There must be an explanation of this, and it was not far to seek. The village, like others she knew, must have been abandoned at the time of the Black Death, and when it came to life again the old church was ruinous and so a new one had to be built. What she had seen of the church she had already visited bore out this view. The lych-gate and the tower, the windows and the chancel screen, the pillars and the interior of the roof gave sufficient indication of a building belonging to the very late fourteenth or early fifteenth century. Such a building, in a remote village outside the fashionable areas of its time, could even date from the second half of the fifteenth century, she reflected, as, skirting the trapdoor, she walked towards the door which she thought must lead out to the street.
It was bolted both top and bottom, but the bolts, like the door itself, were comparatively modern. They slid back noisily but with well-oiled ease, and she found, as she had expected, that she was in the main street of the village some fifty yards or more from the car-park entrance to the inn. The sun, however, was getting low and the end-of-April air was uncomfortably chilly. Fenella closed the door, bolted it, and decided that she might as well put on a coat before venturing abroad.
Her desire for fresh air, she realised perfectly well, was really only half of what she had in mind. Honesty compelled her to admit to herself that, simply because she had been advised to remain in her room, she was fully determined to be out of it. She had no real desire to wander about the village.
The electric light outside her door was still on, and as she put her key in the lock she heard footsteps coming along the corridor. Almost in a panic, although she despised herself for this, she slipped inside her doorway and closed the door as quietly as she could. A moment later there was the sound of somebody just outside, followed by a tap on the panels. It was Clytie, who, it appeared, had come with a message and to collect Fenella’s supper-tray. She had picked this up from the floor and had it in her hands as Fenella opened the door. She spoke up at once.
‘Good thing you thought to leave the light for me, so as to show me where you’d dumped the tray,’ she said blithely, ‘else I might have put my number-nine foot in it, mightn’t I, then?’
‘Yes, I suppose you might,’ said Fenella. ‘Are there many people in the bar? I mean, is the inn very busy?’
‘Fillin’ up very nice, that is. Only to be expected on….’
‘Mayering Eve,’ said Fenella, finishing the sentence for her. ‘I’m getting a bit tired of Mayering Eve, do you know.’
‘Did you want another drink, miss? That’s what I was knockin’ on the door to find out.’
‘Oh, no, thanks. I had thought of going out for a breath of air, that’s all.’
‘Best you wouldn’t. There’s riff-raff about as soon as it starts to get dusk-fall.’ She balanced the tray and, jerking her head towards the newel staircase, she added, ‘And best not start rannygoozlin’ about down there. Might break your neck on them stairs, and, anyway, master might not take it kindly, not on Mayerin’ Eve.’
The advice, more especially as it had been given by a girl much younger than herself, irritated Fenella. She waited until Clytie had gone, then she put on her hip-length car coat, put a pound note and some loose silver into her pocket, hid her handbag under the bedclothes to save the trouble of taking it with her, locked her room, dropped the key (fortunately an ordinary small one on a short piece of string) into another pocket, groped her way down the stone staircase and was soon in the street. She looked over to where, black, sinister and desolate against the declining sun, she could make out the humped, strange outline of the prehistoric fort, and wondered whether, after she had made the people at the post-office telephone the garage first thing in the morning, there would be time to explore the encampment before the mechanic brought back her car.
Scarcely had she left the inn when she heard swift footsteps behind her. They sounded purposeful and she thought of Clytie’s no-doubt friendly advice, the remark Mrs Shurrock had made with reference to the villagers ‘getting fresh’ and the landlord’s even more definite warning that Mayering Eve was no time for pretty young women to be abroad.
With all this in mind, Fenella hastened her steps and realised immediately that she was being pursued, for the footsteps behind her broke into a canter and seconds later a man had caught up with her and clutched the sleeve of her coat.
‘All right! Don’t be affronted, much less scared,’ said he. His voice was young, cultivated and pleasant. ‘It’s only me.’ Fenella endeavoured to free herself, but, at this, he put both arms round her, holding her own arms firmly to her sides, and went on: ‘You can scream, of course, if you like, but nobody pays any attention to a screaming girl on Mayering Eve. It’s all part of the fun and games. Look here, now! You jolly well go straight back to the pub and bolt your bedroom door. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here, but I was in the bar just now and that girl Clytie mentioned you, so I nipped out and hung around, just in case you should decide to do anything foolish.’
‘Such as what?’ asked Fenella, as, realising, apparently, that she was not proposing to make a bolt for it, he freed her arms from his embrace although he kept tight hold of her sleeve.
‘Such as going up to that hill-fort,’ he
