The Graveyard Game (11 page)

That’s all?

It didn’t take long, either, the Ninth was already in such bad shape
.

But . . . why were no remains ever found? No rusting armor, no spears, no coins?

Why do you think?
Joseph stared out at the green countryside, where a bulldozer was methodically destroying a hedgerow eleven centuries old.

Lewis’s jaw dropped. He put the car on autopilot a moment while he went through the motions of opening out the audio case for a leisurely inspection of its contents. He selected one disc at last, a symphonic piece by Ian Anderson, and slipped it into the music system. Only then did he place both hands firmly back on the wheel and ask,
Are you saying the Company had you strip the bodies?

Joseph gave a barely perceptible shrug.
Something like that. You know how much future collectors will pay for authentic relics of the lost legion? With the old IX Hispania insignia?

I can imagine
, Lewis said. He drove on, pale and shaken, as a flute melody of haunting sweetness wafted out of the Austin’s speakers. At last he shook his head.
You know—I’ve been thinking, lately, that all this paranoia and strong-arm work was something new for the Company, some reaction perhaps to the fact that we’re nearing the year of the Silence. I assumed that Dr. Zeus used to operate in a more civilized and humane manner
.

Nope
.

North and north the car sped on, along the well-metaled road.

They went west on the A635 and meandered westward for a while to the A629, past Denby Dale, past Kirkburton, through Huddersfield and Halifax, and at last Lewis announced brightly, “Well, we’re almost there. Stop one of our Yorkshire literary tour. We’ll see the famous parsonage at Haworth, where the ill-fated but creative Brontë family lived, loved, and died to the last member. You’ve read the novels, of course?”

“I’ve seen the movies,” Joseph said. “I worked at MGM when they were making the
Wuthering Heights
with Larry Olivier.”

“So you’ve never read the novels?” Lewis’s lips thinned slightly.

“I might have scanned them in school.” Joseph shrugged, refusing to admit to anything. “Real men don’t read
Jane Eyre
. Unless you’re a Literature Specialist, I guess,” he added soothingly.

“Thank you.” Lewis downshifted with a bit more force than was required. “Well, you’re going to enjoy this anyway, damn it. Look at these heathery moors! Look at the wild and lonely prospects! Imagine those fantastically talented and sickly children in their claustrophobic little parsonage, growing up into doomed, brilliant youth. Not a one of them made it into their forties, did you know that? They burnt out like flares. Is it any wonder they were able to produce masterworks of savage passion and searing romance?”

“Jane Eyre
, that was the one with the governess, right?” Joseph yawned.

“You know perfectly well it was. Look, there’s the parsonage museum.” Lewis turned off and steered for the car park.

“Do they have a souvenir stand?” asked Joseph.

They stopped and got out. There for their edification was the little church with its parsonage, islands in a sea of tombstones, and the moors rolling down on the back of the parsonage like a never-breaking wave. There were a few other cars in the park, but no tourists visible. The two immortals strolled toward the parsonage.

Is this going to help you at all in your investigation?

Not really. We need to go farther north. Still, it’s a good blind. We’ll see the sights, buy a couple of souvenirs, and move on, okay?

How very cloak-and-dagger
.

As they came around the corner, they saw an impressive conveyance, a long wagon with a team of six coal-black draft horses in its traces. It was an omnibus of some kind, fitted with rows of seats and roofed over by an awning. A man in nineteenth-century coachman’s dress waited, immobile as a waxwork figure by the horses. Joseph and Lewis halted, staring at the moment out of time.

Before either of them could comment, the door of the parsonage opened, and out filed a line of persons, also in nineteenth-century costume in varying funereal shades, all looking rather self-conscious except for the formidable lady at their head. She spotted Joseph and Lewis gaping at them. Directing her companions to the wagon, she turned and made straight for the immortals.

“If you are interested in the tour, gentlemen, you must purchase tickets in the gift shop,” she said. She was a small stout lady of the iron-sinewed maiden-aunt variety. “However, I must advise you that appropriate dress is required, which fortunately you may rent for a reasonable sum from the wardrobe mistress.”

“Okay,” said Joseph.

“Oh! Oh! This is one of those total immersion reenactor events,
isn’t it?” said Lewis in excitement. “How utterly magical! And I imagine you’re Charlotte Brontë?”

“I am, sir,” said the actress.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Brontë.” Lewis swept her hand to his lips. “I have so enjoyed your novels. May I introduce myself? Mr. Owen Lewis, and this American gentleman is my friend, Mr. Capra.”

“Hi,” said Joseph.

Charlotte Brontë inclined graciously and peered down at the watch pinned to her bosom. “Thank you. Today’s tour includes the authentic locations that inspired my late sister Emily in her depiction of the principal scenes from
Wuthering Heights
. We depart presently; shall we wait for you to join us?”

“How much are the tickets?” Joseph asked.

“Thirty pounds,” said Miss Brontë coolly. “Per person.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Joseph said.

“You may, of course, elect to wait in the parsonage until the costumed tour returns in three hours, when the bargain-rate tour will be given.” Miss Brontë stared him down. “Though I must warn you that the parsonage has, of course, no central heating, a fact that led, indirectly or otherwise, to the early deaths of several of my dear sisters.”

“Joseph, you’ll regret it if we pass up an opportunity like this,” Lewis cajoled. “I know I will.”

“I said I had a credit line, not a money tree.”

“We won’t be a moment,” promised Lewis, and grabbing Joseph by the elbow, he hurried away to the parsonage. Miss Brontë sauntered back to the omnibus, swinging her reticule with an air of triumph.

“That cost a goddam fortune,” growled Joseph five minutes later, as they emerged from the parsonage decked in Inverness cloaks and rather poorly made felt top hats. “And this is
really
not a guy thing, Lewis.”

“For heaven’s sake, can’t you at least enjoy the irony of it all?” said Lewis.
Besides, if you don’t want the Company to think you’re planning something, this is certainly a good cover. What possible reason could you have for doing something like this other than impulsive, spur-of-the-moment fun?

Joseph just growled again. They hurried to the omnibus, presented their tickets to Miss Brontë, and took their seats.

Three hours later they returned to the car, pausing to open the boot of the Austin.

“I can’t believe you didn’t enjoy that,” said Lewis, as Joseph carefully loaded in the six jugs of Brontë liqueur he had purchased at the gift shop.

“I guess I’m just not literary,” Joseph said, changing his mind and removing one of the jugs. He carried it around to the front of the car and got in.

“You’ve no appreciation of high romance, that’s your trouble,” Lewis said, climbing in and starting the motor.

Joseph nodded somberly. “Boy meets girl, girl loses boy, everybody dies. I just don’t get it. What those kids needed was some tuberculosis inoculations and a whole lot of Prozac.” He broke the seal on the jug and sampled the liqueur. “Wow. Or this. Want some?”

“Not while I’m driving. Do you want to get us arrested?” Lewis headed back in the direction of the A629.

“At least that would be a guy thing,” Joseph retorted.

They zigzagged back and forth across the Yorkshire Dales, gradually working their way north. They stopped at a Herriot museum and had their photographs taken with a Clydesdale horse; bought
All Creatures Great and Small
tea towels and a Yorkshire Dale cake in a tin enameled with scenes from Herriot’s books; passed through villages with names like Blubberhouses, Winksley, Snape, and Patrick Brompton.

“Where are we going now?” Joseph said, taking another gulp from the liqueur jug.

“Quite a historically significant spot, actually,” Lewis said, brushing crumbs of Dale cake from his tie as he accelerated. “Swaledale Anti-Farm, home of the late Audrey Knollys and setting of her celebrated heroic epic trilogy,
Commonwealth of Innocents
. Don’t tell me: you haven’t read it.”

“What, the Beast Liberation lady?” Joseph shrugged. “Wrote kind of a cross between
Animal Farm
and
Watership Down?
I’ve heard of it. Those are the books that will get the Mandated Vegan Laws passed over here, right?”

“And over there, too, in what will be left of the United States,” Lewis said. “There’s already a Beast Liberation Party flexing its muscles in London. Ironically enough, none of the locals want it here; the economy’s still based in farming. Eventually, though, the BLP will get the Herriot places closed down as mere glorifications of beast exploitation. Hang on to those tea towels; they’ll be worth a fortune someday.”

“I guess so,” said Joseph in awe.

He was silent as they continued west, and silent when they turned north at Hardraw. A short distance on, he sat upright and peered around suspiciously.

What’s wrong?
Lewis transmitted, keeping his eyes on the road.

Nothing. Nothing now, anyway. But it was right around here that the Ninth got creamed
.

Gosh, really?
Lewis slowed the car, looking about as if he expected to see hapless auxiliaries being chased by howling blue savages.

I guess I sort of erased the memory. It wasn’t fun. But, you know something else? This is also pretty damn close to the coordinates I was tracing
.

Lewis gnawed his lower lip.
That’s an awfully big coincidence. It’s also rather close to the location of that job I had up here
.

No kidding? Weird
.

They drove on in silence. A moment later they came upon a wayside inn and gift shop styled
THE INNOCENTS
, beyond which loomed the flank of a steep hill.

Suggest that this looks like a good place to stop
, transmitted Joseph urgently.
Out loud, now!

“I wonder if this shop sells Bournville bars?” mused Lewis obediently, pulling into the row of graveled parking spaces. “Would you mind if we looked? I must confess I’m finding the scenery a bit depressing.”

“Sure,” said Joseph in his most casual voice. “Say, look at those clouds. Might be a good idea to remember there’s a hotel here, if we get caught in a storm. Should we put the top up?”

Lewis keyed in a command on the dash, and the convertible’s top creaked out over them like an opening wing. “May as well do it now, in case it starts while we’re inside.”
What is it? Have we reached your coordinates?

This is the spot
.

They got out and crunched across the gravel to the shop, looking up doubtfully at the dark sky. A bitter cold wind was sweeping under it, piercing through their coats. They opened the door and stepped into the relative warmth of the shop and an atmosphere of tinkling chimes, fragrant incense, and a vast distant mooing that Lewis, after a millisecond’s startled analysis, identified as recorded whale songs.

“It’s California again,” muttered Joseph.

As if on cue, an American voice spoke from behind a display of crystal pendants. “Can I help you find something?”

“Hello?” Lewis peered around the display and beheld a thin intense lady wearing purple and a lot of Neolithic-styled jewelry. “Do you have any Bournville bars?”

By way of answer the lady pointed to a display stand gratifyingly loaded with sweets. “Right over there, next to the books.”

“So they are.” Lewis smiled his thanks. Joseph followed him around to inspect them.

“Get me some mints too, will you? Hey, look,” he said loudly. “Here are those great books you were recommending. The, uh,
Commonwealth of Innocents.”

Must you be devious about
everything? Lewis said in exasperation.

“Oh, you have to read those!” the lady informed him, heat and light coming into her voice. She emerged from behind the counter possessively. “You know where you are, don’t you? You’re right smack in the middle of where all her stories are set.”

“I thought Swaledale must be nearby,” Lewis said. “I’ve read them, of course.”

“Aren’t they just—?” The lady put one hand on her bosom, expressing that words failed her. “We named this place for the trilogy, you know, Jeffrey and I. We just couldn’t believe it when we got up here and found out that there’s no museum or plaque or
anything
about Knollys up at the Anti-Farm. It’s just sitting there vacant! We’re starting a fund to establish a museum. Donations are always welcome.”

“What a wonderful idea,” said Lewis, gallantly pulling out his wallet.

The lady nodded in vigorous affirmation, ringing up his purchases.

“Right up the road a couple of miles is the meadow with the copse where Silverbell the Gentle is martyred,” she went on, referring to the eponymous bovine saint of the trilogy’s first volume. “And, you won’t believe this, but right in back of us is the very hill where Jeremiah the Valiant leads the Innocents against the Vulpos!”

She was referring to the trilogy’s controversial third volume, wherein the peace-loving barnyard folk band together to exterminate all foxes in one great crusade to rid their world of vicious predators. Lewis explained this in a brief transmission to Joseph, adding:

There have always been rumors of a new trilogy Audrey Knollys was working on at the time of her death, in which the Innocents go after cats and dogs too. No notes ever surfaced, but the mere idea has already caused a schism among her followers
.