Laura had walked between eight and nine miles over country as lonely as the grave. She found herself on a headland, looking down at a cross-setting tide which foamed at the foot of the cliffs and thundered below into caves.
She sought a way down, and went to find George and the car. He had parked almost on to the beach. There was not the slightest doubt of his relief when Laura, very warm and with aching legs, suggested that they should drive home.
‘And so it went as you thought, miss?’ he said, as he reversed the car past the path which led up to the cliff-top.
‘Yes,’ replied Laura, ‘it did. Wait until I tell Mrs. Bradley!’
Mrs. Bradley, regaled with an account of the pilgrimage at dinner that night, was interested but seemed doubtful about the usefulness of the discovery except as a matter of (presumably) archaeological interest.
‘But you see,’ said Laura despairingly, ‘what I thought—the way I argued—well, you do see, don’t you? There’s this circle of standing stones, and there’s this place called Slepe Rock, from which somebody once disappeared, and I’ve proved you can walk from one to the other in, near enough, as straight a line as you could draw on the map with a ruler or measure off as the crow flies—and, well, don’t you see what I’m getting at?’
‘Frankly, I do not,’ said Mrs. Bradley. ‘After all, we knew already that Slepe Rock was on your nine-mile circle, didn’t we?’
‘Ah, yes. But we didn’t know you could walk the nine miles,’ said Laura. ‘It seems to me that there must be something different about Slepe Rock from the other places we’re interested in, because you certainly couldn’t walk from Newcombe Soulbury to the Stones, or from Easey. Look at the map, and you’ll see. Don’t you think it does single out Slepe?’
‘It is an interesting theory, child, certainly, and one to which we might well devote some thought.’
‘Well, I still say that the number nine has something about it. Take the Nine Stones, for example.’
‘Very well, child.’
‘Now regard them not as themselves, exactly, but as the centre of another and a greater circle, and what do we get, then?’
‘The nine stones as a kind of gigantic boss, child, in the centre of the circle you mention.’
‘Right. And what do you suppose then?’
‘I suppose,’ said Mrs. Bradley solemnly, ‘that somewhere or other on the circumference of that imaginary circle with the boss of the Nine Stones as its centre are to be found the homes of all the missing persons.’
‘Yes, well, there we are, then!’ said Laura. ‘Now, what’s our next move, do you think? Shall we comb out the circle and try to find out where this fat man lived? It ought to bring results, but it may take a fairly long time. I’ve worked it out, and it means a line of two hundred and fifty miles. You’d hardly think it, would you? Too tall an order, would you say?’
‘Not at all, child. I think it a most reasonable distance, and I shall enjoy a tour of the County.’
‘Well, when can we start?’ enquired Laura, after a first suspicious glance at her employer. But Mrs. Bradley seemed serious enough, and merely asked, as a reply to this question:
‘May I look at the map once more?’
‘Sure. I’ll trace out the nine-mile circle on it, shall I? It will give us something to go on. I’ve slewed the compass round but haven’t actually made any marks. I’ll make them now.’
The circle, so traced, covered a string of villages, cut across six main roads and several farms, and also enclosed some wild country of hills, woods, moorland and little streams.
‘Could be in a village, on a road, or on a farm. Goodness knows how long it will take us!’ said Laura, a little despondently, squinting down at the circle she had drawn.
‘We have plenty of time before us,’ Mrs. Bradley equably replied.
‘Plenty of time? We don’t know how much time we’ve got, do we?’
‘If your arguments are correct, child, we have very nearly nine years.’
Chapter Eight
—«♦»—
‘ “Not for gold or silver; but for flesh and blood.” ’
Ibid. (The Lady and the Lion)
« ^ »
To-morrow morning, however,’ Mrs. Bradley continued, ‘we had better rise early, as we arranged to do, and visit the villages of Easey and Newcombe Soulbury. We will ask silly questions and demand unobtainable information. So many earnest persons do this nowadays, many of them sponsored by the government, that I don’t suppose we shall seem remarkable. What information shall we seek?’
‘Let’s fish about with the local history,’ suggested Laura. ‘No! I’ll tell you what! We could be archaeologists, trying to find out where to get permission to dig. That will give us a chance to excavate the corpses if those people really have been murdered. What do you say to that for an idea?’
Mrs. Bradley gazed at her secretary in congratulatory amazement.
‘I don’t know how you think of these things,’ she said. Laura looked at her suspiciously, but Mrs. Bradley added, as though she had taken the suggestion seriously, ‘But I think that digging will be far more useful a little later on, child.’
‘Ah! “Plant her where she’ll blossom,” ’ observed Laura. ‘I get it. Right. We become archaeologists (and dig up the corpses) later. Meanwhile we are literary tourists with an insatiable thirst for Hardy-ana. That’s the best bet in this county.’
‘No, no. We will seek the birthplace of William Barnes, child. With any luck we shall be able to lunch in Cuchester and can then complete our round before dinner. And you’d better drive. They may recognize George at those places he visited before.’
‘Time Marches On,’ observed Laura, feeling slightly guilty at the thought that she had taken George to Slepe Rock that afternoon. However, next day she took the wheel and the car drove off towards what she privately termed The House in Dormer Forest. This was the place from which the young man Allwright, or, as he had preferred it, Toro, had disappeared in 1939. Mrs. Bradley had decided to go first to Easey on the theory that people might remember the events of 1939 more readily than those of 1930 and 1921.
Thanks to the clear directions supplied by George, Laura found the cottage at Easey and pulled up twenty yards away. It was true that the cottage was concealed in a small wood, but there was nothing either mysterious or sinister about the neat lawn, neat flowerbeds, neat curtains and neat front door. Even the notice-board was neat with its unobstrusive intimation that the property was for sale.
‘A great thought strikes me,’ said Laura.
‘I thought perhaps it would,’ Mrs. Bradley remarked.
‘Headquarters.’
‘I thought you might suggest that, but we need not be in a hurry.’
‘Shall I go and enquire, or will you?’
‘You go. But don’t do anything at present except ask whether we may take a photograph.’
‘Mentioning Barnes’ birthplace?’
‘Not until you have permission to take the photograph, otherwise they will tell you that you have come to the wrong place and close the door on you.’
‘What a Machiavelli!’ said Laura. ‘You ought to have been a lawyer. Well, here goes!’
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman whose respectable black hat, apron worn under her coat and large shopping bag indicated a charwoman about to return to her own home after having ‘obliged.’
‘Photygraph?’ she said doubtfully. ‘I don’t know. I’ll arst, but they’m only holiday folks.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Laura. ‘Well, perhaps if they’d give permission…’
A girl’s voice said from one of the inner doorways :