t worry! We haven’t discovered any old bones. Although I suppose it is a body of sorts.’ She laughed as he blanched. ‘Come on – I’ll show you.’
She led Bill towards the stairs, venturing down into the coolness below, where Luke was examining the wall around the strange carved figure.
‘Hey, Bill,’ Luke said, briefly looking up.
‘Good Lord!’ Bill said as soon as he clapped eyes on it.
‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’ Orla said.
Bill scratched his head and looked at the room and the board which Luke had removed.
‘I’m taking it you’ve just uncovered this thing.’
‘Yes. Not what I was expecting to find. What do you make of it? We’re hoping we can find out something about it.’
Bill looked at the carving and shook his head. ‘Remarkable. I think you’ve got something a bit special here.’
‘Any idea what it is?’ Orla asked.
‘I’d hazard a guess that what we’re looking at is a representation of the Wild Man of Lorford.’
‘Wild Man?’ Luke said.
‘It’s part of Lorford legend.’
‘Do you know much about it?’ Orla asked.
‘Only what most folks know, that in medieval times – thirteenth century, I think, but I never was much for remembering dates and the like – a wild man of the sea was hauled up by fishermen. Nobody knew where he came from or if it was human or fish or something of the two.’
‘A merman?’ Orla suggested.
‘Your guess is as good as anyone’s,’ Bill said.
‘What happened to him?’ Luke asked.
‘Ah, well, that’s where my knowledge of him begins and ends.’
‘Oh,’ Orla said, frustrated.
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ Bill told her. ‘Is there nothing in the castle’s records?’
‘Not that I remember,’ Orla said. ‘Nobody mentioned this was hidden away in the basement.’
‘That’s a shame. The man who owned the place before you didn’t really live here at all. He had a bit of work done on it, but he spent most of his time in Italy. I don’t suppose he knew it was here either.’
Bill took a closer look at it, a frown of concentration on his face. ‘You know, there is someone who might know a bit more about this.’
‘Who, Bill?’ Orla asked.
Bill pursed his lips, looking as if he wanted to keep the information locked inside them.
‘Cranbrook. Ernest Cranbrook. Local historian. Used to live in The Saltings – the big house by the quay – but moved inland after his wife died.’
‘Have you a number for him?’ Luke asked.
‘No, but I know where he lives. We could take a chance and call round. But I should warn you . . .’
‘About what?’ Luke asked.
‘He’s a little . . . What’s the polite way of saying it? Eccentric.’
Orla smiled. ‘That’s okay,’ she told him. ‘I totally get eccentric!’
‘You’re okay going, then?’ Luke asked her.
Orla nodded. She could feel her heart racing, but knew it was with excitement about finding out more about the castle as it was about nerves in leaving its safety.
It didn’t take long for the three of them to leave the castle. A short drive in Luke’s van took them to the tiny hamlet of Sidbourne, with its fine flint church and a huddle of houses overlooking a green.
‘It’s that one there,’ Bill said, pointing to a red-brick cottage with a wonky chimney and an overgrown garden.
‘Ah,’ Luke said.
‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ Bill said, shaking his head in despair. ‘Before his wife died, she was a passionate gardener. The Saltings was always immaculate. But it was all left to go over after she passed. Used to drive Mildred Smy nuts. She was always banging on doors, trying to get people to keep their gardens neat and tidy. “For the greater good,” she’d say. I think she was relieved when Ernest sold up and moved out here.’
The three of them got out of the van and Bill walked ahead, opening a gate that was only half on its hinges and heading up a path made of brick but which had disappeared under a sea of weeds long ago. Bill tutted.
‘Breaks my heart. I should come out here and take it in hand.’
He approached the front door. Luke followed next, with Orla behind him. She had grabbed a favourite hat at the last minute but had decided not to hide behind sunglasses.
Bill rapped on the door, which was sun-bleached and had flaking paint. Orla noticed net curtains at the windows which were decidedly grubby. Or maybe that was
