Beneath his feet the carpet of pine needles was soft and spongy. The scent of resin was heavy on the air like incense after mass. There was a cathedral stillness, a holding of breath, a waiting for the moment of revelation. There was no sign of the muntjak. He couldn't hear it. He couldn't hear the crunch of his own feet. He couldn't hear anything except the patter of the raindrops falling on the pine branches.
There was a track among the trunks and he followed it automatically. It was narrow, made by the regular passage of the deer not by man. It twined capriciously, as no Roman road ever did, weaving to the left around this tree, to the right around that one, making him perform manoeuvres he associated with country dances. Occasionally his ear did catch the brief sound of a rustle, not made by the rain, up in the branches overhead. A pigeon, perhaps, or a woodpecker. Like him, the birds kept a silent watch, waiting for the rain to cease and life to begin again as normal.
There was some kind of clearing up ahead. He made for it out of curiosity, just to see what it was, not to step into it and the rain. On the edge of it, he stopped.
He stood atop a sort of rampart. It dropped steeply and at the bottom, in the clearing, grew a tangle of bramble bushes, nettles, dock, cow parsley and puny saplings of native trees sprung from seeds blown there, carried there on the hide of the deer, excreted in animal droppings, or scattered by the birds. Beyond it rose a corresponding bank, completing the saucerlike depression. Guy, standing by the first line of pines ringing the area, thought it formed a natural amphitheatre. He ought to be looking down at some spectacle, a show. Curious about the nature of the rampart, he scraped at it with the heel of his boot to little purpose. To excavate this would be a major archaeological task. When he got home, he'd look it up in the library. Find out if anyone else had made note of this place, had any theories.
The rain was easing. His curiosity now had overcome his first instinct to keep dry. He began to negotiate his way down the slope. He needed to take care. Underfoot it was loose, unstable. Tree roots poked through forming treacherous snares. Nettles nipped his bare shins spitefully. Brambles reached out and scratched at his unprotected skin. Nature, allying itself against him, driving back the would-be intruder.
The muntjak must have been sheltering here but he hadn't seen it. Now it saw or smelled him. Without warning, it dashed out of the tangle of undergrowth, sprang up the slope on the further side of the clearing and disappeared among the trees. Startled, even though he now knew what it was, Guy stopped short, slipped, felt the earth give way beneath his foot and fell.
Over and over he tumbled, scrabbling in vain for a handhold, brambles tearing at his flesh, until he came to a stop, on his stomach, face down in the rotting vegetation. It smelled foul from underlying stagnant water which had drained down into the basin. He moved cautiously, a limb at a time, checking for breaks and sprains. Everything seemed OK. He'd been lucky but he'd have a sore back from the rucksack bumping against it on the way down.
He got to his feet and turned to make his way back by the route he'd come. Then he saw that, in his descent, he'd disturbed the tangle of greenery which had been covering the entrance to an animal lair in the side of the bank. Too big, he thought, for the entrance to a rabbit warren. A fox-hole possibly, or even a badger's entrance to its set. He knelt and scraped away some more debris and peered in. A stale, fetid odour oozed out. He muttered, âFaugh!' and was about to pull back his head when his eye was caught by an object near the mouth of the den.
Guy stared down at it for a moment. Then he picked it up, examined it carefully, uttered a low whistle and put it gently back on the earth. Sitting up, he divested himself of his cape, unslung his rucksack and searched in it until he found his torch. Now he lay down again on his stomach and, heedless of the smarting nettle-stings and protesting bruises, carefully shone the beam of light into the tunnel. The excavation ran back some way between twisting roots before turning to the right but the torchlight clearly picked up a higgledy-piggledy scattering of objects of different shape and size near the entrance.
Guy put down the torch and stretched in his arm as far as it would go, searching with his fingers until they touched
something small and dry. His face was pressed against the damp musty soil surrounding the opening. Earth crumbled and fell into his hair and eyes. He was hardly aware of it. Eventually he withdrew every one of the objects he could reach. They were yellowish-brown in colour and appeared to have been there some time. Some were broken. One or two showed signs of having been gnawed, though the teethmarks were old. He had no doubt as to what they were. They were human bones.
Now that he was satisfied he'd retrieved all he could, Guy took out his mobile phone and called 999. âNo Network Coverage' the screen informed him obligingly. He cursed softly. He was in a dead spot. An unfortunate phrase, but apt.
He searched in his rucksack for something to wrap the bones in. The only paper he had was his map so he sacrificed that. Then he climbed up the bank, followed the deer track back to the main dirt road, plodded through the trees until he reached the far side of the wood and tried his mobile again. This time he was successful.
âWhich service do you want?' enquired a voice.
âPolice,' said Guy. There was nothing an ambulance could do for the owner of the bones.
He was connected with the police. He gave his name, his home address, explained that he was on a walking holiday and he had found human remains, bones, after falling down a slope.
The new voice, tinny and a little weary, asked where he was. He told it, Stovey Woods, or just outside.
âAnd these bones, sir,' said the voice. âYou just fell over them, you say?'
âNo,' corrected Guy. âI said I fell over. I disturbed the nettles covering the entrance to the burrow in my fall.'
âBurrow?' said the voice. âMost likely animal bones, then, sir, don't you think?'
âNo, I don't think,' said Guy. âIf I thought that, I wouldn't have rung you.'
âPeople often think they've found human bones,' said the voice. âBut it's nearly always animal, a fox's dinner. Are they very small, like a rabbit?'
âNo!' snapped Guy. He was beginning to think this the most irritatingly complacent voice he'd ever listened to. âSome are damaged and some are incomplete, a lot are missing. But they include a clavicle, parts of two ribs, three or four vertebrae, a badly-chewed tibia and an entire mandible with most of the teeth still in it. Some of the teeth show dental work. That should be helpful to you. Unfortunately, the rest of the skull is missing. Of course, there might be more further back in the tunnel.'
There was a silence. He thought he could hear the person at the other end talking to someone. A new voice came on, deeper, more authoritative. It, at least, wasn't smug. It was suspicious.
âThis is on the level, sir?'
âAbsolutely!' Guy was finding it difficult to control his frustration. âAll I'm asking you is, what do you want me to do? Bring the bones in to the nearest police station or wait until you can get someone out here? I don't know how you'll get here,' he added. âI'm on the old drovers' way.'
âWe can get there, but you'll understand we don't want to be brought all the way out there on a wild-goose chase. Not accusing you of anything, sir, but you could be mistaken. This dental work, as you describe it, might just be discoloration. Old bones go a funny colour. So is there any other thing which makes you think these are definitely human?'
âWhy do I think they're human?' howled Guy. âHow many times do I have to tell you? Because I recognise them!'
âNot many people could do that, sir. Why're you so sure?'
âBecause,' said Guy, breathing heavily, â
because I am a doctor
!'
âThis is it,' said Alan Markby, trying not to sound as dismayed as he felt.
Beside him in the car, Meredith Mitchell shuffled the estate agent's brochures and found the one she sought.
âFormer vicarage,' she read aloud. âEarly nineteenth century. Five bedrooms, three reception, stone-flagged kitchen. Outbuildings. In need of some restoration work.'
They both peered through the windscreen at the house.
âA lot of restoration,' she said doubtfully.
âNice big garden,' he pointed out.
They clambered out of the car and opened the creaking gate. A path which had been gravelled, but was now almost entirely overgrown with weeds and pitted with rain-filled depressions, led to a front door curiously scarred as if someone or something had been kicking or scraping at it. Markby pressed the bell-push.
In response a furious barking broke out from inside the house. There was the sound of scrabbling claws on parquet and a woman's voice. Some sort of tussle seemed to be in progress. Eventually a door inside slammed and to an accompaniment of laboured breathing, the front door creaked open.
The woman who appeared before them was tall even wearing flat walking shoes over dark woollen tights. Her untidy grey hair was nearly shoulder-length and her angular features devoid of make-up. She did, however, sport jewellery in the form of
dangling earrings which looked home-made, each a grape-cluster of coloured glass beads.
She placed a hand on the doorframe to support herself and, fixing Markby with a direct look, gasped, âIt's Roger.'
âNo, it's, I mean, I'm Alan Markby,' he replied, taken aback. âI rang to arrange a viewing.'
âYes, I know that's who you are!' she retorted. She'd got her breath back now and took her hand from the doorframe. âI meant my dog, Roger. He makes a racket but he's a silly old thing really. Wouldn't do any harm. Likes visitors but jumps up at them. Not everyone likes it. So I've shut him in there.' She pointed at what looked like the door of a cloakroom.
On cue, from behind it, came a lugubrious howl.
âRoger doesn't like being left out of things,' said his mistress. âAre you coming in?'
They stepped dubiously over the threshold. Roger whined and scratched at the door which held him prisoner. It rattled on its hinges.
âToo big for me now,' said the woman.
âThe house? Roger, the dog?' Meredith whispered wickedly in Alan's ear.
He mimed her to silence but the other woman hadn't overheard.
âCan't afford to keep the damn place up. That's why I'm selling and why it's going cheap.'
Markby, mindful of the price, tried to hide his scepticism by asking politely, âYou are Mrs Scott?'
âOf course I am. But you wouldn't know, would you? I might be the housekeeper. Well, I'm not!' She gave a surprisingly deep bellow of laughter.
Markby caught Meredith's eye again and they exchanged furtive grins. Mrs Scott was leading the way, her long, drooping skirts swaying. She wore a hand-knitted sweater. Markby wondered if it had been created without benefit of a knitting pattern. He was no expert on such matters but there was an air of bizarre improvisation about the garment. It was banded in strata of rose-pink, navy-blue and orange. In places the colour ended mid-line and the next colour began as if that was the point at which the knitter had run out of wool. Back and front sections were square and the sleeves stitched on clumsily raglan-style. They were tubular and cuffless. With that and the bead earrings she was certainly colourful.
âThis is the main reception room,' Mrs Scott said, throwing open a door. She stood aside for them to enter.
It was a spacious room with attractive mouldings round the ceiling but it didn't appear to have been decorated in years. The door paint was yellowish, perhaps once white, and round the handle dark and greasy. Its panels were scratched, too. Dust lay thick. Some quite nice antique silver on a table was black with neglect. An old sofa bulged in all the wrong places, a little like Mrs Scott herself, and strands of coarse shiny horse-hair escaped from holes in the fabric. Dog hairs clung to everything. Roger had left his mark. There was an insidious musty smell, a little like rising dough mixed with wet wool.
âYou have central heating,' remarked Alan. He was staring at a huge ancient radiator with misgiving.
âWe've got it, but it doesn't work,' said Mrs Scott honestly. âNeeds a new boiler.'
The other rooms were in pretty much the same state. A small dingy retreat called grandiosely by Mrs Scott âthe study',
was crammed with dusty Victorian furniture, some of which looked as though it might have been brought from elsewhere in the house to be stored there. Meredith, always curious to examine books, had sidled off to peer into a huge glass-fronted oak bookcase crammed with leather-bound volumes. Markby scanned the spines briefly over her stooped form. They appeared to be mostly works of theology. The bottom shelf, however, was given over to a set of the Victoria County History and a fat tome entitled
Man and Myth: The Legacy of Prehistory.
On the far wall an ebony and brass crucifix loomed above an oak desk. On the desk lay an appointments diary white with dust and an old briar pipe resting on a worn tobacco pouch. There was still a faint odour of pipesmoke in the room, absorbed by the furnishings over many years. He felt a prickle run up his spine as if a ghostly hand had touched it. Good Lord, he thought, it's the same. It's just the same.