'You been there before? The house?'
'Mmmm.'
' I suppose,' Chrissie said, 'I should be flattered. It's possibly our first official date.'
'What did you say?' His eyes flicking over to her then back to the road, quick as the windscreen wipers.
'You haven't been listening to anything I've been saying, have you?'
'Of course I have.'
'Doesn't matter. You're obviously preoccupied.'
She hadn't wanted to come with him anyway, being actually in the process of trying to lose his attentions without losing her job. Even if he had been comparatively spectacular in bed of late.
'Did you say something about a date?'
'I said it was possibly our first official one. Where we're actually seen together without a collapsible coffin between us. I was being flippant, Roger.'
'You're here as my assistant,' he said coldly.
'Oh, thanks very much. You'll be paying me, then.'
Actually, there was no real need to be especially nice to him. No way he could get her fired, knowing what she knew about him and his dealings behind the scenes with the man they were going to meet.
'What a bloody awful night,' she said. Now they were up in the hills it was coming down so hard the wipers could hardly keep up. 'I wonder what witches do when it's pissing down.'
'What?' Almost a croak.
'Witches.'
'What about witches?'
'It's Hallowe'en. I was wondering what witches do when it's raining this hard. Whether they call it off. Or do it in the sitting room. Can't dance naked in this, can you? Well, I suppose you could. You're on a pretty short fuse tonight, Roger.'
'No, 'I'm not,' he snapped.
'Why don't you just tell me what's bothering you. Apart from the usual, of course.'
He didn't reply.
Sod this, Chrissie thought. 'Anyway, it was my understanding that your friend John Peveril Stanage lived in Buxton or somewhere. Why, pray tell, is he holding his Hallowe'en party in Bridelow?'
'Look.' It was too dark to see but she could tell his hands were throttling the steering-wheel. 'It's not a party. It's just a gathering. A few drinks and… a few drinks.'
'But not a party.' She was starting almost to enjoy this.
'And the reason it's In Bridelow… the Bridelow Brewery's been bought by Gannons Ales, right? And it now emerges that Stanage has been a major Gannons shareholder for some years and recently increased his holding, oh… substantially. Is now, in fact, about to become Chairman of the Board.'
'I suppose he's got to do something with all his book royalties and things. Apart from setting up bogman museums.'
Roger didn't rise to it, kept on looking at the road, what you could hope to see of it. 'Seems Shaw Horridge – that's the son of the original brewery family – is about to become engaged to Stanage's niece. They own Bridelow Hall. Which is where we're going.'
'I'll probably be underdressed,' Chrissie said, putting on a posh voice, 'for Braidelow Hawl.'
If it was that innocuous, why was Roger so nervy?
'Where's your wife tonight?'
'Working.'
'How are things generally?'
'So-so.'
'Everything all right in bed these days?'
'Chrissie, for Chr-' He hurled the car into low gear and raced up a dark, twisty hill.
'No clammy, peaty feelings any more?'
'What the hell's the matter with you tonight?'
'What's the matter with you?'
When they crested the hill she saw a strange blue moon. 'What on earth's that?'
'It's the Beacon of the Moss,' Roger said in a voice that was suddenly tired. 'Look, I'm sorry. Sorry I ever got committed to Stanage. I admit I'm in too deep, all right?'
She saw the bog below them. In the headlights it looked like very burned rice-pudding.
'It's as though he owns a piece of me,' Roger said. 'Bought me just as surely as he's bought Gannons Ales. I mean, last weekend, when I went to London… Chrissie, I didn't go to London. I was at Stanage's place.'
'In Buxton?'
'In Buxton, yes. That's where… Look, I'm a scholar, an academic, not religious, not impressionable. I'm basically a very sceptical person, you know that.'
Chrissie stifled it. 'Absolutely.' She allowed herself a deep, deep breath. 'But tell me this: who gave the bogman a penis?'
Roger slowed down for the causeway across the Moss. He seemed to slump on the wheel; she could have sworn she actually heard him gulp.
'I did.'
Ha!
'I used a piece of gut, what they thought was part of the duodenum.' He sounded relieved to be telling someone. 'Moulded with peat and something Stanage gave me… a… a stiffening agent.'
How ridiculously sleazy it sounded. Hadn't done much laughing, though, had she, when she saw the thing lying there projecting its bloody great menacing cock into the lights?
Actually, it was pretty sick.
They set off very slowly across the causeway. It seemed to be raining harder than ever here.
'Why?' she said. As if she really didn't know. Scholar. Academic. Sceptic. Not impressionable. Ha.
'He insisted it'd… you know… do the trick. Said I'd obviously become very close to the bogman, and the bogman had – this sounds very stupid – power. And I should use it.'
'You didn't laugh in his face because you needed him.'
'No! I didn't laugh because… because he isn't a man you can laugh at. You'll know what I mean when you meet him. Look, do you really think I'd go discussing my private difficulties with… well, with anyone? I mean, my bloody wife's a doctor, and I couldn't talk to her about it. Of course, I did think things would be different with you.'
'Because I was a bit of a slag, I suppose. And not very bright in comparison with Doctor Mrs Hall. And because I was impressed with this big glamorous archaeologist who was on telly a lot, and flattered.'
'No, of course not, what do you think I…?'
'Stick to honesty, Roger, you were doing very well. So you discussed your little… problem with Mr Stanage.'
'I didn't intend to. Well, obviously. He just seemed to know. He looked at me… into me, almost. Smiling faintly. As if he'd decided to find something out about me that I didn't want him to know. And then he said, "Try something for me, would you?" Sympathetic magic, he called it. I knew if I didn't give it a go, he'd know somehow. And if anyone saw it, I'd just blame the students. But then…'
'But then it started to work,' Chrissie said. Or something did. Probably the power of suggestion.
'As you know,' he said.
'You must have been half-dismissive and half-elated. And half-frightened, I suppose. I know that's three halves, but I'm not very bright, as we established. God almighty, Roger, what have you got yourself into?'
'He's… a strange man. His knowledge is very extensive indeed. But, yes, there is something I can't say I like.'
'Some of his books are very weird, Roger.'
'I haven't read his bloody books.'
'You should.'
'Just keep your mouth shut when we're there, that's all.'
'At the party?'
'It's not..:'
'What is it, then?'
Roger drove up off the causeway, past the entrance to the big stone pub, The Man I'th Moss, and into the main village street. Halfway up the street, greasy light seeped out of a fish and chip shop, but it seemed to have no customers; not surprising in this weather. The blue moon turned out to be shining out of the church wall – must be a clock with a face each side of the steeple. But no hands, no numerals. How strange.
The clock lit up the inside of the car and Roger's bearded face. Chrissie began to feel uneasy.
'Come on, then, Roger.' As if the blue clock was lighting him up for interrogation. 'What else are you hiding?'
'Yes.' He turned right before the church, back into darkness. 'I'll tell you. Stanage says he can get the body back.'
'Oh, yes. Who from?'
'I don't know.'
'How?'
'I don't know.'
'What do you know?'
'He says we should all get together, those of us who've been close to him.'
'Him?'
'Him.'
Chrissie lit a cigarette. 'Turn 'round,' she said.
'What?'
'Turn the fucking car 'round, Roger, I'm not having anything to do with this.'
He stopped the car abruptly in the narrow road and it skidded into the kerb. The rain drummed violently on the roof and splashed the dark windows. It was savage and relentless, like a thrashing from God.
'Chrissie, please…'
She blew smoke in his face.
He choked back a cough. 'Chrissie, I don't want to go on my own.'
'Grow up, Roger.'
'Listen, I'm just a little bit scared too, can't help it. If only for my… for my reputation.'
'Well, naturally.'
'But I can't not go, can I? And say goodbye to everything… make him, you know…'
'Make him what?'
'Angry,' he said pathetically.
She couldn't see his face; she didn't want to. She gritted her teeth. 'Turn it 'round, I said.' Lay off, eh, Frank?'
'I wanna know. Come on, he can't just fucking show up, middle of the night, and not tell us why. Don't want no more fucking mysteries in this place. Had it up to here with fucking mysteries.'
'Go home, Frank, you've had too many.'
'Too many what? Listen, fart-face, you're not my fucking foreman no more. Not your pub, neither. What's your name, mate?'
Macbeth had had too many bad experiences of telling his name to guys in bars. 'Kansas,' he said. 'Jim Kansas.'
'… kind of fucking name's that?'
'Frank, if you don't go home…'
'Aye? Go on. Finish sentence, Stan. What you goin' do if I don't go?'
'I shall pick up that big bottle of Long John,' said Mrs Lottie Castle, appearing in the doorway, 'and I'll use it to bash out all of your front teeth, Frank Manifold. That's for starters. Out!'
'It's raining,' Young Frank said.
And he giggled. But he went.
Macbeth started to breathe again.
'Sorry,' the barman Stan said to him. 'Everybody seems to be on edge tonight.' The other guys in the bar were draining their glasses, coming to their feet. 'We'll leave you to it, Lottie, I think. Shut the place, I would. You'll get no more custom tonight. Not in this.'
Now Stan looked meaningfully at Macbeth. Lottie said, 'He's staying.' Stan nodded dubiously and didn't move. 'He's an old friend of Matt's,' Lottie said. 'Couldn't make it for the funeral.'
'Right.' Stan accepted this and shrugged into his overcoat. 'Night then, Lottie. Good night, Mr Kansas.'
Macbeth was curious. This woman didn't know him from Bill Clinton and here she was letting her regular customers and the help go and him stay the night. Normal way of things, the woman being a widow, this would've been no big surprise, he had to admit. But she was a very recent widow. Also, she didn't seem to have even noticed what he looked like.
She looked tired. Drained. Eyes swollen. She dragged out a weary smile.
'Mr… Mungo. I've located Willie Wagstaff. He doesn't know where Moira is, but he says he doesn't mind talking to you if you don't keep him too long. He's at his girlfriend's – that's the Post Office. About a hundred yards up the street, same side.'
'Right. Uh, what did you…?'
'I told him I thought you were all right. I hope you are.'
Macbeth said, 'Mrs Castle, what's going on here? Just why is everybody on edge? Who're all these people at the Rectory?'
'Ask Willie,' she said. 'And just so you know, he used to play the drums in Matt's band, so he's known Moira a long time. Do you want to borrow an umbrella?'
'Thanks, I have a slicker in back of the car. What if I'm late?'
'I'll still be up,' Lottie Castle said. 'Whatever time it is. Just hammer on the door.' Lottie bolted the door behind him, top and bottom. Then she went through to the back door and secured that too.
She put on some coffee, partly to combat the rain noise with the warm pop-pop-pop of the percolator.
Earlier she'd pulled through a three-seater sofa from the living room that never got lived in. There was a duvet rolled up on the sofa.
Tonight's bed. Would have been, if she'd been alone in the pub. She'd put the American in Bedroom Three, the one Dic used when he was here. Soon as he'd left yesterday she'd changed the bedding, aired the room. It was just across the passage from her own.
Were bad dreams somehow stopped at source when you were no longer alone in the building?
That, of course, would depend on whether they were dreams.
On the refectory table was a local paper with the phone numbers of two estate agents ringed, the ones that specialised in commercial properties. Give that a try first, see if anyone was interested in a loss-making pub, before resorting to the domestic market.
Former village inn. Full of character. Dramatic rural location. Reduced for quick sale.
Well, did she have a choice? Was there any kind of alternative?
Lottie poured coffee, strong but with a little cream which she left unstirred, thin, white circles on the dark surface, because black coffee was apt to make her think of the Moss.
She left the cup steaming on the table, stood in the centre of the room for a moment with her sleeves pushed up and her hands on her hips.
'Matt,' she said, 'you know I didn't want to come, but I didn't complain. I supported you. I gave up my lovely home.'
Strange, but all the time he was dying he never once allowed a discussion to develop about her future. But then, they never actually talked about him dying; just, occasionally, about him being ill. And he obviously wasn't afraid; he was just – amazing when you thought about it – too preoccupied.
'You were always a selfish bastard, Matt,' she said.
Standing on the flags, hands on hips, giving him a lecture.
Don't see why I should feel ashamed, do you?'
Feeling not so unhappy, because there was someone to wait up for.
She left on a wall-lamp in the kitchen, went through to the bar, leaving the door ajar. Switched the lights off one by one at the panel beside the mirror, leaving until last the disused brass gas-mantle which Matt had electrified.
The porch-light would stay on all night, gilding the rippling rain on the window. Lottie moved out into the darkened, stone-walled bar, collecting the ashtrays for emptying.
Wondering what Willie would make of the American with the silly name who'd driven down from Glasgow on the wettest Sunday of the year to find Moira Cairns.
Matt would have done that. Matt would have killed for Moira, and there was a time when she would have killed Moira because of it, but it didn't seem to matter any more.
When the gaslight came back on behind the bar, Lottie dropped all the ashtrays with a clatter of tin.
The gas mantle was fitted with on electric bulb under the little gauzy knob thing and it looked fairly realistic. Or so she'd thought because she'd never seen the original gas.
Until now.
Oh, yes. This was gas, being softer, more diffused; she almost felt she could hear a hiss. Did they hiss? Or was that Matt?
Matt, whose face shone from the mirror behind the bar, enshrouded in gaslight.
Lottie stood with her back to the far stone wall. Her hands found her hips. Against which, untypically, they trembled.
She said, very quietly, 'Oh, no.' Ernie Dawber knew that if he allowed himself to think about this, he would at once realise the fundamental insanity of the whole business.
He would see 'sense'.
But Bridelow folk had traditionally answered to laws unperceived elsewhere. Therefore it was not insane, and it required another kind of sense which could never be called 'common'.
So he simply didn't think about it at all, but did the usual things he would do at this time of night: cleaned his shoes, tidied his desk – leaving certain papers, however, in quite a prominent position.
Love letters, they were, from a woman magistrate in Glossop with whom Ernie had dallied a while during a bad patch in his marriage some thirty years ago. He'd decided not to burn them. After all, his wife had known and the woman was dead now; why not make one little bequest to the village gossips?
In the letter he was leaving for Hans, he'd written: 'Let the vultures in, why not? Let them pick over my bones – but discreetly. Let it be so that nothing of me exists except a name on the cover of The Book of Bridelow:
Suddenly, he felt absurdly happy. He was going on holiday,
He made himself a cup of tea and set out a plate of biscuits, wondering what archaeologists two thousand years hence might have made of this:
The stomach yielded the digested remains of a compressed fruit not indigenous to the area but which may have constituted the filling for what nutritional documents of the period tell us were called 'fig rolls'.
He chuckled, ate two biscuits, drank his tea and sat back in his study chair, both feet on his footstool. He did not allow himself to contemplate the kind of knife which might be used to cut his throat or the type of cord employed for the garrotting or whether the blow to the back of his head would be delivered with a carpenter's mallet or a pickaxe handle.
But feeling that he should at least be aware of what had happened on this particular day in the world he was leaving he switched on the radio for the ten o'clock news.
Not such a bad time to be leaving. Chaos behind what used to be the Iron Curtain, more hatred between European nations than there'd been since the war. A psychopath killing little girls the West Country.
But then, at the end of the national news, this:
Police who earlier today found the body of a man after a nine-hour search of the South Pennine moors say they've now discovered a woman's body, less than a mile away, in the burned-out wreckage of a car.
However, they say there appears to be no link between the two deaths. The first body, found in a quarry, has now been formally identified as a 27 year-old farmer, Peter Samuel Davis.
The woman's body, not yet identified, was badly burned after the car, a BMW saloon, apparently left the road in wet conditions, plunged over a hundred feet into a valley bottom and burst into flames.
Ernie switched off the radio, his fingers numb, picked up his telephone and rang the Post Office.
Perhaps, before I return, something'll have happened this night to make you see the sense of it.
Sense, he thought, feeling cold all of a sudden. It's all gone beyond sense.