Bury Her Deep (31 page)

We set off for the burial chamber of the Lucken Law in three cars, making quite a procession as we swept out of the gates. Hugh was conveying Mr Tait, naturally, and Miss McCallum and Miss Lindsay, showing a marked lack of sisterly respect, I thought, had plumped to be driven by him rather than me. Since Vashti Howie had a two-seater, that left Lorna and me to bring up the rear and me alone to try to raise Lorna’s bruised spirits after the abrupt departure of the Captain.

‘Perhaps you can show him the chamber another day,’ I said. ‘Just the two of you, I mean. I – um – I’d have thought that if he’s interested in its  . . . ambience, or its  . . . ancient – um – aura, it would be far preferable for him to see it without the rest of us all galumphing around spoiling things.’

This worked rather too well, I thought, if my object was simply to cheer Lorna up and not to put Alec in danger of an inescapable tryst. She looked positively entranced by the notion and there was a long dreamy silence before she spoke again.

‘They’ll be turning off in a minute, Mrs Gilver,’ she said. ‘Get ready to slow down.’ We had left the village and worked our way around the law beyond the gateposts of Luck House – really, the Howies had made a terribly inefficient journey down to the manse to meet us – when the two cars in front swung in at a road end and trundled down a drive to where a farmhouse sat, tucked under the slope of the hill above it. We passed straight through the farmyard and out the other side, ending up in a little cleft at the bottom of what was almost a cliff side, as though a portion of the hill itself had been carved away to make room for the farm. There was just space enough for the three motor cars side-by-side, although Mr Tait – the bulkiest of the party – had to squeeze out of Hugh’s passenger door with a little shimmy.

Lorna, as I said, was her cheerful self again; the two spinster ladies were very serious and correct, with pencils and notebooks ready to sketch points of interest or copy down ancient runes; Hugh was unbending slightly at the prospect of such an utterly
Boy’s Own Paper
adventure as was facing him. The surprise amongst our number came from the Howies. I had been expecting the usual valiant good cheer overlying the rather comical despondency, but they were as genuinely excited, keyed up almost, as I had ever seen them. Nicolette’s face showed a hectic flush and she smoked intently, not waving the cigarette around in a long holder, but puffing on it with every breath, her eyes darting. Vashti, in contrast, was as pale as her muddy complexion could ever get and rather glittery about the eyes, which flared as she caught me looking at her.

‘I’ve been dying to get a look at the place,’ said Nicolette, ‘but now that I’m here  . . .’

‘It’s giving you the creeps?’ I asked sympathetically.

‘Absolutely the willies,’ she said. ‘One envies Miss Lindsay with her sketchbook.
She
obviously has no qualms.’

‘We don’t have to go,’ muttered Vashti. ‘I don’t think I dare.’

‘Dare what?’ I said. ‘You’re surely not worried about a mummy’s curse, are you? Haven’t there been archaeologists and university scientists all over the place time and again?’ If truth be told, I was feeling rather less hearty than this made me sound, for the last twenty-four hours had seen some terribly murky deeds unfold: this chamber was very far from being a mere historical site in some people’s reckoning.

‘Scoff all you want to,’ said Vashti. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth  . . .’ But I was with Mr Tait on that one: firmly believing that there were rather fewer things in heaven and earth than one was wont to hear tales of, and that stout refusal to give the tales credence was perhaps best all round.

Standing just where the little cleft became almost a cave, overhung most disquietingly with jagged plates of fissured rock which looked as though they might slide out of place at any moment and plummet, spike first, to the earth, Mr Tait was gathering everyone’s attention.

‘Now then,’ he said, ‘it is perfectly safe inside, solid rock and all most carefully pinned and buttressed by our friends from the university not five years ago, so there is no danger. I have a lantern here, and Hugh has another. You don’t mind coming at the back, Hugh, do you? The going is not arduous – I see you have all been sensible and worn stout shoes. So let us begin.’

He turned and walked into the cave and then, moving to one side, he disappeared, leaving the rest of us to give a collective gasp.

‘Come along,’ said Mr Tait’s voice, sounding rather muffled. Miss McCallum strode after him and stopped at the point where he had vanished, standing with her hands on her hips, looking upwards, then she too walked as though into the solid face of the rock facing her. I followed.

Disappointingly, although I could understand how Mr Tait might have been unable to resist the little show he had given us, there was no mouth of a tunnel, tiny doorway with odd symbols carved above it, or any other fantastical portal to be found there, but just a set of rough steps which led between outcrops of rock, hidden from view and so lending themselves to theatricality, but otherwise, with their edging of brambles, and withered stinging nettle, looking very much like many another flight of steps hacked into a hillside up and down which I had been dragged during the country walks which punctuated the early years of my marriage. I started to climb, ignoring the brush of gorse and bracken against my skirt and hoping that we were not expected to go too far up the law on the outside before being admitted to its secret innards.

We went quite far enough, high above the hawthorn and elder which clothed the lower slopes and ending with a splendid view – almost worth it – of Wester and Over Luck Farms although the Mains was hidden by the trees below us. At last Mr Tait stopped, stepping off the path onto a flat place on the cropped grass, puffing like a bull walrus and with his spectacles slightly misted, and waited for everyone following to catch up with him.

‘Round here,’ he said. ‘Here we are,’ and he picked his way along a path as narrow as a sheep track which wound around and slightly downwards, veering out alarmingly to pass a rather twisted little rowan which was just about managing to cling to the rocky slope. On the other side of this, signs of interference by man could be seen. Earth had been shovelled out of place and was held back by restraining planks of rough wood, themselves buttressed by pegs driven deep into the ground. The resulting niche was floored with brick and there were four metal poles, rather rusted now, set in the corners which must have held up a canopy at one time. At the back of the niche was a plain wooden door, painted with creosote and shut with a sturdy padlock. Mr Tait fished in his trouser pocket and drew out a new-looking, very shiny key. He caught my eye.

‘Yes, Mrs Gilver,’ he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. ‘We very often have to change the padlock on this place, I’m afraid. Boys will be boys, I suppose, and it’s just too much of a temptation for some of the Luckenlaw rascals, this place sitting up here like the den of dens. Look, the staple and hasp are quite buckled with all the attempts over the years. And judging from these bright scratches, the scamps have been at it again not long since. Boys will be boys!’

While talking, he had undone the padlock, released the hasp and closed the padlock over the staple again, locking the door open, and now he grasped the handle and pulled. There was no spooky creaking as the door swung open, but beyond it was exactly what one might have hoped for – an older doorway, this one of stone and arched to a point at the top. Mr Tait took out a box of matches to light his lantern.

‘Shall we?’ he said. ‘Better late than never, my dear Hugh. Now ladies, the first thing you will notice is the surprisingly modern-looking stonework of the entrance way, which suggests that this place was in use until perhaps Georgian times and was repaired using the builders’ know-how of the day. Certainly these blocks you see in the lintel have been quarry-cut and dressed and could not be original, but as we go further you will be pleased to hear that the inner lintels are made of free surface slabs that  . . .’

The history lesson had begun and it carried on the whole time we were in there, much to the evident delight of what I came to think of as the three scholars of the party, the schoolmistress, the postmistress and, of course, Hugh. The three sensation-seekers, if I might lump myself in with the Howies and describe us that way, would have been better served by a deathly hush or whispered legends, but it is perhaps just as well that Mr Tait did not indulge in such things, for Nicolette and Vashti looked quite mesmerised enough as it was, even while the description of hair-strengthened mortar and estimations of the weights of the stones and their provenance and the flint marks upon them and the significance of the whale-jaw shape to the entrance pillars droned on and on. Hugh, of course, was transported. The only one of us, in fact, who strolled down the passageway to the burial chamber, quite unruffled, neither enchanted nor intrigued, was Lorna.

Even when we reached the chamber itself, more of a cave really, she stood as calmly as though she were in a museum, looking at the exhibits in well-lit glass cases safely behind velvet ropes. I, in contrast, had icy prickles up the back of my neck and was concentrating on not noticing anything identifiable in the many prints on the dusty floor, dreading to see where the bones of the poor girl who had lain here all these years might have rested on their recent brief return.

‘ . . . can’t have been
intended
for burial,’ Mr Tait was saying. ‘For as you know, a stone cist in the ground covered by a mound of earth is the normal thing in these parts, but it was probably used as a resting place for the king, or chieftain – hence the central sarcophagus – and for generations of his family too, judging by the number of cists which have been constructed over time.’ He waved a hand at the tiers of little cubby-holes, half hewn out and half built on, all around the walls of the chamber, turning it into something resembling a giant honeycomb. ‘The small size of these – smaller even than the usual short-cist – is thought to indicate ash burial or bone burial rather than the interment of recently deceased corpses.’

Beside me I could hear Vashti Howie’s breath, fast and shallow.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked her.

‘Perfectly,’ she said, sounding anything but; sounding strangulated, her dry throat clicking as she swallowed. ‘I’ve always hated little dark places, that’s all,’ she said, with an attempt at her usual drawl. ‘Too many games of sardines with wicked old uncles in my youth, you know.’ And she laughed, a sound ghastly enough to attract the attention of one or two others who turned towards her, frowning.

‘And were all of the remains in place when the chamber was discovered?’ said Hugh, turning away again.

‘None of them,’ said Mr Tait. ‘Perfectly normal, so I believe. The place would have been cleared for use as a fortress in war or as a storage stronghold. The archaeologists told me they’ve found chicken droppings and old beer flagons and goodness only knows what in some of the places they’ve opened.’

‘Had they ever found what they found here, though, Mr Tait?’ said Nicolette. She was tracing a path around the perimeter of the chamber, trying to make it look desultory, I suppose, but appearing as though she feared with every step to put her foot upon an adder.

‘Niccy,’ said Lorna, mildly as ever – one could not imagine Lorna Tait ever sounding sharp – but clearly rather shocked at her friend for mentioning so plainly what everyone else was busy pretending to have forgotten.

‘Good Lord,’ said Nicolette, suddenly, peering into one of the honeycomb holes. ‘Lorna darling, you have good eyes. What’s that in there? I can’t make it out.’

Lorna stared at her and made no move towards where she was pointing.

‘What’s this?’ said Hugh. ‘What have you found?’ but he could not cross to where Nicolette stood, since Miss McCallum was peering intently down at the floor as Mr Tait described its construction and her broad beam was stuck immovably in his path.

‘Oh Nic, don’t tease,’ said Vashti, pleadingly. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘No, Vash,’ said her sister. ‘Look, there’s something in there. Lorna?’ Nicolette clasped Lorna’s arm and wheeled her round so that they were both squinting into the darkness of the opening. Mr Tait had gone quiet and was watching them, and maybe it was just the upward shading from the lantern but he appeared to have a look almost of glee upon his usually kindly face.

Lorna stepped forward at last and stretched her arm into the dark place. We all heard the gritty scrape as she began to pull something out.

‘Ugh,’ she said, turning her head away as though to save herself from breathing in an unpleasant smell.

‘Please don’t. Stop it,’ said Vashti at my side, and I put an arm around her. Lorna Tait turned back to face the rest of us, cradling a white bundle in her hands, then a sudden look of horror flashed across her face and she dropped the bundle which unfurled like a sail, releasing a puff of dust.

‘What—’ said Nicolette.

Miss McCallum and Lorna both screamed and Miss McCallum lurched backwards, bumping into Hugh and setting his lantern swinging.

Vashti Howie crumpled in my arms and sank to the floor.

‘A rat!’ shrieked Miss McCallum. ‘A rat!’

‘Nonsense, only a mouse,’ said Hugh.

‘Father,’ wailed Lorna, putting her hands over her head as the shadows skirled about and the screams echoed and echoed again.

‘Where did it go?’ said Miss Lindsay. ‘I’ll kill it, Hetty. I won’t let a rat touch you.’

‘It’s a mouse!’ said Hugh.

‘Oh Hugh, for God’s sake,’ I said. ‘Rat or mouse, can’t you see this woman has fainted? And can’t you steady that damned lantern before we all run mad?’

Hugh, stung at being addressed that way in public by his own wife, although I don’t think anyone was listening, heaved into action at last, handing me the lantern and stooping to lift Vashti Howie into his arms.

‘You go ahead with the light, Dandy,’ he said. ‘We need to get this lady some air.’

‘It was just a dust sheet,’ said Mr Tait, when the others had joined us on the little brick platform, where I was flapping my handkerchief rather uselessly in Vashti’s face and wishing I had some water to splash on her. ‘They must have left it behind when they were working here.’