River of Destiny (47 page)

‘We could put him in the mound,’ William Mayhew said quietly. ‘Whoever is buried there won’t mind sharing after all this time.’

The men all turned to look at the tumulus and George shivered. ‘The Dead Man.’

‘When did he go in, do you reckon?’

‘Long enough ago not to worry about sharing his bed.’

‘And his ghost?’ Again the shiver. ‘You reckon that won’t mind?’

The men fell silent.

‘It’s the only way.’ Fred tried to insert his spade into the soil. ‘This is like iron down here, but here,’ he did the same thing on the slope of the mound and the spade went in with relative ease, ‘this is softer.’

‘Here it is then,’ Sam spoke up suddenly. ‘Let’s get it done and over with.’ He thrust his spade into the ground next to Fred’s. ‘It will be a softer resting place for poor Dan, but I doubt he’ll lie easy all the same.’

They had been digging for some time when one of the spades struck metal. They stopped and peered down into the deepening hole. Two of the men had brought lanterns and the flickering shadows ran crazily up the trees and across the ground as they worked. George picked up one and held it down into the cavity. ‘There’s a bowl down here, and a jug,’ he whispered. ‘And other stuff.’

‘No bones, thank the Lord!’ Sam murmured. He knelt down and reached in. ‘It’s treasure, that’s what it is.’ He held up the bowl. It was dented and blackened. He scratched it with his thumbnail. ‘Silver.’

‘And look at this.’ Fred squatted down and reached over. He drew out a long, rusted and corroded blade. ‘It’s a sword.’ The men stared at it in awe.

‘Put it back!’ Robert straightened. ‘Put it back. Don’t you see. This was buried with a man to see him into the next world. We’ve hit the dead man’s grave. God save us all, we’ve gone in and disturbed the grave itself.’

They stared in silence for a moment. Fred was still holding the corroded hilt. In the lantern light they could all see the designs carved on it, almost obscured beneath the lumps of corrosion. He rose, holding it in both hands, then jumped lightly down into the grave. ‘I’ll put it back. I’ll put it all back, and I’ll rebury the sword here. I reckon Dan has as much right as any to lie here too – a man who worked with iron, he would have appreciated the skill that went into making this.’

The others nodded. They carefully put all the items back in the soil and filled it in, then they set to to finish the grave before retracing their steps towards the barn.

By the light of the lanterns they laid Dan’s body on a door and carried him slowly back across the field as a huge red moon rose out of the trees, and laid him, reverently wrapped in the two horse blankets, in the grave. Fred Turtill stood forward and said the Lord’s Prayer, and George laid Dan’s hammer and fire tongs and rasp beside him. They stood for many minutes, not moving, then at last with heavy hearts they began to throw the soil in over him. On the top of the grave Sam stood the little blue jug which Susan had loved so much, filled with Michaelmas daisies from her garden. ‘I reckon Susan would have wanted that,’ he murmured, almost embarrassed by the gesture, but the other men merely nodded their approval. Above them the moon was climbing out of the mist, turning from red to silver against the indigo sky.

Out in the river the longship drifted to a standstill and unseen hands lowered the sail bit by bit towards the deck. William Mayhew saw it first. Dropping his spade, he stood back from the grave and stared down at the water, then silently he pointed. The others followed the direction of his finger, also staring.

‘It’s a sign,’ Fred said at last. They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching. The ship was hazy, an insubstantial shape against the reflections and the moon shadows in the water.

‘There’s no one on her,’ Robert whispered.

They were all river men, born and bred within sight and smell of the tidal mud and weed. They had all heard the legend of the ship. ‘Dan drew a picture of her not so long ago,’ George whispered. ‘Do you reckon it’s come for him?’

‘Do you think we should weigh him down with something?’ Robert said. ‘I don’t figure the poor chap would want to go with them.’

They laid their spades over the grave; iron to bring protection, oak handles to hold him close, and each man muttered a prayer, then quickly and quietly, without a backward glance at the river, they melted away into the night leaving the copse in Dead Man’s Field to its silence.

Bill Turtill pulled the tangle of spades out from under the plough and looked at them in puzzlement. They were old, pitted and rusty, the handles mostly rotted away. What were they doing there on the edge of the copse? He stopped to examine the shares of his plough and then walked on up the side of the wire. He had caught one of the spades with the end share and the others had pulled free with it. Shaking his head he threw the whole rusty mess back over the wire and went up to haul himself back into the tractor cab. Behind him the freshly turned sods gleamed in the sunshine and he smiled quietly. He would like to see anyone try and walk over that lot.

He restarted the engine, watching the flock of gulls rise and wheel behind him and engaged gear. Part of him had expected the Formby woman to have arrived by now, waving her arms around and spitting fury about her footpath. He was pleased Zoë Lloyd hadn’t given him away. It had given him a fright seeing her standing there in the shadow of the hedge, watching him, but she had waved in a friendly fashion and obviously she had said nothing. Mentally he awarded her a gold star for neighbourliness. And talking of neighbours, he must remember to tell Penny to ring Lesley Inworth and spread the word around that tomorrow they could do with some help up here. The more people there were to see off Rosemary and her walkers the better. In ten minutes he had drawn away up the hill out of sight of the copse and had settled again to concentrating on keeping his furrows straight. He did not give the ancient spades or the copse where he had thrown them another thought.

Behind him the cloud of gulls scattered across the field.

Lady Emily was sitting by the window staring out at the garden. It seemed like only a short time earlier that she had been watching the gardeners working, bringing in the bedding plants before the winter set in. Now the mist had closed in and night was near. A huge orange moon was floating over the river. She shivered. The house was very quiet. She had rung the bell for Molly but no one had come. The fire had burned low and the room was growing cold. She wanted the curtains closed on the night. She stood up and walked over to the fireplace, pulling the bell again, hearing it jangle faintly in the depths of the house. Surely someone could hear it. Going over to the door she pulled it open and looked out. The hall was dark. No one had lit the lamps. The other rooms appeared to be empty. She didn’t know where Henry was.

‘Mrs Field? Beaton?’ she called. There must be servants around. There were always servants around, ready to do her bidding. She took a step out into the hall, then she changed her mind. It was dark and it was cold out there. Better to stay in the drawing room. She went back to the bell and rang it again, hard.

It was full dark when Henry came in, carrying a candle. He stood in the doorway holding it up high and looked in. She was sitting huddled on a chair, a silk shawl wrapped round her shoulders. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked in relief. She stood up. ‘Where are the servants? I have rung and rung the bell. I shall send Molly away. I shall send them all away!’ She fell silent, seeing his face by the light of the candle. It was very grim.

‘Molly will not be waiting on you tonight,’ he said. His voice was cold. ‘She is staying down at the farmhouse with the Turtills. Her sister, Susan Smith, died this afternoon, in childbirth. I understand most of the servants are down at the farm, paying their respects. I have told Beaton we will not require them tonight.’ He took the candle out of its candlestick and held it down to the fire. After a moment the kindling caught and small flames began to lick at the logs which had been laid ready early that morning. ‘Molly will be returning to her parents’ farm after the funeral.’

She was staring at him in silence. ‘Susan died,’ she said at last, her voice husky, repeating the words as though unable to believe them. ‘And the baby?’

‘Dead.’

‘And –’ It was a whisper. Her voice faded and she said nothing more. Her husband ignored her. He bent to pile on more logs and then walked over to pull the curtains across. ‘Are you capable of finding us food in the kitchen?’ he asked as he came back to the fire.

She shook her head. ‘Are all the servants gone?’

‘All.’ He set his lips in a tight line. ‘It is no less than I would expect. Susan was well liked by most people. Her death is a tragedy.’

‘Yes.’ Again it was a whisper.

‘You will represent us at the funeral.’

‘No!’ She turned on him. ‘No, you can’t make me go to that.’

‘It is the least you can do, Emily.’ He glared at her so coldly and with such hatred that for the first time she realised with absolute certainty that he knew. He knew her story of rape was a lie. She fell back into one of the chairs by the fire, drawing her shawl tightly around her shoulders and closed her eyes. Tears had always won him over in the past; this time, it dawned on her suddenly, her tears were real and this time they would have no effect.

They had had a wonderful day’s sailing, heading out of the mouth of the river and along the coast for a while before turning back; Ken had timed it meticulously this time and they crossed the bar without incident as the light began to fade in the sky. He had become aware of the great bank of sea mist behind them between one moment and the next. Glancing back as he felt the breath of ice-cold wind on his cheek, he had felt his eyes widen in horror.

John was on the foredeck coiling down the ends of the halyards, neatening everything up. He hadn’t noticed.

‘John,’ Ken called. His companion showed no sign of hearing him and he realised he was whispering. ‘John,’ he called again, louder this time. John looked up. ‘Get back here, fast.’

Now John had seen it too. He saw the look of incredulity on his friend’s face, before he edged down the side deck and jumped down into the cockpit next to him. ‘Where did that come from! Bloody hell, that was fast. Shit!’

‘Shit indeed.’ Ken felt the cold mist on his face now, tendrils weaving round them in the cockpit. He could smell the ice and the deep seas of the north. He was frantically scrabbling with the key to the engine. He turned it. The engine struggled to turn over again and again but refused to catch.

‘Take it easy. Use the pre-heat button. Try again,’ John murmured. He was staring at the bank of fog in astonishment. ‘Can we outrun it even with the engine?’ He reached into the cabin for his windcheater and dragged it on over his head, shivering.

‘Almost no chance.’ Ken grimaced. The battery was failing. He gave up with an exclamation of disgust and went back to the tiller. ‘They come from nowhere, these sea mists, and move fast, creeping in over the land as well.’ He groped for his mobile. He wasn’t sure who he was going to call. Zoë. She would know what to do; not about the engine; about the fog. He needed to tell someone what was happening. He put it to his ear. Silence. He checked the screen. No signal.