“Innes,” said John, respectfully.
“Aye,” was the reply. Hill farmers use their words sparingly.
“Fine mornin’.”
“Not for you, I hear.”
“Aye.”
“Birds all gone?”
“Aye.”
Old Innes inclined his head towards the hen house, which John interpreted as “May I?”
John pointed with his chin, which Innes understood to mean, “Of course.”
While Innes no longer kept poultry, John knew that his decades of experience meant that he might be able to offer some observations of value. He watched Innes from a distance, giving him a respectful space in which to study the problem. Innes walked around the fence, noting its height, its quality, its intact condition and its bloodstains. Innes then entered the run, and opened the hen house, noting everything, and missing nothing. Finally he straightened up, scratched his scarred neck, and cleared his throat. John, of course, understood his meaning and walked over.
“Not foxes,” said Innes.
“Reckon not,” said John. “Bit stumped, not anything I’ve seen.” He hesitated, then added, “Never seen mink on the hunt, mind.”
Innes grinned. “Ah, Willems, you know better.”
John grinned back. “Not mink.”
“Reckon not.”
Innes pointed out a faint imprint on the ground. “You saw that, course.”
“Aye. First thought was summat legless. But no snakes on the island far as I know. And no snakes in the whole country big enough to take down a flock o’ chickens.”
“Aye.”
The two men pondered the problem in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Innes spoke again.
“Came in here. Squeezed under. Found the hatch. Now, how did it get it open?”
“I know it was bolted last night.”
“So, a smart predator. Funny brown stain on the bolt, see?”
John peered closely. “So it is.”
“So, it gets in, scares the crap out o’ them birds, and some come this way. Kills everything in the run, then goes back into the coop and kills everything in there.”
“Ate some on the spot.” John grimaced. “Dragged the rest to the fence.”
“Aye.” Innes studied the mesh. “Don’t know as I believe meself, now. But it stuffed chunks o’ hen through the mesh, squeezed back out, collected it an’ left.”
“Twenty-six birds.”
“So, what do have, Willems?”
“Built like a snake.”
“Clever enough to work a bolt.”
“Strong and quick. Very quick.”
“Big enough to want twenty-six birds.”
“Big enough to carry off most of twenty-six birds.”
“More’n one?” Innes wondered.
“Reckon so,” John replied. He thought for another minute. “And sneaky. No, that’s not the right word…”
“Stealthy,” offered Innes.
“Aye. What does that sound like to you?”
Innes thought for a long minute. “Nothin’ I’ve seen or heard of.”
“Aye, that’s my worry. It ain’t natural to these parts…”
“Or any other parts, come to that.”
The two men looked at each other. Then old Innes scratched his chin, and muttered, “So I wonder… how big do these things get?”
Chapter 9
Maxwell Coupar’s mobile phone rang again. He could tell who was calling by the ring-tone, so – again – he ignored it, leaving Ozzy Osbourne to sing, “Evil woman, don’t you play your games with me,” another twice, until the call bounced to voice mail. After a minute, Ozzy burst into song once more, and finally Tori laughed indulgently and said, “For goodness sake, Maxwell, will you answer that? You know perfectly well who’s calling, and you can’t keep avoiding her!”
With a sigh, Maxwell tapped the green button. “Hello, this is Professor Maxwell Coupar. How may I help you?”
“Max, darling, as if you didn’t know, it’s Amanda.”
“Amanda!” he exclaimed, doing his best to sound pleasantly surprised. “How are you, my love? What can I do for you?”
“How I am, is pleased you’ve finally answered one of my calls, and what you can do for me, is let me know what progress you’re making. You did promise weekly updates.”
“Did I really? Are you sure? That doesn’t sound like me at all.”
“I’m sure. All I have are invoices when what I expect is progress. So spit it out, you’re getting nowhere aren’t you?”
Maxwell grinned to himself. “On the contrary, my dear Amanda, of course we’re making progress. Want to hear about it?”
“Of course I want to hear about it, you ninny. As per all the messages I’ve been leaving for you.”
“I must check my phone service…”
“Cut the crap, darling. Just tell me what’s going on. Where are you anyway?”
“We’re camping out by the Roman Camp at Arwensford.”
“And?”
“And…” He paused for effect. “We found the Iron Fort!”
“Nice pause for effect, darling. You’ve been at it – what – six weeks? I’d have expected you to pin it down in half that time.”
“Ah, darling, you should realise that meticulous research takes time…”
“Did I not just suggest you cut the crap? Don’t forget how well I know you, Max.”
“Maxwell. Of course the real time-consumer is getting the right team together to do the field work.”
“Let me see if I can translate that… it took a couple of weeks to persuade some bimbo student to share your tent. Who is it this time, and what trouble can she make for us?”
“Camper vans, dear, you know I dislike draughty canvas. My strong right hand…”
Amanda laughed. “You’ve had to resort to using your strong right hand? Would nobody come and diddle your joystick for you? You must be slipping!”
Maxwell talked over her, wishing he’d chosen a less ambiguous cliché. “…is a very talented research assistant, Victoria Bandra. She has been proving absolutely invaluable. We are accompanied by two grad students, Owain Baxter and Gilda Feinman. Our little team is working wonders together, believe me.”
“So which one are you boinking? Victoria or Gilda? Both? Or Owain?”
Maxwell’s voice dropped. “Not appropriate, darling.”
“Okay, since you said Victoria is ‘invaluable’ but the others are only ‘accompanying’, I’ll bank on her being your current tent-warmer. Keep her sweet, Max. No surprises when it comes time to dump her. At least until the film’s in the can.”
“Amanda, darling, this isn’t my first game of tiddly-winks. Trust me.”
“Trust you? Ha! All right. Let’s move it along. I seem to be paying rental on a couple of camper vans and a small excavator. Cleary the Iron Fort is near Arwensford. How sure are you? I take it you’ve started digging?”
“I have permission to dig. The site is a roundish mound on the river bank just a little downstream from the Roman camp.”
“Round? The Roman military loved their rectangles and standard castra layouts.”
“Yes, round, dear. I thought that would intrigue you. My take on it is that Big Beardy was a Gaul, and the Gauls preferred to use the contours of the land, so of course he probably found a little hill and adapted to it rather than follow the usual Roman military pattern. Anyway, the sources all put it close to the fortlet, and if you look at detailed maps, then of course this is the only candidate. We’ve walked the terrain, and we’re pretty sure of it. You can still see where the wall would have run, with a ditch outside it. It looks like they dug a bunch of trenches to divert water from the Arwen and some other streams to make a moat around the fort that drained into the river.”
“Ah, so the latrines would drain that way. I know you love a good latrine. Have you told your little nocturnal companion yet? Does she know what she’ll be digging through?”