‘Your acumen is only matched by your innocent assumption that a theory is as good as a fact,’ said Mrs. Bradley, poking her secretary in the ribs.
‘Well, one must begin somewhere,’ argued Laura, ‘and lots of theories are preferable to facts—notably that the human race has progressed since Neolithic times and that England is a Christian country. Besides, theories, as it were, should be based upon facts in much the same way as a desirable residence rests upon its foundations.’ She squinted complacently down her nose as she put forward these striking premises.
‘Nevertheless, as you rightly point out, the foundations have to come first and must be of solid construction,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘So far, we have no reason for assuming that there is anything to connect the disappearances of three widely-separated persons except for the interesting (but not necessarily significant) fact that an interval of, roughly, nine years elapsed between disappearances one and two, two and three, and, now, between three and four.’
‘Well, anyway, let’s get hold of a map, and see if we can deduce where this fat blighter came from,’ said Laura. ‘Once we know that, we know all.’
‘How so?’ Mrs. Bradley enquired.
‘Well, we’ve only to question the local inhabitants to arrive at a complete history. You know what villages are. And once we know why we know who. Isn’t that so?’
‘Sometimes,’ Mrs. Bradley cautiously replied. ‘But, even if the villagers tell us all they know… which it is not very likely that they will, as we are strangers… I am not at all sure that we shall be so very much further forward. You see, the lonely situation of these houses from which the men seem to have disappeared, makes it unlikely that any of the villagers knew anything of the disappearances until some time after these had occurred. And the time factor in such cases is often of great importance.’
‘Oh,’ said Laura, somewhat dashed by this elementary reasoning, ‘I see what you mean. Still, it won’t do any harm to pore over the map for a bit. Will you do the poring, or shall I?’
‘Oh, you do it, child.’
‘Right. Thanks. I like mucking about with maps. Now I shall want… let’s see… yes, I’d better have a transparent ruler, a protractor, compasses, a piece of thread marked in inches to wriggle along the winding roads and rivers, dividers, a set-square, some little flags stuck on pins…’ She went happily to work to collect these, pausing only to add, ‘And we ought to include Little Dorsett, I suppose, as we’ve had two references to it. Isn’t that where that woman at the farm said she came from? And if the Allwrights are living there as well…’
‘We must certainly include Little Dorsett,’ Mrs. Bradley agreed.
Chapter Seven
—«♦»—
‘Thus the spell was broken, and all who had been turned into stones awoke, and took their proper forms.’
Ibid. (The Queen Bee)
« ^ »
Once she had assembled her tools, Laura went to work, and some simple measurements and a complicated table of statistics produced satisfactory results. Laura, at any rate, was pleased with them, and at ten-thirty made known her findings.
‘What do you think?’ she demanded, looking up from her self-imposed task of twiddling a pair of compasses on the middle of the one-inch map. ‘Significant, I should call it, shouldn’t you?’
‘I hardly know,’ replied Mrs. Bradley. ‘Should I?’
‘Rather! You wait until I tell you!… Oh, there’s one thing I want to do, by the way, before we third-degree any villagers, and that is to go to that circle of standing stones above the farmyard. When can we go?’
‘To-morrow morning, if you wish, child.’
‘Oh, good! It had better be as early as possible, then, I think. We must leave plenty of time to do the villages properly after breakfast. What about leaving here at five for the circle of stones?’
‘As you wish,’ said Mrs. Bradley, grinning. ‘I will call you myself.’
She did this at four, and by five they were in the car with Laura driving. It was a clear grey morning with no hint of autumn in the air and not a great deal in the trees. Study of the map had taught Laura, in addition to other matters, that it was possible to drive to within three-quarters of a mile of the circle of standing stones without going past O’Hara’s mysterious farm.
The woods around the house where they were staying gave place very soon to the main road to Cuchester. Laura turned off from this about a mile to the south of the first village through which it ran, and the car mounted a long hill before it entered a narrow belt of trees on the further side.
After this the road became open, treeless and straight, and then, to avoid a high hill which was crowned by a Neolithic fort known locally as Mabb’s Mound, it took itself off southeast, but still in a line as straight as a ruler could have made, past a farm, a long barrow, and a road which petered out up a hill and ended in moorland at the top.
Soon the car found another high-road, and, by keeping to this for some miles, Laura passed through a long and beautiful village, skirted the park of a large house surrounded by trees, dropped cautiously down the steepest gradient in the county, and by-passed the town of Cuchester.
Three or four miles beyond Cuchester she made the detour which would bring her round to the west of O’Hara’s farm, and, beyond the discovery that the road had a very loose surface and in places was only fit for a sheep walk, she learned nothing that she had not known before.
She parked the car in a gateway on to a field, and then she and Mrs. Bradley set out for the circle of stones. A footpath which was crossed by two stiles led up and over the hill, for the stones were not quite at the summit.
Laura and Mrs. Bradley were walking round to inspect each stone when over the hill came two men. Mrs. Bradley called good morning as they came near, and one of them left the path and walked over towards the stone circle.
‘Interesting,’ said Mrs. Bradley, indicating the stones as though they had sprung up like mushrooms during the night.
‘Ah, they be very interesting,’ said the man. ‘Calls ’em the Druids, we do, though I dunno for why. The Dancin‘ Druids some calls ’em, and one gentleman from London, he comes up along over ’ere once every year and he watches for to see if they dances.’
‘And has he ever been fortunate enough to see them dance?’ Mrs. Bradley enquired.
‘Well,’ said the man. ‘I dunno as to that, I’m sure. Last year ’e swore as ’e did see summat, and this year e’s talked of bringin’ a film company over to see if they can’t make a picture. But I dunno! They never danced during the war, I do know that, for I used to be on Observer Corps duty up ’ere, with nothing much to look at except them stones. Stood firm enough when I looked at ’em, that I’ll swear.’
‘The Dancing Druids,’ said Mrs. Bradley, when the two men had gone on. ‘Not an uncommon superstition.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Laura enquired. ‘A most uncommon one, I should have thought.’
‘It is certainly an odd one,’ Mrs. Bradley went on, ‘but, in Cornwall, legend connects such circles as this one with girls turned into stone for impious behaviour—notably for dancing on a Sunday. The “Whispering Knights” of Little Rollright on the border of Oxfordshire are likewise believed to dance.1 It is a striking survival, I believe, of the importance attached in early times to dancing as a religious exercise. There is also, of course, the fascinating paradox that dancing, although voiceless, is a language.2 The ballet proves that.’