And sound too, a dull basso continuo of distant artillery overlaid from time to time by the soprano shriek of passing shells or the snare-drum stutter of machine-gun fire.
'Go down,' urged Studholme.
Pascoe descended, and with each step felt his stomach clench as his old claustrophobia began to take its paralysing grip.
At the foot of the steps he had to duck under a rough curtain of hempen sacking and when he straightened up, he found he was standing in a First World War dugout.
There were figures here, old shop-window dummies, he guessed, now clad in khaki, but their smooth white faces weren't at all ludicrous. They were death masks, equally terrifying whether belonging to the corporal crouched over a field telephone on a makeshift table or the officer sprawled on a canvas camp bed with an open book neglected on his breast.
In the darkest corner, face turned to the wall, lay another figure with one leg completely swathed in a bloodstained bandage. Close by his foot two large rats, eyes glinting in the yellow light, seemed about to pounce.
'Jesus!' exclaimed Pascoe, uncertain in that second if they were real or stuffed.
'Convincing, ain't they?' said Studholme with modest pride. 'Could have had the real thing down here with very little effort, but didn't want the local health snoops down on me. Everything you see is authentic. Kit, weapons, uniforms. All saw service on the Western Front.'
'Even this?' said Pascoe indicating the sleeping officer's book.
'Oh yes. My father's. Not a great reader, but he told me that at that time in that place, it was a lifeline to home.'
Pascoe picked up the book.
'Good God,' he said.
It was a copy of the original Kelmscott Press Edition of William Morris's The Wood Beyond the World.
'What?' said Studholme.
'This book, it's worth, I don't know, thousands maybe. You really shouldn't leave it lying around down here.'
'Spoken like a policeman,' said Studholme. 'Didn't realize it was valuable to anyone except me. Still, kind of johnny who comes down here isn't likely to be a sneak thief, eh?'
'Spoken like a soldier,' said Pascoe opening the book and reading the inscription: To Hillie with love from Mummy Christmas 1903. It was clearly a well-thumbed and well-travelled volume. Lifeline to home, Christmas, mother, childhood. .
'Take your time,' said Studholme. 'Bit more dust round here won't be noticed, richer dust concealed, eh? But if you feel it's too macabre, there's always the rose bush. I'll leave you to have a think.'
He turned and vanished up the steps. Carefully Pascoe replaced the book on the dummy's chest, taking care not to touch the pale plastic hand.
'So, Gran, what's it to be?' he said to the urn which he'd placed by the telephone. 'Up there with the flowers or down here with the roots?'
He'd already made up his mind, but some pathetically macho pride prevented him from going in immediate pursuit of the major. Next moment he wished he had as one of the passing shells on the sound tape failed to pass, its scream climaxing to a huge explosion with a power of suggestion so strong that the whole cellar seemed to shake and, simultaneously, the lights went out.
Coincidence, or part of Studholme's special effects? wondered Pascoe, desperately trying to stem the panic rising in his gut.
The telephone rang, a single long rasping burr.
His hand shot out to grab it, hit something, then found the receiver.
'Hello!' came a voice, tinny and distant. 'Who's that?'
'This is Pascoe.'
'Pascoe? What the hell are you doing there?'
'Is that you, Studholme?' he demanded.
'Don't be an ass, man. This is Lieutenant..'
And a voice behind him at the same time said, 'Someone wanting me? Damn these lamps!'
For a moment it seemed to his disorientated and panicking mind that the voice came from the camp bed. Then a torch beam shone in his eyes and the major went on, 'Sorry about this. Often happens when one of those supermarket juggernauts goes up the service road behind us. Sometimes feels like the whole damn place is coming down. Lights should be back on in a tick.. ah, there we are.'
The pseudo oil lamps flickered back on. Pascoe blinked then looked at the dummy on the bed. It lay there with the book where he'd replaced it.
Studholme said mildly, 'Ringing for help?'
'What?' He realized he was still holding the telephone. 'I thought it rang. .'
'Does sometimes,' said the major. 'Little battery — operated random ringing device I knocked up. Helps with the atmosphere. Makes people jump, I tell you. Oh dear. Your decision or has your grandmother chosen for herself?'
Pascoe followed his gaze and saw that when he'd grabbed for the phone he must have knocked the urn off the table. It had cracked open when it hit the floor and a spoor of ash marked where it had rolled a few inches.
Pascoe replaced the telephone.
'Can't argue with fate, ' he said, trying to establish control.
He picked up the urn and scattered the ashes into the corners of the dugout where, as Studholme had forecast, they blended in imperceptibly.
He felt he ought to say something. But what? It would either come out flip, or pseudo-religious, which was worse. In the end he contented himself with thinking, there you go, Ada. This world was a bit of a disappointment to you. I hope the next comes up to scratch.
It was a relief to get back to the ground floor.
Studholme said, 'Got a number? I'll check through our records, see if I can get any details on your great-grandfather's time in the regiment if you like. Or would you rather put all that behind you?'
'No, I'd be interested,' said Pascoe, producing a card. 'And thanks for being so helpful.'
'My pleasure. Goodbye, Mr Pascoe.'
He held out his left hand. There was a moment's awkwardness as Pascoe instinctively reached for it with his right. To cover it he said, 'By the way, that pistol. It wasn't really loaded, was it?'
Studholme said, 'One thing my father taught me was, never point a loaded weapon at anyone you're not willing to shoot.'
It wasn't till Pascoe was driving away that it dawned on him that he still didn't know if his question had been answered or not.
x
1982 was a key year for the Tory Party both nationally and in Mid-Yorkshire.
At its start, Margaret Thatcher's grasp of the premiership seemed rather less secure than Richard Nixon's of the principles of democracy, while Amanda Pitt-Evenlode, née Marvell, seemed set to be Vice President (Functions) of the Mid-Yorks Conservative Association for at least the next forty years.
Then came the Falklands War. Never (or at least not since Troy) in the field of human daftness had so many gone so far to sacrifice so much for the sake of one silly woman.
Its effect on the fortunes of the UK government is a matter of public record.
Its effect on the life of Amanda Pitt-Evenlode is less widely known.
What it came down to was this: on June 12th, 1982, she was radicalized.
Curiously it was not the news that her only son, Second Lieutenant Piers Pitt-Evenlode of the Yorkshire Fusiliers, was missing in action, believed dead, that did the trick. That came on June 7th and left her prostrate with shock and unable to register, let alone reject, the canonical comforts of her parish priest, the patriotic platitudes of her committee colleagues, or the phylogenic fortitude of her spouse, the Hon. Rupert Pitt-Evenlode, JP.
No, it was the news that Piers had been discovered alive and, apart from a few inconsequential bullet holes, well, that pricked her into life. While all around the air was full of joyful congratulation, and talk of a possible gong, and plans for the welcome-home party, all she could think of was her recent certainty that this war — any war — was a crime against humanity, and its attendant conclusion that those responsible for it, or supportive of it, or even indifferent to it, must therefore be war criminals.