‘So that…’ Lol stroked a sinister E-minor on the Boswell ‘… would be on the ground…’
‘Bought up by The Court last summer – when wassname, Wickhams, sold up?’
‘You’re saying that whatever remains of the old Ledwardine cockpit is now owned by Ward Savitch.’
Suddenly, Lol could see why this just might be Savitch. All for traditions. The first man to stage a cockfight in Ledwardine for a century or whatever. Even if he only did it once or twice, for selected guests.
‘Jane know about the cockpit?’
‘Not yet, boy. See the problem?’
‘Case closed, far as Jane’s concerned. And it looks very likely, doesn’t it? I mean, how else would Cornel’ve been to a cockfight?’
‘Exackly.’ Danny stood up, strapping on his Telecaster. ‘So what’s Gomer do now, boy? Do he tell her… or don’t he? Bein’ as how her’s likely to go off like a rocket.’
‘Even if Savitch wasn’t charged with anything,’ Lol said, thinking hard, ‘it would make him a figure of hate.’
‘Sure to.’
‘Would you be able to tell, if you saw the pit, whether it had been used recently?’
‘Gomer might. But… private land now. Big fences.’
‘Not this weekend. It’s open to the public on Easter Monday.’
‘Still be restricted access. Public won’t get near an active cockpit.’
Lol said, ‘Tomorrow, however…’
Laying down the Boswell in a manger full of last year’s straw, he told Danny about Savitch’s visit and the offer of a site for an open-air music event. Half afraid that Danny, whose musical aspirations had been frustrated for so long, would see it as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to stage some kind of Welsh Border Woodstock. Danny sniffed and smiled.
‘En’t life a bitch?’
‘So I’ve got these two tickets for the press launch and reception for invited guests. Be far more informal. Fewer stewards, not much security.’
‘Right.’
‘If I gave the tickets to you and Gomer, would you be able to maybe find out one way or another?’
A short, worried whine came out of Jimi the sheepdog as Danny stood up, gripped the Telecaster around the bottom of its neck, pulling it hard to his gut.
‘What time?’
35
At one stage, the narrow lane to Brinsop pointed you directly at a wooded flank of Credenhill. You felt that if it didn’t veer off soon you’d vanish into a green mouth.
The first time, Merrily missed the turning to the church, then spotted in the rear-view mirror what might be a bell tower. At approaching midday, a pale blue hole in the clouds was broadening into a small lagoon. She reversed into the next track, and the long hill fell away to the side. Nobody about. No other vehicles.
No village. Plenty of fields, woodland, a few dwellings, and a church, on its own, set apart.
Merrily’s stomach was hurting. Really needed something to eat. Maybe she should go home. Only twenty minutes away. Three warnings about Byron Jones – secretive, embittered, obsessive. She didn’t want to find him, not yet. Just to get a hint of what, in Brinsop, had caught his eye.
The church was at the end of a private track with weeds growing up the middle. A sprinkling of homes, old and newish, barns and sheds, and then the Volvo was up against a fenced field of ewes and lambs. A dead end with the churchyard alongside, raised up. Jane maintained that an elevated churchyard always indicated a former pagan ritual site. But then, for Jane, signs of paganism were everywhere.
OK. Merrily stayed in the car and leaned back, easing the pressure on her stomach. Do this properly. She pulled her bag onto her knees and consulted her contacts book.
Dick Willis, priest in charge of the Credenhill cluster of churches. A cautious guy, not far off retirement. The signal here wasn’t good, but she got him.
‘Ah, Brinsop,’ he said. ‘The jewel in my crown.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve never been before.’
‘Then I mustn’t spoil it for you, Merrily. Is there a problem there? I certainly haven’t heard of one, but when one hears, out of the blue, from your good self…’
‘Do you know a guy called Byron Jones? Colin Jones?’
‘Ah, now, that would be the man with the private army base?’
‘Say that again.’
‘I exaggerate. He calls it The Compound. Once a pig farm, a mile or so out of what used to be the village. The farm became derelict, the house was sold off and this chap bought the land. Lived there in a caravan, then suddenly built this rather lavish bungalow, as if he’d come into money.’
‘What did you mean by private army?’
‘Not an army, a base. He has a training area with an assault course and all that sort of thing. He run courses for military enthusiasts, and the place is done out like a real army base with high wire fencing and authentic warning signs. Part of the mystique, I suppose. Looks more secret and exciting than the actual SAS place down the road. Boys will always be boys, Merrily.’
‘He had planning permission for all this?’
‘Not always needed. And some of the objectors were appeased when, at his own expense, he planted extensive woodland to conceal the site. That was about a year ago.’
‘Mr Jones is ex-SAS, I believe.’
‘Well, yes, that always helps, doesn’t it? Especially in this area.’
‘Does he come to church?’
‘If he does, it’s not when there’s a service on,’ Dick Willis said.
The sun was just visible through the cloud, like a pound coin in a handkerchief, as Merrily got out and locked the car. She shook herself, felt a little better.
The site was fairly remote, but the churchyard was well looked after. Nothing overgrown here, and most of the uncrowded gravestones were upright. A huge sentinel evergreen stood beyond the wooden gate, looking taller than the church which sat behind it, under the hill. A compact greystone church with a conical bell-tower. More central Wales than Herefordshire, but comfortable in its lusher ground.
And the site… Jane might well be interested. Different levels, perhaps a suggestion of earthworks and, across the lowest field beyond the church, a small, dark-green lake. Or a big reeded pond. Or, possibly, a moat, all wooded-in.
A lovely spot, really. This was one of those churches that had had to be here, Jane would say. Had to be here. Sacred ground long before Christianity.
Merrily walked past the church porch towards the water and was pulled up by a name on a gravestone, directly in front. Not ornate, but tall and prominently sited and making an instant connection with one of the paperbacks on Syd Spicer’s desk.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF JANE WINDER WHO WAS BORN AT KESWICK, CUMBERLAND AND DIED AT BRINSOP COURT, IN THIS PARISH OCTOBER 16, 1843 IN THE 43 YEAR OF HER AGE.
This Stone is erected by WILLIAM and MARY WORDSWORTH, of Rydal Mount
Westmoreland in affectionate and grateful remembrance of her faithful services continued through fifteen years.
Good God. Merrily began to tingle. That sense of the preordained. A piece of an unknown jigsaw. The piece that slotted in to tell you there was a jigsaw.
William and Mary. Rydal Mount. Westmoreland. The Wordsworths – the Wordsworths – were here?
She walked back to the porch, went in. Always the same when you approached an unknown church, that frisson of mild apprehension, as you turned the ring handle. Some resistance, but the door wasn’t locked. It gave, and she went in, and whatever she was expecting – perhaps, given the location, something frugal, cold, drab, rudimentary – it wasn’t.
No smell of stone or damp. She made out lurking colours, and not only in the windows. Much metallic glistening from the chancel.
Merrily waited at the bottom of the nave. Waited for something to happen, something to move, shadows to part.