The Man in the Moss (11 page)

           
Upstairs, in his files', the Archdeacon kept seven
photocopies of the famous picture of Joel in the Sheffield Star - the one of him
brandishing his outsize pectoral cross. At the time this dramatic pose had only
reinforced the Diocesan consternation expressed when Joel, still at college,
had been on local radio threatening physical disruption of certain Hallowe'en
festivities planned by the university students' union.

           
The Archdeacon had managed to placate the Bishop, who'd
been suggesting immediate efforts ought to be made to interest this turbulent
mature student in a period of foreign missionary work - the Colombian jungles
or somewhere equally dangerous.
           
Known his type before, the
Bishop fumed. More trouble than they're worth, these self-publicists. Nonsense,
said the Archdeacon. With respect, men like Beard must be considered the
Church's Future ... if the Church is to have one.

           
During these discussions about his future, Joel had
apparently received a series of telephone calls alerting him to inbred evil in
a small village in the Southern Pennines. Anonymous, of course. But weren't
they always? And wasn't the Archdeacon himself becoming just a little tired of
Hans Gruber, the old-fashioned rural priest treading his own sheep-tracks,
totally immersed in his parish, oblivious to the Diocese?

           
'... mustn't be afraid to get physical.' Joel thumped the
back of the Chesterfield, and the Archdeacon almost fainted.
           
Or, indeed,
meta
physical ...'

           
'Well, then ...' The Archdeacon's hand was shaking so
much he had to put down his glass. 'If you're determined to face this thing
head-on, we'll delay no longer. There's just this

question of accommodation
in Bridelow. Not had a curate for so long we let the house go.'

           
'I understand,' said Joel, 'that there's accommodation in
the church itself.'

           
'In the ch ... ? You don't mean this ... priest's hole
sort of place under the floor? You're not serious.'

           
'Well,' said Joel. 'Short-term, I see no reason why not.
It was originally intended as emergency accommodation for visiting clergy, I
gather. And how often does a priest get the opportunity to experience a night
in the House of God?'

           
'Quite,' said the Archdeacon. 'Quite.' He was remembering
the old story about an itinerant Bishop of Sheffield a century or so ago, who'd
spent a night under the church at Bridelow and was supposed to have gone potty.
Silly story. But still, was it wise for Joel to sleep down there? Alone?
           
The Archdeacon tingled.

Finally Chrissie said,
'Admit it, you're getting a bit obsessed.'

           
'That's ridiculous.' Not much conviction
there
. 'I'm just ... stressed, that's
all. I'm not good at deception.'

           
'No, you're not.'

           
'I meant with Janet. Look, would you mind putting that
thing out.' He reached over her, took the cigarette from between her fingers
and dropped it in an ashtray on the bedside ledge.

           
Well!

           
'Honestly, it's not an obsession,' he said. 'Not the way
you think. Look, I'll tell you, OK. But you've got to keep it to yourself. Not
a word, OK? Thing is, I've ... I've had approaches.'

           
'Lucky you.' When, a few minutes ago, he'd put a hand
experimentally on her thigh, it had felt like a lukewarm, wet sponge.

           
He said, 'When you were young ...'
           
'Thank you very much, Roger.'

           
'No, no ... I mean, when you were a child ... Did you
ever read Stanage's books?'

           
'Sta ... Oh,
John
Peveril
Stanage.' She felt a mild stirring of interest; not his usual type
of stultifying archaeological tome.
           
'Well, who didn't?'

           
'He wanted to see me,' Roger said. 'Or rather he wanted
me to go and see him.'

           
'Good God, is he still alive?'

           
'Very much so. Not yet sixty, I'd guess. 'Course, he's
been a published writer since his early twenties, which makes him ...'

           
'Very rich, I suppose,' Chrissie said.

           
'You wouldn't know it to see where he lives - end of one
of those run-down Georgian terraces in Buxton. Sort of seedy - palatial inside,
but I'm assured he's loaded. You remember much about his stuff?'

           
'I wasn't much of a reader,' Chrissie admitted. 'But you
didn't need to be much of a reader to get into his books. Really exciting ...
and
interesting
, you know? Because
they were usually about places we knew. King Arthur in Manchester, I remember
that one -
Castle Fields
, it was
called. I think. That right?'

           
'That's right.'

           
'And
The
Bridestones'
.' Chrissie sat up in bed. 'Gosh, yes. And
Blue John
...
Blue John's Way
?
God, I remember when I was ...'

           
'Yes, thank you, Chrissie. Anyway, turns out Stanage is
quite a serious antiquarian, in an
amateur
sort of way. Obsessed for a long time with the Celtic history of the North-West
- albeit in a fanciful,
mystical
fashion.' Roger sniffed. 'So naturally he's quite excited about our friend from
the peat.'

           
God, Chrissie thought. Another one. What is it with this
corpse?

           
'... and he's talking about establishing some son of
foundation ... through the University ... to set up an official Celtic museum
... Keep this under your hat, won't you, Chrissie?'

           
I'm not wearing a bloody hat, she thought. I'm not
wearing anything, in case you haven't noticed.
           
'... with the bog body as a
centrepiece.'

           
'Oh.' She was starting to see. 'Money?'
           
'
Big
money,' said Roger. 'And Stanage's foundation would also
support continued research, which would ...'
           
'Keep us all in work.'

           
'To say the least. So, naturally, I'm keeping him to
myself. We're going to work out the logistics of it between us and then present
a complete package, an arrangement nobody - not the University, nor the British
Museum - can afford to turn down.'

           
'And what does
he
get
out of it? Stanage? I mean, what does the great man get out of dealing
exclusively with you and keeping it all under wraps until you're ready to turn
it to your advantage?

           
'Er ... He just likes being in on it, I think,' Roger
said, trying to look as if this aspect hadn't occurred to him before. 'He gets
access to the bogman pretty much whenever he wants.'

           
Which explained why Roger had been so keen to bring the
body back to the Field Centre. Chrissie gave him a wry look he didn't appear to
notice.

           
'So I'm having to keep all these balls in the air ...
juggle Stanage, the University, the British Museum ... and now those sodding
Bridelow people, who want the bloody thing
put
back.'

           
'Sorry?' Chrissie had been thinking ruefully about balls
in the air. 'Who wants it back?'

           
Roger
snorted. 'They're superstitious
. We know that our friend ...
him ...
that he was sacrificed for some reason. Maybe to persuade
the gods to keep the Romans at bay, after the Celts were driven out of the
fertile lowlands of Cheshire and Clwyd and into the hills.'

           
'Barbaric times,' Chrissie said, thinking of Arnold
Schwarzenegger in skins and a headband.

           
'So, incredible as it may seem that serious
archaeological research in this day and age should still be complicated by this
kind of crap - it appears some people in Bridelow feel that by taking the thing
away we'll bring bad luck down on the village. As simple and as primitive as
that.'
           
'Sort of like Tutankhamen's
tomb?'
           
'If you like.'

           
Chrissie wanted to laugh. It was
pre
-Schwarzenegger. More like one of those old Hammer films, Peter
Cushing as Roger Hall.

           
'Keep getting pestered by this man Dawber. Who,
admittedly, was quite useful at first. Used to be head teacher at the local
school. Sort of... amateur historian.'

           
Roger said the words 'amateur historian' like other
people would say 'dog turd'.

           
'Oh, of course, I know him,' Chrissie said. 'Mr Dawber.
Tubby little chap. Rather cute. I suppose you think he's an eccentric, whereas
Stanage ...'

           
'Stanage knows," Roger said strangely. He seemed to
remember his coffee. It was cold. He put the cup down.

           
Looked uncomfortable. 'Dawber's trouble. He says we
should - get this - now we've done all our tests and found out everything we
can, we should put the thing back in Bridelow Moss, in a secret location of
their choosing - this is the bloody villagers - on the scientific basis that if
the peat has preserved him for two thousand years it's probably the best way of
keeping him in good nick for another two thousand ...'

           
He laughed bitterly. 'The crackpot elements you have to
deal with when you unearth something that catches the public imagination.'

           
Oh, you'll deal with crackpots, Roger, Chrissie thought.
You'll deal with crackpots if there's something in it for you.

           
After about half an hour, Roger tried again.
           
Disastrously.

           
Stress, he explained. The stress of keeping your balls in
the air.

           
They lay in the dark and talked some more. Talked about
her ex-husband, who drank. Talked about his wife, who was brilliant and capable
and seemed to power an entire hospital on an average of twenty-eight hours'
sleep per week.

           
Talked about him, Roger ... and him, him.
           
'Look ... what I said about
Stanage ... forget it, will you? Forget I even mentioned Stanage.'
           
'All right,' Chrissie said.

forehead, Roger said to the
ceiling, 'Sometimes ... when Janet's on nights at the General ... I wake up in
the early hours, feeling really sort of cold and clammy.'

           
Which didn't exactly augur well, Chrissie thought, for
the next few hours.

           
'And you know ... I can almost feel it in the bed with
me. Lumps of it.'

           
Jesus. She said, 'Lumps?'

           
'Peat. Lumps of peat.' Roger slid a damp and hopeless
hand along her left thigh. 'That's stress for you.'

CHAPTER
III

CENTRAL SCOTLAND

The Earl's place was
nineteenth-century Gothic, a phoney Dracula's Castle with a lofty Great Hall
that stank, the American thought, of aristocratic bullshit, domination and
death.

           
He could tell the woman hated it too. Especially the skulls.
Or maybe she had something else on her mind. She was worried; he could tell
that much. Still, he wasn't about to miss this opportunity.

           
He kept glancing at her over dinner at the long baronial
table, a couple of hours ago. All that wonderful long black hair, with the
single streak of grey. He'd never seen her before, not in concert, not even on
the TV, but he knew the face from the album covers, and he'd know the voice.

           
She was standing alone by the doorway, frowning at the
gruesome trophies on the walls. Not talking to anyone, although there were
people all around her, expensively dressed people, crystal glasses hanging from
their fingers like extra jewellery.

           
He
supposed she'd be a couple of years older than he was, which only added to that
mysterious lustrous glamour. Pretty
soon she'd pick up her guitar, and take her
place on the central dais to sing for them all. Which didn't give him much
time.