'So they built Bowermead Hall on an old ley-line.'
Juanita had changed back into her sweater and skirt, combed her hair. 'Why would they do that?'
'OK,' Powys said. 'If, say, they thought Meadwell was too small and dismal to live in, maybe a little too close to the Tor for comfort, but they warned to retain the link. Maybe even strengthen it, by adding another point to the line. And this is where they chopped down the trees. Dug it out. They dug out the ley?'
'You get an immaculate view of the Tor' Sam said. 'Side of it I've never seen before. Like at Meadwell, but even more dramatic.'
'And that was where you saw…'
'Him. Pixhill. I think it upset him.'
Juanita was tracing the line with a forefinger. Possibly, Powys thought, for the sheer novelty of being able to do that. He noticed she was breathing faster.
'Sam, what's here?'
The tip of her finger quivering.
Sam peered at the map. 'Resr, what's that mean?'
'Reservoir,' Powys said.
'Oh my God.' Juanita closed and opened her eyes three times. She was looking at the bed next to where Powys sat.
'That's it.'
'What?'
'It's where she is. This reservoir.'
Sam stiffened. 'Drowned.'
'It's disused,' Juanita said. 'It's a big grey place with
…'
She closed her eyes again,'… three grey, concrete pillars.'
'What's up with her?' Sam was spooked. 'Where's she getting this from?'
Arnold stood up on all three legs and Powys, seeing his big ears go back and his hairy snout rise, dived to the floor and clapped a hand around it.
'He was gonner howl, wasn't he?'
Juanita smoothed the quilt next to where Powys had sat
'Never a dent,' she said.
Upon the long oak table, on which the Colonel's coffin had lain tor three days and nights, little Councillor Woolaston now lay dead.
Verity wept over his horribly disfigured corpse.
Be assured that I would not expect you to do anything beyond coming to the rescue of my good and staunch friend Verity Endicott, who is in grave and mortal danger, standing as she does directly in the path of (and, God help me, I do not exaggerate) an old and utterly merciless evil.
She backed away from the body, not through fear or revulsion at the way the head had been smashed – nose and teeth broken, the blood pooled in sunken checks – but to give vent to her feelings.
'How I hate you,' she told Meadwell.
And then thought of the well itself. It would be opened now.
SIXTEEN
She lay back and let her eyelids fall. The pillows were soft and cool. The back of her head felt heavy, like a bag of potatoes. She let her arms flop by her sides. The anger, still burning somewhere below her abdomen was at odds, though not uncomfortably so, with the supine state of her body. She was, surprisingly, reaching a state of relaxation. But then, she was getting rather good at that.
Diane smiled.
The earliest light had hardened the tower on Glastonbury Tor into a rigid finger which poked and gouged blood from the raw flesh of the winter sky.
It was not yet seven-thirty. A false dawn, Don Moulder thought, watching from his top field through binoculars.
Lights showed where the protesters were scattered like maggots all around the Tor, but Don reckoned the police wouldn't let them go up. For their own safety no doubt. He'd half expected there to be a counter-demonstration by the Glastonbury First people, but they were lying low. Sensibly. let the New Age hooligans dig their own grave would be their line.
He could see the handful of folk starting to wind their way up the Tor under a big lamp. Dame Wanda the beacon, in her black and white cape and her big hat. Pretty tame pagan, all the same. Too cold, no doubt, for the old Egyptian priestess get-up from Hello! magazine. Poor bloody Christian, too, that bishop, with his smarmy ways and his entourage and his minders.
Don focused the glasses on a very bright spotlight, setting up a small figure in a sheepskin coat, the collar up around short blonde hair. Tammy White, BBC Bristol. Don had relented and allowed Tammy and her cameraman to park in the bottom field. Tammy had parked her white Peugeot right side on to that bloody bus, God save her news-hungry little soul.
The sky was on the move again, darkening up again. Knew it was a false dawn.
Not seen weather like this in a good long while. First one thing then another, like the heavens couldn't make up their minds which way to turn.
'OK.' Powys was driving. 'How we going to do this? Do we go in through the Bowermead entrance or what? How d'you get in that night, Sam?'
'Parked on the road, scraped through a couple of hedges. But it took me bloody ages, Powys. We don't have that kind of time. I say we go in. State you left him last night, I don't reckon Rankin's gonner do much. Juanita?'
'Do it.'
Powys cut the headlights at the entrance to the drive. Sam did the gates Nobody came out to stop him, but when they reached the house there was a grey BMW parked on the forecourt.
'Archer's home' Juanita said.
'Head down there.' Sam pointed to an avenue of trees. 'Takes you past the barn, past the hunt kennels. We wake the dogs, nothing we can do about that. Only problem is, it's a dead end. They come down here in a couple of Range Rovers, we're screwed.'
Powys paused, holding the Mini on the clutch.
Juanita sighed. 'You want to know how certain I am about this, don't you?'
Neither of them answered.
'It was like a Ouija board is all I can say. Something was moving my finger on the map. Just like something gave me a jolt when you came out with the word "reservoir" earlier.'
'Oh, shit,' Sam said. 'I don't like this.'
'I wouldn't like it either, Sam, except whatever we picked up, we picked it up in the Abbey. I wouldn't like to think you can pick up anything bad there.'
Powys let out the clutch. 'You saw her sitting on the bed, didn't you?'
'Just like you in the Abbey, I don't know what I saw.'
Arnold sat on his rug on the back seat, next to Juanita. Powys watched him for a moment in the mirror. 'He knows what he saw.'
In the mirror Powys saw a figure emerge on to the steps, watching them, as they passed under the avenue of trees.
She was starting to enjoy her anger and felt no guilt about this, light dripped on to her eyelids like syrup. And in the cushiony hinterland of sleep, in those moments when the senses mingle and then dissolve, when fragments of whispered words are sometimes heard and strange responses sought, Diane's rage fermented pleasurably into the darkest of wines…
The barns bulked to the right. 'Kennels beyond that,' Sam said. 'Then you got no road left.'
The Mini went into a dip. Powys knew he wasn't going to make it up the other side.
'OK, leave it here. You're out of sight.'
They all got out. Sam took the torch, led them up the side of the hill, Powys concerned when Juanita slipped and went down on her hands.
'OK?'
'Seem to be. It makes no sense but I do seem to be.'
'Not a hag then. Not tainted by the whatsit of death.'
'I feel like I may live forever. That probably means I'm going to die. Jesus God, will you look at that.'
It looked like what Sam had thought it was. The devastation before a motorway goes through. The outraged rubble of a speedily shaven forest. You could almost hear the screams of the trees. If trees had ghosts, this place would be haunted for centuries.
'I've seen this before,' Powys said. 'They're reawakening the ley. They're going to either bring something down from me Tor or…'
'Or send something up,' Juanita said.
'Is that you talking or… '
'I don't know. Do we have to walk through this?'