‘Couldn’t he fly?’
‘Not from the top of some Indian mountain, which is where he’s gone climbing. Don’t suppose he’s even got the news yet awhile. Very sudden it was, the Squire’s death, and not expected for another twenty years, so the maiden ladies did prophesy.”
‘Who are the maiden ladies?’
‘Them that acts as keepers of the wells. ’Tis another old custom, that’s all. Do you go off and get your breakfast. That’s all ready dished up in the kitchen, and Clytie’ll bring it to the lounge. Tea you’ve had, so coffee I’ve made, but tea again you can have, if you’d prefer it.’
Fenella settled for coffee. She enjoyed her breakfast and when she had finished it she returned to her room for a coat before she went out for her walk. As the door she had used on the previous evening would save the up-and-down trek through the house and also forty yards or so of road-walking, she elected to go down the stone stair outside her bedroom door, telling herself that she was not in the least afraid to go that way again.
The trapdoor was still closed, and it was easy to be brave at that time of day. There was the iron ring in the lid and Fenella yielded to the temptation this offered. It was heavy work, but she was both strong and determined. When she had opened up, she went back to the foot of the stair and listened, but there was no sound from above, so she returned to the black hole and very cautiously groped her way down the ladder, feeling for each rung as she went. It was an eerie experience and when, after a short descent, she found her exploring foot on firm ground, she wondered why she had made the attempt, for it was so dark in the crypt that there was nothing to be seen and she had a superstitious feeling that if she proceeded further she might commit some sort of sacrilege by treading on a dead man’s bones.
She remained where she was, but as soon as she had both feet on the floor of the crypt, she turned round and tried to accustom her eyes to the thick darkness. After about two minutes she gave up the attempt.
‘Black as the pit, from pole to pole,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Next time I’d better bring a torch or at least a box of matches.’ She listened again, to make certain that nobody was up above, and then climbed back towards the gleam of daylight which came from the cobwebbed window at the side of the street door. She closed the lid of the trap, but it was so heavy that, once she had raised it a little beyond the perpendicular, she was obliged to let go, and it fell into place with an ear-shattering boom which, she felt sure, must be audible even as far off as the kitchen and the saloon bar. She leapt to the big door, opened it and was in the street almost before the reverberations had died away.
She walked briskly towards the hill-fort and found it deserted. There was a reminder of last night’s happenings in the form of the remains of the gigantic bonfire and, near it, evidence of the stamped-down grave. She explored the banking of the primitive castle. It was of an early Iron Age type and looked as though it had never been completed. She made the round of it and then returned to the village, wondering whether there was any chance that she would encounter the young man whose arms had imprisoned her so unceremoniously the evening before. One object which she had in returning to the village was to purchase a small electric torch, if such an thing was to be found. She supposed that the post-office which, as she already knew, was combined with a shop, was the likeliest place to try.
She did not remember having passed the post-office on her way to the More to Come, but she found that, some way past the row of Georgian dwellings she had noticed previously, there was a sign with an arrow which pointed down a side-street, and, following this, she found the shop without difficulty.
It was presided over by two middle-aged women who were undoubtedly sisters. One of them appeared to manage the post-office side of the business, the other was in charge of the shop. Fenella, who had already discovered that the telephone kiosk outside the shop had indeed been put out of order, bought some stamps and then asked whether she might use the post-office telephone.
‘Oh, dear me!’ said the woman who had sold her the stamps. ‘Out of order again, I suppose, the one outside. Those dreadful hooligans! But I can’t allow you behind my counter, I’m afraid. Perhaps you would remit your call through me.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Fenella. ‘It isn’t a particularly private matter.’ She gave the exchange and number and then the message. ‘Please tell them that I expect to be with them at about six this evening,’ she concluded.
The woman carried out this instruction and then added:
‘I wonder whether you ought to have telephoned a telegram? I believe so, you know. There must be some sort of regulation, mustn’t there?’
‘What do I owe you for the call?’ asked Fenella bluntly. ‘You can treat it as a telegram, if you like, but, after all, it isn’t my fault if the public telephone is out of order, is it? Perhaps you’d like to connect me with your supervisor.’
‘Oh, dear me, no. That will be quite unnecessary. It’s only that there are so many rules and regulations, you see, that sometimes one hardly knows what to do for the best.’
Fenella turned to the other grey-haired woman. This one was sorting over a display of birthday cards, but more in order to appear to have some occupation than because the cards really needed to be re-arranged.
‘I don’t suppose you can
