The Guardian Stones (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-three

“What now?” asked Duncan Gowdy. He had taken his accustomed position behind the bar, though the villagers crowded into the Guardians pub were not there for refreshment. “If a town copper refuses to take us seriously, should we go to his superior?”

“I don't know that would help,” Grace said. She stood in front of the bar and had finished summarizing Constable Harmon's visit. She glared at Jack Chapman, who lounged against the fireplace. “Assaulting a policeman isn't going to win us any friends amongst the constabulary.”

Jack spat on the flagstones.

Edwin reckoned it was a comment on the constabulary rather than Grace. Despite the crowded conditions, each person, hunched in a chair, leaning against a wall, or simply standing with arms folded, was surrounded to a more noticeable degree than usual by that individual space loved by the British, an almost visible border around every person. The air between the spaces was thick with suspicion.

Grace took no notice of Jack's disrespect. “What we need to do,” she continued, “is organize a larger night patrol. We could base it on the bobby's beat model, you know, each person patrols a stretch of street, both ends touching other beats. That way, every street in the village will be covered numerous times a night.”

“Have we got enough men to do it?” asked Duncan. “It's not women's work.”

“Rubbish!” said Susannah Radbone. “A woman can blow a whistle as well as any man!”

Edwin thought Susannah must have an iron will to have shown up at the meeting, devastated as she was by her friend Emily's death.

Grace said, “You're right, Susannah. We'll have to draw up a list of volunteers for certain hours.”

Duncan reached under the bar and produced a pad and pencil.

“But what we supposed to be looking out for, Grace?” The question came from a slight young woman with a face as faded as the dress she wore with its ghost of a floral pattern. “It's like we're being tormented by something,” Her voice shook. “I daren't let my children out my sight. I wouldn't be here right now if me mum wasn't keeping an eye on them.”

A murmur of assent swept through the stifling room. “Is it tramps what's responsible?” asked another woman. “Skulking about in the forest, like?

“Or tinkers?” suggested an elderly man. “Folks calling themselves tinkers, I mean. Gives them an excuse to roam about and get up to no good.”

“Might it be deserters?” ventured a stout middle-aged woman. “Once they go on dog's leave they get vicious, and they're armed.”

Grace shrugged. “Could be any of them. On the other hand—”

“Witches is what it is.” The speaker was Martha's acolyte Polly. She had placed herself on a chair in the middle of the room, hands on her big hips, elbows thrust out as if daring anyone to get near to her. “Saw the manes of the Wainmans' horses matted something fierce when I passed by their field this morning. Them's witch's stirrups. Witches have been riding them horses. Last night the witches was riding.”

The faded young woman who had spoken earlier turned so pale it appeared she might vanish into air.

Heads turn immediately from Polly to Martha.

Martha met the unfriendly stares with a steady gaze and then cackled. “Could it be fairies stealing the kids?” she jeered. “Or should we look for cloven hoof prints up there—?” She jerked her head in the general direction of the stone circle. “You're all fools!”

“I would have reckoned you to agree with Polly,” Duncan said. “She got her crazy ideas from you, after all.”

Grace flushed. Was she supposed to defend her grandmother's irrational fancies?

Martha laughed again, sounding like an aged crow. “You won't listen to me when I give you fair warning. Why should I help any of you? Maybe you ought to be looking at those that commune with the bottle? There's as much evil in the bottom of a bottle as there is up on top of the hill.” She looked straight at Jack Chapman.

Jack stiffened. “What d'you mean? You hinting at me knowing about these missing kids?”

A farmer put his hand on Jack's arm. “Never mind about that. The old witch is looking to cause trouble.” He raised his voice. “What about Haywood? We all know he's peddling illegal goods. He deals with you, Duncan.”

The publican leaned forward over the bar. “What do you mean by that?”

“Obvious, isn't it?” came the reply. “You notice he's not here tonight. Flogging stuff on the black market attracts a bad element….”

Several men shouted at once and Grace hammered on the bar with a heavy glass ashtray, calling for silence. “Yes, Duncan deals with Haywood. But so do a lot of us. So does the vicar—excuse me, Mr. Wilson, these are desperate times—does that mean the vicar is responsible for these outrages?”

Edwin glanced at the minister, who faced Grace with a slight, pained smile as if to acknowledge the justice of her statement. Of course everyone already knew about his business and that of all their neighbors, it was simply never spoken of out loud. Oddly enough, the one person everyone was sure didn't deal with Haywood was Emily, despite her keeping the village shop. She was probably the only person in the village harmed rather than benefited by Haywood's lawbreaking. Did that mean anything?

Jack growled, “And what about Martha there? She wanders around at night.”

“I do no such thing,” Martha declared emphatically.

“But you do,” Susannah said. “I've seen you wandering up and down the High Street at all hours of the night!”

“And what was you doing up at all hours looking out of windows, spying on your neighbors?” Martha snapped back. “Or was you up in the forest looking down on Noddweir when you saw me stretching me legs when I couldn't sleep? Look at yourself. A broom to ride would suit you a treat, it would.”

“Who are you to throw accusations around, Martha?” shouted Jack. “How do we know you haven't been up there messing about in those stones? You filled my daughter's head with rubbish and worse than rubbish. Where's she gone? What do you know about it?”

Edwin thought if it was not for the press of bodies in the room Jack would have attacked Martha as he had attacked the policeman in Grace's front room. His eyes were feral. Like an animal, he reacted by instinct rather than reason. Edwin found the man frightening.

“What do you know, Jack Chapman?” squawked Polly coming to Martha's aid.

Martha rose and drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I'm not staying here to be insulted by this huffle-footed fool, Grace. I'm going home.”

“That's right, Martha,” Polly put in. “You tell 'em.”

“She says she's going home.” Jack emphasized the second word, “but is she—or is she planning more mischief?”

Edwin stood up. “I'll escort you back, Martha.” He took her elbow, noting Grace's little nod of thanks.

“And who is vouching for you?” Jack demanded. “You're not one of us. How do we know what you're up to?”

“I can vouch for the professor,” the vicar said in mild tones. “We have been in correspondence for a long time.”

“Did he ever put a snapshot in this correspondence?” Jack asked “For all we know, he bumped off the real professor and took his identity. Nobody ever seen him before, did they? He could be anyone.”

“That's nonsense,” Wilson said.

“Maybe so, but the devil can appear in a familiar shape.”

“True enough, Mr. Chapman,” the vicar said. “But what we have to agree is that the devil is indeed abroad in Noddweir. Can't you see he's turning us against each other? We must stick together, look out for each other and especially the children, otherwise who knows how it will end?”

“You're a regular Churchill,” someone muttered.

Susannah got to her feet and rapped on a table. “This squabbling is accomplishing nothing! Let's get back to business. Grace's idea of extended night patrols is excellent. I'll be first to volunteer. Put my name down, Duncan. Any hour will do.”

“She's got no authority to organize patrols or anything else,” sniffed Meg Gowdy from the end of the bar. “Would have been much better if your father was here, Grace. I mean, he's a real constable, or I should say was, now he's joined up. I don't suppose you know where he's serving?”

“Certainly not. They're not allowed to say.”

“But surely—?”

“I don't know.” Her tone had turned sharp. “Duncan, put me down too. We can work out the hours once we know how many volunteers we have. Edwin, I'll take Grandma home if you want to stay.”

“That's fine, I'll go with you,” Edwin replied. “Let me know when I'll be on patrol, Duncan.” As he said it Edwin couldn't help thinking how odd it was to be volunteering to patrol the midnight streets of a place he hadn't set eyes on a week before.

The trio left the pub. Grace looked grim. They walked a short way in silence and finally Grace said, “About my father, Edwin…”

Edwin gave her a puzzled look.

“Don't pretend you weren't curious. I could see you were.”

“Well, I couldn't help but notice you seemed….well…”

“It's not just that we're not supposed to ask where our family members are serving. And no, before you ask, I haven't tried to find out or arrange a simple code to use in letters.”

“Oh?” Edwin felt adrift. There were obviously things the British, under siege, took for granted as common knowledge of which he had no inkling at all.

“No,” Grace replied. “What I'm afraid of is that my father's in trouble and hasn't joined up at all.”

Chapter Thirty-four

The deserter ran a dirty, calloused finger over the incomprehensible carvings in the eroded stone. As if he would be able to decipher them by touch when they meant nothing to his eyes. Signs made by tramps, he guessed. And the tramps might still be nearby. The shallow scratchings were fresh. Automatically he felt for the revolver stuck in his belt. He had nothing to fear from tramps, did he? Besides, why would they bother him? He was now a tramp himself.

He examined the marks again. One resembled a malformed swastika. Maybe. There was another that looked like a crab, but almost surely wasn't. Muttering a curse, he straightened up.

The deserter—or tramp—ambled over to one of the larger stones, moving soundlessly as had become second nature to him. He had wandered for months through silent places. He wasn't sure what the date was but he knew the forest.

Pulling off his haversack, he sat down in the stone's shadow. Leaning back he felt roughness through his worn shirt. The shadow was remarkably cooler than the sunlight. He took a drink from his canteen and water dribbled into his beard.

He was enveloped by the scent of grass and the electric hum of bees. He watched a fat bumblebee crawl into a foxglove a foot from his face. The foxglove nodded with the bee's weight, swallowed it up, and grinned at him. He moved his gaze to the pale blue sky.

He didn't want to think. Mostly he wanted to forget. So many things he wanted to forget and so few he wanted to remember. He lifted the canteen again, gulping the contents down as if it was a good pint of ale though it was merely warm, brackish water.

The countryside was alive with tramps when he was a lad. He and his friends regarded them with a confused mixture of fear, contempt, and envy. They knocked at the back door and his mother gave them a few biscuits and a cup of milk. He always feared that one day she would open the door and find a knife at her throat.

The tramps were always present, though seldom seen. If a shed burned down, or chickens went missing, or clothes vanished from a line, it was said to be the work of tramps. Not a particular tramp, of course, because they were nameless and forever moving through. An elemental force like the wind, like evil.

When he and his friends saw the dusty men hiking down the main road they pelted them with pebbles and then ran, in delicious terror, knowing full well that their young legs could easily outdistance any vagabond who chose to pursue them. None did, although they screamed imprecations. Simply playing their part, he reflected later in life. More amused than tormented?

Yet at times, when he caught sight of a tramp cutting across a field, attired in a fabulous, multicolored plumage of unmatched rags, free as a fox, coming from who knows where, heading for the unknown, he almost wished he could abandon his comfortable house for the feral life.

And now he had.

He opened his eyes and felt the sun beat down. His lank, heavy hair might as well have been on fire. The shadow had crept off him. How long had he been unconscious?

He suffered odd spells lately. Abruptly he would be awake without any memory of what had happened immediately before. At times he found himself in a different place than he last remembered, without any idea how or why he had been there. Living off the land was taking a heavy toll.

There came to him the feeling he was being watched. He struggled to his feet and blinked at the stone circle. The eroded rocks might have been rotten, broken teeth arranged around a great, round maw, ready to gape open and swallow him. He saw nothing else.

As he moved, his shirt stuck to his skin. He was sweating profusely.

No. Not sweat. He looked down at his chest, numbly, unable to assimilate what he saw.

He ran a finger down the sodden shirt front. His finger came away red.

Blood.

He was soaked with blood.

***

The man who deserves to die looks surprised. He has run his fingers through the ritual blood and over the magic symbols on the stone. Yet his expression displays no hint of understanding. His startled gaze turns to the thick tangle of blackberry bushes surrounding the clearing. To him they make a solid wall, concealing anything behind them.

Shading his eyes he looks toward the sun, as if judging the time.

For him it no longer matters what the hour is.

Time stands still, on Guardians Hill.

For the dead.

He paces around inside the sacred circle. Finally he stops. He turns his back, and relieves himself against the tallest stone.

For that sacrilege he will suffer even more.

He whirls around suddenly. Puzzled. Frightened. Reaching for the gun at his belt. Then he appears to calm himself and walks back to where he slept, picks up his haversack.

He couldn't have heard such soft laughter, could he?

He leaves the circle.

No doubt he thinks he is leaving the hill.