As there was so little to see, and so little satisfaction to be obtained from what she did see, she soon stepped across the sparsely-littered floor to the ladder, climbed it, dropped the trapdoor back into place and returned to her room.
She was only just in time, for she had scarcely regained it when there was a tap on the door and a masculine voice asked whether her luggage was ready for the car. Fenella, whose heart had missed a beat, for she felt certain it was somebody who had heard the bang as she let the heavy trapdoor drop into place, replied by opening the door and assuring the youth Bob, who stood on the threshold, that she was ready to go.
The journey to Croyton seemed very much shorter this time, although the landlord, who presented to her a stony profile during the whole of the way, clearly had shed his usual joviality. She attempted to make conversation at first, but, finding him morosely unresponsive, she gave up and sat silent until they drew up at the garage.
Her car was in the forecourt and the garage owner came up immediately the landlord pulled in and Fenella stepped out.
‘All serene, miss,’ he said. ‘My boy had her out this morning and she’s running as sweet as you’d wish.’
‘Oh, good. What was the trouble?’ asked Fenella.
‘Had to strip the engine right down to find that out,’ replied the man. ‘Take too long to explain and you wouldn’t understand. It’s all wrote down on the bill. Five pound, if that’s all right.’
‘It will have to be, won’t it?’ As she handed him the money she saw the landlord drive away. She waited while the garage proprietor receipted the bill and then she added, ‘I don’t know how I’m off for petrol.’
‘Oh, I topped her up,’ said the man. ‘The only drop gone is what my boy used when he give her the run-around this morning.’
‘Then….’
‘It’s all on the bill. Not to worry. Good luck, miss, and don’t you never leave her unlocked again, not in a car park nor nowhere,’ said the garage owner impressively.
‘Why, had somebody been tampering with the engine? I thought as much,’ said Fenella, angrily.
‘Hard to say, but “safe bind, safe find” ain’t a bad motto,’ he rejoined. ‘Had the devil of a job to spot the trouble, we did.’
‘Oh, well, anyway, thank you very much. I’m very much obliged to you, of course.’
‘You’re welcome, miss. Hope to see you this way again some time.’
‘I doubt very much whether I shall be coming,’ said Fenella. She went over to her car, got in and started the engine. She felt as certain as she could be certain of anything that she had locked the car doors (as she always did) before she had gone to lunch at the More to Come that first time, but nothing would be gained and precious time would be lost by arguing the point. She let in the clutch and glided on to the road, wondering, as she passed the More to Come again on her way to the road she had left so heedlessly on the previous afternoon, whether she would see anything more of the Mayering.
It appeared, however, that the villagers had all gone home for their midday dinners. The main street was as quiet as it had been on her journey down. Out of curiosity and because she now felt that she was not pressed for time, she turned up the lane which led to the common where the seven springs trickled out of the hillside. The hut for the Guardians had been completed. She got out of the car and walked up to it, but it was untenanted. She stood at the edge of the hollow which cradled the waters and wondered which of the seven springs had the reputation for producing holy water. Hearing a sound which did not come from the streams, she turned round to find a tall man standing a few yards behind her.
He was so twined about with leafy branches that little of him was visible except his face, his hands and his shoes. Staring at him, Fenella saw that the branches were woven in and out of a sort of basketwork cage made of green withies. His face was black and so were his hands, but this, she realised, was because he was daubed with soot, the traditional chimneysweep effect of the traditional Jack-in-the-Green.
As she stood there he approached her and asked,
‘Do you want the lucky touch, my dear?’ He spoke in a gipsy whine and Fenella retreated a step.
‘Not if it means mussing me up. I’ve no means of washing off soot until I get to Douston,’ she said. As she spoke, the church clock chimed the three-quarters.
‘A quarter to two. That will be the Guardians, my pretty lady,’ intoned the man. There was the distant sound of what seemed to be a drum and fife band and then came the first of the villagers. Where they had all sprung from Fenella could not imagine, for the village street had been empty as she came through. She glanced to where she had parked her car, but realised that she would never be able to get it past the people who were now thronging the lane.
Wherever the music was coming from, it did not approach any nearer. Apart from the mass of pedestrians, all of whom seemed soberly dressed for a May-Day jamboree, there was nothing in the nature of a procession except
