‘Ooooh.’ My moan frightened myself and a couple of little black ducks. They skittered flapping across the river. The dad swan came hissing along to see what the hell.
I shook myself free of the collywobbles and gave a last glance at the hillside. Jonathan Chase had struggled out, tumbled down the hill. Naturally, in the confusion and the rainstorm the rescuers had assumed he had come up through one of the apertures they
knew
connected to the tunnel. So they had floundered about, trying to open the vent-holes. Nobody had thought of the ancient well. Or had they believed it effectively closed off?
For absolute certain the little decorated carriage with its precious cargo would still be there, precisely where the railway tunnel intersected the course of the well. I had to get in. Presumably the deep, covered half of the well was still covered up by the tunnel’s flooring. I hoped to God it was. I didn’t fancy breaking into a tunnel only to go tumbling through a hole in its floor into a mile-deep derelict well.
I pedalled home to the cottage. As far as solving the problem went, I had reached approximately where the old doctor had before he died, though maybe he hadn’t guessed about the well. It was then that it hit me.
I had to stop by the roadside with the shock. Of
course
the old quack knew about the well. And so did Leckie. Relics. Religious history, Leckie’s specialist subject. There’s nothing so religious as a well, is there?
Jerry from the garage delivered my old crate soon after I got back. He was amused.
‘Give you ten quid for it, Lovejoy,’ he quipped. ‘For the string alone.’
‘Get knotted, Jerry.’
‘Seriously,’ he joked. ‘Melt it down and sell the glue.’
‘Jealous.’ I signed the chit with a flourish. The price on the bottom made me swallow. Moll was going to have a lot of explaining for Tom. I hoped.
As soon as Jerry’s estate van had gone I locked up and hurtled into town.
Our library now shuts on Saturday afternoons, this being the only time most people can get to it. It’s part of our lifestyle nowadays, establishing social services skilfully beyond anyone’s reach. This time I just streaked in before they could shut the door.
‘All out, please. We’re closing now, Lovejoy.’
Miss Vanston tried to block my path. I walked past into the reference section.
‘Not be a minute, Marlene.’
She hates being called Marlene. ‘Mr Scotchman! Mr Scotchman!’
She ran off for the librarian in a flurry while I dug out Attwater’s book on Saints and a couple of local
histories. They tried to prise me out twice until I lost my temper and pointed a finger, smiling one of my special smiles, at Scotchman; without a word. After that they left me alone, but Marlene banged the books about as they restocked. There was only her and the uniformed watchman left by the time I’d found what I wanted.
In Speed’s map of the area the well was marked
ST OSYTH’S WELL
. That was good enough for me. The little coastal resort town of St Osyth is where Leckie lived. What more natural than him taking an interest in the reliquaries and place names associated with his own village? I stood up and stretched, weary as hell. After all, I’d been on the go since an early hour. And, thinking of Julia, the previous day had been tiring as well. Marlene was still slamming piles of books about as I left. She’s a shapely thirtyish. She believes in Good Works, like not letting the public touch her books except as humble supplicants.
‘See you, Marlene.’ I clicked out through the turnstile. ‘Think of me in bed.’
She ran a hand exasperatedly through her hair. ‘Lovejoy. Why do you . . . why do you take no
notice
of anybody?’
What an extraordinary question. I stared at her. I take notice of other people all the bloody time. ‘It’s other people make me bad, love,’ I said with conviction. ‘Like you. I start out holy every single morning.’
I went out into the brightening day.
Y
ONKS AGO, THE
chances of holiness were largely confined to eccentric nuts, warriors (of the right sort) and royalty. It’s no surprise to learn that St Osyth was not only a raving beauty, but also sexy queen to Sighere, king of hereabouts in the seventh century. Eventually, she decided to go straight, and founded a nunnery at the tiny coastal village of Chich. After some sea rovers massacred the lot we beatified her as a martyr and Chich village became St Osyth. The place where she built her convent’s still there. Leckie’s windmill is only a stone’s throw.
You might think it sacrilegious, but there’s a thriving trade in religious relics. Not as frank as in the Middle Ages, when the faithful would slice a finger off a dead – and even a dying – saint for luck. I believe our approach is a lot healthier. The trouble is finding
genuine
relics. Some are well authenticated. Others, like those paintings of the Blessed Virgin allegedly done by St Luke the Evangelist, are a bit dicey or even outright frauds. Yet Leckie only
studied.
Margaret didn’t say he
collected
– did she? I was sure she was right. Tinker or maybe Lemuel would have sussed that out before long, or maybe I’d have learned of it through auctions.
So Leckie, interestedly examining St Osyth’s Well in the course of his hobby, encountered Dr Chase. Maybe they’d got talking. Perhaps they’d agree to try for the discovery together. Things were falling into place.
Crossing the main London road, going out towards the village, I became aware of Jake Pelman. He was driving a natty little Japanese car. He gave me a sour nod, smiling. I didn’t like that. It isn’t often Jake cracks his ugly face. I gaped at all the cars that passed after that. Nobody looking like two Brummies full of aggro, thank God.
I stopped to use the phone at the village shop. Elspeth was in the surgery, presumably lashing a huddle of sweating slaves to a distant drumbeat.
‘Lovejoy!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m so pleased you rang! I tried to wake you this morning as I passed but you were so soundly asleep –’
‘Look, love,’ I interrupted. ‘One thing. About Doc Chase.’
Her voice suddenly went all smooth and professional. ‘Yes, sir,’ she cooed. ‘I’ll arrange another appointment. Just one second while I shut the door . . .’ She came back a little breathlessly. I guessed Nurse Patmore had popped her head in. ‘Go on, Lovejoy.’
‘When
did Doc go, er, fishing?’
‘I told you,’ she replied, puzzled. ‘Every day he possibly could.’
‘No, love. I mean
when.
Morning? Afternoon?’
‘Oh, always as early as he could. Early morning.’
‘Did he ever say why?’
‘Something to do with the light, I think. I vaguely remember he said something about the light once.’
‘Elspeth,’ I said. ‘If I come out of this alive, you can have me for a whole week. I promise.’
I rang off before she could draw breath. The last link was in the chain.
The clever old man. He wasn’t working out how to get into the hillside. He hadn’t been puzzling over a mystery at all. Because to him there just wasn’t any mystery. He’d known everything all along, that the entrance to the tunnel was through St Osyth’s Well. You can see the small hollow easiest in the morning light, so you could tell if it had been tampered with. By late afternoon it is in shadow. It was all that simple.
He’d not been searching for anything. He’d just been keeping watch. He was a guardian.
The rest of the day I planned with obsessional detail. If my onslaught on the tunnel was going to fail it wouldn’t be because I’d forgotten some obvious and essential tool. I determined to take everything but the kitchen sink. And I’d take that, too, if I thought it would improve my chances.
That afternoon I thought of ringing people to explain my plan of action, at least roughly where I would be, but gave up. Tinker would be as petrified as me. Lemuel’s known usefulness is a flat zero. Patrick would only have hysterics. All the others would try to beat me to it.
Helen and Margaret would dissuade me as much as possible. Moll had abandoned ship. Pat would tell Maslow. Sue was housebound, and in view of her suspicions about me and, every other woman in the known universe she’d more probably chuck me down the bloody well than help. I was on my own.
It’s easy to be brave on an afternoon with the post-girl calling and bright daylight everywhere. People came and went along the lane. One or two waved. I
waved back. All innocence and peace.
By four, I had a heap of things on my divan. It was still difficult getting about the interior of the cottage. Moll’s treen and furniture kept catching my knees. I’m no mountaineer, but I assumed the job would call for some climbing. I fetched in my clothesline to add to the pile. It looked strong, and felt in good nick. I have a few tools and I picked the best. My hammer’s pretty worn but looks tough. I included that, and got as many eight-inch nails as I could find. I use those when I’m making heavy picture frames, and managed ten of them. I tied them up with string and put them in a polythene bag.
Torch. I wish I was the sort of bloke that worries about batteries and always has spare bulbs, but it’s no good. I’m not, and I had no money for any, so it had to go on the pile as it was. I included a ball of fine string. In the days when I could afford to collect flintlocks I’d have had a choice of several luscious miracles of firepower. I had one last look for Moll’s frightening pistol in case she’d left it for me in some secret hidey-hole. No luck. To this day I don’t know whether I’d have taken it if I’d come across it in some drawer. Maybe it’s a mistake to look back and quiz yourself about motives, because they’re a waste of time. I found a small hand fork and a hand shovel that goes with it. On to the pile.
I’d heard it tends to be cold in caves. I laid out two singlets, underpants, socks and my worsted suit. It’s the only one I have, and hardly looked typical climbing gear, but it’s made of the proper stuff. On impulse I added three unused hankies. Shoes bothered me. The plimsolls from this morning’s jaunt were still wet through. I lit a fire and put them on the hearth,
deciding to travel in shoes and change when climbing down to the tunnel. I added a box of matches. Funny how your mind works. I brought a propelling pencil with some spare leads and a few squares of white card, maybe thinking of floating a message out on some chance subterranean stream should that ghastly need ever arise. Which, of course, it would bloody well not. I was going to make sure of that, come what may.
There comes a time in planning when you find you are planning too hard. Your brain never leaves off. I found myself getting in this state. I started sweating for nothing and kept rearranging my heap of stuff senselessly, so I got control of myself and made a meal. Then I went out for a walk while there was some daylight still left.
I watched television for a bit. Then switched it off and listened to the radio. Then I watched a play I couldn’t make head nor tail of. Then I tried to read, but found I was reading the same page over. Then I sang some madrigals, but my heart wasn’t in it. I listened to a radio argument about the soaring costs of new bedding plants, and then watched the Wanderers get thrashed three–nil in a floodlit game, the duckeggs. I thought of candles, and added my only two to the heap.
Then it was dark, and I forced myself into bed.
I woke with the alarm clock going berserk. Three-thirty. For a moment I wondered what the hell I was playing at, setting it for that ridiculous time. Then I remembered. I had to go down a well.
My crate makes a racket at the best of times. I mean, even during the day in noisy traffic people turn, wondering what’s coming. Nearly four on a pitchy morning it sounded like a helicopter. I keep meaning
to get it seen to, but the cost’s terrible.
I decided against the bike. On the grounds that I’d probably need every muscle fascicle doing its absolute thing today, I settled for the car despite its row. The trouble was, they’d recognize my motor anywhere. I’d have stood a better chance if Elspeth had lent me hers. Or Moll hers, or Sue . . .
I wasn’t long reaching the Mount, cruising easily on to the down-slope towards the river. Most of our villages have no street lights, so I was relying on a vague, rather shifty-looking moon-glow as I cut the engine. With only wind noise and some wheel-swishing I coasted her down to the pub. Luckily, pub yards are traditionally open at the front. No gates or hedges. We rolled on to the forecourt, and I reached the side of the tavern wall before stopping.
I got out, pushing her slowly forwards until she was as far off the road as she would go. People might assume some early devoted angler had put it there, intending to return for a midday break from boredom. Most of my stuff was in a small satchel I used for carrying my materials as a lad, when I went out painting. The torch was in my pocket, and the pencil and some of the card squares. I sat on the car seat with the door open and changed my shoes for plimsolls. If there was any mud down there my feet would get wet anyway, and rubber soles are easier to climb in. I was shaking like a leaf. The cold night mist seeped into my bones. Sometimes you can talk yourself into a shiver, can’t you?
Ready. I simply turned towards the hill and started up it straight from the tavern yard. There were a few obstructions, mostly large flint-stones and large tussocks of grass. A couple of times I walked straight into a gorse bush, but got off lightly. It was the line
of gorse bushes that had tipped me off and gave me the final clue. They followed an obvious contour line as far as the hollow. There they ended abruptly, to recommence about a hundred feet down the hillside. Something had slipped them out of true: the magic landslip of 1847. What else?
No wonder there was a hollow. The uppermost half of the well was tilted. It couldn’t be any other way. I imagined a nail, bent almost to right angles by some powerful force after it had been driven half into a piece of wood. The uppermost half now lay for the finding. And the well-head would be located exactly where the gorse bushes began again lower down the hill.
I blundered into a gorse bush again. The moonglow was too feeble but I guessed I was at the lower half of the gorse line. Which meant that following it left would bring me to its abrupt end. And the well-head would be there. I felt with my hands, touching the spiky fronds at every step.