Ben turned to Pamela with a worried look on his face. “Golly, we didn’t think about rain, did we? I now see that a motorbike has distinct limitations.”
“Then let’s hurry up and get the job done,” Pamela said. “How close do you think we are?”
Ben studied the map. “Quite close. That last village must have been Hinton St George. That means the hill should be ahead on our left soon. We’ve seen plenty of hills, but this one has a distinctive shape.” He held up the copy of the photograph for her to study. “And see the church tower and those three big pines. They should be easy enough to identify.”
Pamela nodded. “Then lead on, Macduff.”
The lane took them through the Somerset Levels, where cows grazed in fields separated by water channels. It seemed to Ben that they had left the hilly part of the region behind, and he wondered if his map-reading skills had led him astray. Then they passed through a village of thatched cottages and Pamela pointed. “Look. That’s it!”
As they came closer, they could see the church, rising above those pine trees. They looked at each other and smiled. It took them a while to find a road that led them to the top of the hill, but in the dying light of day, they drove up to the church, and Ben stopped the bike. Rooks were cawing loudly from the trees in the churchyard where old gravestones lay at drunken angles. The wind from the west hit them in the face as they walked forward. The church was called All Saints. Ben looked around and saw a small house behind the churchyard. Apart from that, there were no dwellings in sight. The place had a gloomy and forsaken feel to it.
“Now what?” Pamela asked.
Now what, indeed? They had passed a couple of small cottages as the road wound up the hill, but there was no sign of a village or the substantial manor house Ben had hoped for.
“I suppose we should visit the vicarage before we go down,” Ben said.
“Are you expecting to find a hotbed of Nazi sympathisers there?” Pamela asked, half-joking. “Are you armed, just in case?” She saw the look on his face and burst out laughing. “I think we’ve been had,” she said. “I think there was a hidden message in the photograph, and the actual place was irrelevant.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree,” Ben said. But he found a mossy path through the churchyard and knocked on the vicarage door. It was opened by an elderly cleric with wispy white hair and an angelic face. Ben said that they were driving around the West Country and interested in old churches, particularly remote old churches. They were invited in and served elderberry wine, made by a parishioner, the vicar told them.
“But where is your parish?” Pamela asked. “We didn’t see any houses.”
“Ah, well,” the vicar said. “There is indeed a history to this church. It was once part of a monastery, taken over at the time of Henry VIII and handed to a local lord who turned the monastery into his manor. Then during the civil war, it was razed to the ground by Oliver Cromwell. But the church survived and has served the neighbouring farms and villages ever since.”
“So the manor house is no more?”
“Part of the ruined walls still stand, but that’s about it.”
“So does anyone else live around here these days?” Pamela asked.
“Nobody for a good half mile,” the vicar said.
“It must be lonely for you.”
He nodded. “My wife died three years ago. A woman comes in to clean once a week. I do my rounds on my bicycle, but yes, it is pretty remote. Luckily, I have my books and the wireless.” He stood up. “It will be dark soon, but would you like to see the church?”
“Thank you.” Ben and Pamela rose to follow him. He took a torch from the hall table and shone their way between the gravestones. Inside the church, the last of the daylight came in through tall, perpendicular windows, giving an impression of a long nave with pillars on either side. The church smelled old and damp and was clearly in a state of disrepair.
The vicar walked them around, shining his torch on marble slabs marking tombs of dead knights. Then he said, “If you’d like to go up the tower, we’ve a wonderful view from the top. I won’t come with you. The old legs can’t take the stairs anymore, you understand. There is a light on the stair, but we shouldn’t use it because of the blackout. Here, take my torch.”
He showed them a door in the wall. Beyond it a stone spiral stair led up and up. The torch, covered in blackout fabric, picked out one step after another, but it was still eerie and horribly cold. At last they came to a little door, unlatched it, and stepped out onto the platform at the top of the tower. A ray of dying sun had pierced the clouds and painted the channels of water below pink. In the distance they could make out the open water of the Bristol Channel.
“This would be a good place to signal from,” Ben said.
Pamela nodded. “But who would be doing the signalling?” she replied.
The wind now carried the first hints of rain. “We should get going,” Ben said.
The vicar walked with them back to the motorbike and waved as they left. It was starting to rain hard now, a stinging wind-blown rain from the sea.
“So do you think we should come back again in daylight and find out who might be living nearby?” Pamela asked.
“I wonder what we’d achieve with that?” Ben said, looking around at the dark woods. “The vicar would have mentioned anyone strange or suspicious, wouldn’t he? He said his parish was only neighbouring farms and cottages. Presumably country people who have farmed here for generations. We could examine the ruins of the old monastery in daylight, but again, wouldn’t the vicar have noticed anything suspicious going on? Frankly, I’m not hopeful myself. I think you were right in what you said before. That it’s a hidden message, not an actual place.”
“I suppose.” Pamela nodded. “So we’ll go back to London, and you can report what you’ve found. And my mother will kill me if we don’t get back for her party.”
“We should stop for something to eat first,” Ben said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
“Good luck at this time of night.” Pamela chuckled. “I bet they all go to bed by eight in the country, especially now that the blackout makes travel so hard. And I think you’ll find it really difficult to drive home in the dark, Ben. Maybe it would be more sensible to find somewhere for the night and leave at first light tomorrow.”
“Did you bring overnight clothes?”
She laughed. “A toothbrush. But I’ll survive.”
It had been raining as they wound their way down the hill, but the overhead canopy of trees protected them. As they came out onto the flatlands, the heavens opened into a downpour. “We can’t go on in this, Ben,” Pamela shouted over the drumming of the rain. Thunder grumbled in the distance.
“There was a pub in that first village,” Ben shouted back. They crept along at a snail’s pace, conscious of the water-filled ditches, now overflowing on either side of the road. Then the first houses appeared, and they could make out a pub sign. It was called the Fox and Hounds, and had a thatched roof and a nice Old World feel to it.
Ben parked the bike under an overhang in the courtyard, and they sprinted to the front door. When they came in, they were greeted by a low murmur of voices and saw several older men standing around the bar. A couple of dogs lay at their heels. The room had a beamed ceiling and an enormous fireplace. All eyes were on them as they approached the bar.
“Been for a swim, have you, then,” the landlord asked in a strong Somerset accent. “My word, but you look like a couple of drowned rats.” He chuckled.
“We were on a motorbike,” Ben said. “Would you possibly have rooms for the night?”