Midnight Is A Lonely Place Part 4

May the G.o.ds of all eternity curse you, Marcus Severus Secundus, and bring your putrid body and your rotten soul to judgement for what you have done here this day ...

The woods were still silent, the trees unmoving. The words, as clear and well enunciated as those of a BBC presenter, had been inside her own head. Kate stopped dead, a sheen of sweat on her skin, her heart hammering in her ears. She stared round, her eyes straining into the darkness between the tall tree trunks, very conscious of the smell of rotting wood and damp, dark earth which surrounded her.

Stupid. The darkness and the silence after the celluloid drama of the museum and the excitement of the new idea had set her imagination working overtime, that was all. She resumed walking, a little more quickly this time, her torch clutched so tightly in her hand that her fingers grew numb.

When the cottage at last came into view she was breathless. Fumbling in her pocket for her key she let herself in and turned on the light, then she put her shopping bag down on the kitchen table, ran upstairs and grabbed one of her empty boxes from the spare bedroom. Dragging it after her she went straight outside again and made for the log shed. Before she did anything else and before she lost her nerve completely she would stock up with firewood.

Flashing the torch beam around the small shed she piled logs into her box, and then a huge heap of kindling. The shed was very neat, the ranks of logs undisturbed beneath their net of spiders' webs save for a few that had fallen at the end of the pile, the spade still leaning where she had left it in the corner. With one last look round she turned off the torch and returned it to her pocket. She needed both hands for the box. Hefting it up with a groan she made her way out into the cold garden, conscious of the brooding woods so close to the front of the cottage. It was impossible to run with the box. As swiftly as she could she walked back indoors and then she dropped it on the hall floor. Turning she slammed the door shut and shot the bolt home.

Safe. She closed her eyes and laughed quietly to herself, embarra.s.sed, alone as she was, by her own stupidity. Picking up the box again she hauled it into the living room and put it neatly by the stove. Then, drawing the curtains against the darkness she went back to the kitchen and put on the kettle. The phone rang as she was waiting for it to boil.

*Kate, my dear. Just checking to see that everything is all right.' It was Roger Lindsey. *I'm afraid we've been out most of the day so I thought I would give you a quick call to make sure you have everything you need.'

*Thank you. I'm fine.' She took a deep breath, astonished at how pleased she was to hear the sound of his voice. *I came by earlier to leave my car again so I saw you were out.'

*We were having lunch with some friends in Woodbridge. Nice people. They had read your book.'

*Nice people indeed.' She smiled wryly. *Roger, tell me, how do I make this woodburner thing stay alight all night?'

She heard an exclamation of impatience. *Didn't Greg show you? I'm sorry, my dear. Those things take a bit of getting used to, but once you've got the hang of it you can keep it going for months without it going out. Do you want me to come up and show you?'

She shouldn't drag him over when he was ill, when he had been out all day and must be tired, but suddenly the thought of a visitor was very tempting. *Would it be an awful imposition? I've got a good whisky here.'

She heard him laugh. *I'm on my way.'

It was scarcely fifteen minutes later that she saw the headlights of the Land Rover appear from the trees. Roger climbed out. *Greg's away for a day or two. I'll give him a good b.o.l.l.o.c.king when he gets back. He was supposed to show you how everything works.'

*He must have forgotten. I had so much stuff to bring in.' She closed the door behind him and led the way into the living room. She had put the whisky bottle on the table with two gla.s.ses. She poured, then she watched as he knelt before the stove and pulled the doors open. *Start with a good blaze, like this,' he instructed. Magically a fire appeared beneath his thin hands. *Then put on one or two of the logs. Like so.' He pushed two huge logs into the small cavity and miraculously they fitted. Then he closed the doors. *Now, leave it for a while with the dampers open like this. Once the fire has caught properly a about two-thirds of the way down that gla.s.s, I should say a we close them tight. The secret is to get it burning slowly and steadily and then to cut off as much air as possible. You have to stack the logs in really tight last thing a that's an art you must practise I'm afraid, but you'll soon get the hang of it. It keeps this place really snug once it's working properly.'

He took the gla.s.s she offered him and sat down in one of the armchairs, gazing round the room. *You've made it look very comfortable.'

The tall, thin man sprawling in the chair in his shabby cords and old tweed jacket was so rea.s.suring and normal that Kate found the wave of nervous loneliness which had hit her earlier was receding fast. *I gather your son used to live here. I'm sorry my coming here has upset him,' she said as she sat down opposite him.

*He's no business to be upset.' For a moment a shadow pa.s.sed across Roger's face. *He knows we need the money. Sorry if that sounds crude, but it's a fact of life. And it's nice for us to have a congenial neighbour.' He smiled comfortably. *As you've gathered, it's fairly isolated up here. And to that end, Diana has instructed me to ask if you would like to come and have some supper with us on Wednesday. We quite understand if you'd rather not because you are working, but a '

*I should love to.' She replied so quickly she surprised even herself. *I shall look forward to it immensely.'

*Good.' His smile was expansive, deepening the network of wrinkles around his eyes. *You'll have the pleasure or otherwise of meeting our other two children, Allie and Patrick.' Draining his gla.s.s he stood up. *If there's nothing else I suppose I'd better go home. Di will have supper ready soon.'

Stay, she wanted to say. Please, stay and talk to me. She liked his presence in the room. It was comforting. Solid. And safe. She said nothing. Smiling, she showed him to the door. *I'll report back on my success or otherwise with the stove when I see you.'

*Do that.'

She watched as the Land Rover backed round and headed back up the track, the headlights bucking against the trees as it slid between the ruts. In a moment it was out of sight.

Closing the door and bolting it again she walked back into the living room. As though recognising the hand of a master the woodburner had settled down to produce a satisfyingly hot glow which was already warming the room. She looked round, pleased. Although Roger had gone something of the friendliness he had brought with him had remained; basking in it, she would make herself some supper, read a little, listen to some music, have a hot bath and go to bed early. Tomorrow she would spend the day with Lord Byron.

X.

In the stillness of the night the tide lapped imperceptibly higher along the beach, round the headland and slowly, oh so slowly, into the backwaters of the estuary, licking at the mud, floating strands of trailing gra.s.ses and weeds, curling round the toes of sleeping geese and ducks. Rising.

In the dune the sand had dried. It was brittle, friable, ready to fall. Beneath it, only a centimetre down now, was the clay a clay which was plastic, impervious to air or water, and in the clay was the peat which held preserved the remains of four human bodies.

XI.

She had been sitting at the word processor for two hours and she had not noticed that it was getting light. Now, arms and shoulders cramped and her head throbbing from her intense concentration, Kate sat back, took off her gla.s.ses and, dropping them beside her notes, stared out of the window. The mist had receded to leave a sunrise of breathtaking clarity. The narrow vee of sea visible between the shingle banks from her carefully positioned table glittered with blinding beauty. It was more than anyone could resist; besides, she needed a break. Donning jacket, scarf and boots she pulled open the front door and emerged into an ice cold wind. Looking around she took a deep breath of pure delight. This was a place where Byron himself would have felt at home.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean a roll!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ...

The beach was still wet from the receding tide as she tramped northwards along it, murmuring the lines from *Childe Harold', her head ducked against the sting of the wind and the glare, her cheeks tingling beneath the whipping strings of hair as they pulled free of her scarf. The words weren't quite right, of course. This wasn't an ocean and it was neither all that deep nor dark, but still the mood was right. It was exhilarating. She wanted to jump and run and dance, but the shingle and soft sand precluded all but the most undignified gallop. Stopping at last, exhausted, she turned and began to retrace her steps. With the wind and glare behind her she could slow down and appreciate the different colours and textures of the water: where the sand rose near the surface it was pale green, even yellow. Further out streaks of deep turquoise melded with grey and black and the intense sapphire blue of a child's painting of the sea. In the distance the shingle gave way to muddy sand and she could see dunlin and redshank at the water's edge. Save for them she appeared to be the only being alive in the world.

She came level with the cottage, appreciating from here how sheltered it was behind the shingle banks, only a narrow section of its face visible behind the waving gra.s.ses and heaps of sand. In front of her, beyond the dunes, the beach swept away around the corner. There a narrow inlet led into the shallow, muddy waters of Redall Bay with its network of small islands and tidal creeks.

By the last of the dunes she stopped. Part of it appeared to have fallen onto the sand, and in the hollow on its seaward side there were signs of recent digging. Curious, she walked towards it, her boots slipping in the deep soft mixture of stones and mud and sand. The top section, out of sight of the cottage, had had a neat transverse slice removed from it. About ten feet long and two feet deep the interlocking gra.s.ses had been sectioned away and below it the sand had been scooped loosely into piles. Jumping down into the hollow she stared at the exposed wall of the dune. The resulting scar in the sand looked too regular and neat to be the result of a child's game; and it had certainly not been caused by the tide, although further along the cut had been lengthened and randomly enlarged by a muddy landslip where tell-tale strands of weed and a scattering of whelk sh.e.l.ls betrayed a recent high tide propelled by an easterly wind.

Intrigued, Kate ran her hand lightly over the sand face. Who had been digging here, and why? Was it something to do with sea defences? She turned and looked back at the beach. The receding tide looked gentle and benevolent now, but she was under no illusions about the force it could muster if wind and moon were right.

She was about to scramble out of the hollow to resume her walk when her eye was caught by something shiny sticking out of the sand. It looked like a piece of pottery. She picked it up and examined it, then, frowning, she looked at it more closely. It was thin, fine, red, decorated with a raised pattern and it looked very like the Samian ware she had seen in the museum only yesterday. But that was impossible. She turned and surveyed the sand face again. Was this some sort of abandoned excavation? She stared down at the piece of pottery in her hand almost guiltily. Perhaps she shouldn't have touched it. On the other hand it had been lying in the loose spoil, obviously overlooked. With another high tide it would have been buried and lost. Pulling her scarf off her hair she wrapped the piece carefully and put it reverently in her pocket, then she turned and examined the exposed sand again. It was in a very crumbly state. The lightest touch dislodged another shower of soil. A few feet to her left she spotted something dark protruding from it. Cautiously she touched it. Metal. Sc.r.a.ping at the sand with her fingers she tried to see what it was without disturbing it. The narrow twisted neck of metal stuck out at right angles from the sand. She must ask the Lindseys. They would know who had been excavating here, and why they had stopped. She eyed the piece of metal longingly. If she touched it and it was of archaeological interest then she might be destroying valuable evidence a on the other hand another tide might remove it even more irrevocably. As she was standing there, trying to make up her mind what to do, a small crack appeared of its own accord in the top of the dune. As she watched a lump of wet sand broke away and fell at her feet. A minute later another six-inch section fell, taking the metal object with it. She bent and picked it up. Twisted, corroded, the metal was heavy and cold in her hand. She could not begin to guess what metal it was. Not gold certainly. Bronze, perhaps, or even silver. She examined it in excitement and awe. In all probability she was the first person to touch it for over a thousand years a perhaps two, perhaps more. It was a torc.

MY LOVE.

The voice in her head had spoken so loudly she thought it was real. Dropping the torc she put her hands to her ears, looking round.

There was no one there. An oystercatcher was plodding slowly along the tide line near her, dipping its beak into the sand.

She could feel her heart beginning to hammer in her ears again, as it had in the woods in the dark the night before. Taking a deep breath she bent and picked up the piece of twisted metal, then she scrambled out of the hollow. She stared round, her arm across her eyes to hold back her streaming hair, loose now she had removed the scarf. There was still no one in any direction as far as she could see. Besides the voice had been inside her own head.

Taking a deep breath she turned towards the cottage. Get a grip on yourself, Kennedy. You're imagining things, she told herself sternly. Too much fresh air, that's your trouble.

The panic had gone almost as soon as it had come. Out here in broad daylight, in the brilliant sunshine and the light, tossing wind with birds patrolling unconcerned along the tide line, her moment of terror seemed absurd. It was imagination, that was all. A visit to the museum, a new preoccupation with Boudicca and the events of nineteen hundred years ago, together with the isolated situation and already she was having hallucinations. Strong coffee would soon sort that out.

Slightly faster than she would normally have walked she retraced her steps towards the cottage. Only once did she look back. There in the dazzle off the sea a sand devil whirled in the hollow where she had been standing. She watched it for a moment. It looked almost like a figure. Then it disappeared.

Letting herself in out of the wind, she shook her hair back from her face and putting her finds down on the kitchen table she put the kettle on even before she removed her jacket and boots. While the kettle was boiling she went to the phone but there was no answer from the Lindseys.

Picking up her coffee and her two artifacts she carried them through into the living room and put them down on her work table. Automatically she turned on the word processor. Waiting for it to summon up her programme she picked up the torc and examined it again. It was large a large enough to go around the neck of a full grown man at a guess, and still heavy in spite of, or perhaps because of, its corrosion. She stared at it for a long time then carefully she placed it on the windowsill before sitting down before her keyboard.

When she next looked up it was nearly one o'clock.

This time Diana was in when she phoned. Her query about the digging on the beach was greeted by a moment of embarra.s.sed silence. *You were there this morning, you say?' she asked cautiously.

*I was walking on the beach.'

*Of course. I think the place you're talking about is where my daughter has been doing some digging. It's for an archaeological project at school. It's not a designated site of any kind.'

*I see.' Kate frowned. She could hear the defensiveness in the other woman's voice. *It's just that there seemed to be signs of some kind of ancient usage a' Her eyes strayed towards the doorway into the hall. She couldn't see the windowsill where her finds were lying. *I felt that probably someone qualified ought to take a look at it. It could be an important site.'

*I think you'll find Alison has that in hand. It's her project entirely, Kate.' Diana's voice took on an unaccustomed firmness. *Please leave it to her.'

And keep your nose out! Kate muttered as she put down the phone. She wandered back into the sitting room and stood looking down at the metal torc. If Alison was going to inform the museum then that was fine. She would show them her two trophies at the same time. She picked up the piece of twisted metal and examined it once more. It was badly corroded and bent, but the basic design of intertwined strands of metal wire was clearly visible. She scratched at it cautiously with her fingernail. A pale gleam appeared. She hesitated, then she scratched at it again, this time harder. The faint scratch showed a distinctly silvery sparkle. It was silver. She was holding a silver torc.

I CURSE YOU, MARCUS SEVERUS, FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE HERE THIS DAY.

The voice was so sudden and so loud she dropped the torc onto the table. Frantically she shook her head. The sound had been inside her ears; it came from her brain. From her head. From her soul. Frightened she stared round the room. Then taking a deep breath she picked up the twisted metal again. It was very cold beneath her fingers. As cold as it had been when she first picked it out of the wet sand.

*This is stupid.' She said the words out loud, and her own voice sounded light and insubstantial in the empty room. She carried the torc and the piece of pottery to the small table in the corner on which the lamp stood and pulling out the drawer she laid them both in it. Closing it firmly she turned the key.

Auditory hallucination is a condition engendered by various states of mind and various physical conditions. She had read about it in one of Anne's books. But which one of them, if any, applied to her? Picking up the bottle of Scotch she walked through into the kitchen and firmly closed the door behind her. The first thing she could do was restore her blood sugar levels to normal. Perhaps a cooked lunch would dispel whatever it was which was causing this to happen.

She was sitting at the small kitchen table, with a book propped up before her, eating baked beans on toast covered in melted cheese, when there was a loud knock at the front door. Pushing her plate away reluctantly she went to open it.

A girl stood on the doorstep, dressed in jeans and a bright blue anorak, her blonde pony-tailed hair blowing wildly in the wind.

*I've come to tell you to keep away from my dig.' The green eyes were furious, the face unsmiling. *Mum says you've been poking around in the dune. Well don't. Just because you've rented this place it doesn't give you any right to go poking around in other people's affairs. Keep away from it.' The young face was pale and strained. Her headache had been worse this morning, too bad to go to school, too bad to get up until Diana had told her what was happening out at the dune.

*You must be Alison.' Kate raised an eyebrow but, firmly suppressing the angry response which was her automatic reaction to the girl's rudeness, she merely said, *I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interfere in your excavation. Of course I won't go near it again if you'd rather I didn't.'

*Please don't.' Alison scowled.

*You've told the museum about your finds, I gather.'

*I'm going to soon.' The girl's chin was set determinedly. She was very like her elder brother, Kate decided suddenly. They were a good-looking family, but obviously not noted for their charm. *I'm writing it up first and taking photos and things.'

*Good.' Kate smiled. *That's exactly the right thing to do.' She took a step back, about to shut the door but Alison still stood there, hands in pockets, obviously wanting to say something else. *Are you really a writer?' It came out at last.

*Yes,' Kate smiled. *I am.'

*And you're writing about Byron, Dad said.'

*That's right.'

*So, why did you come here?'

*I wanted somewhere quiet so that I could concentrate on my work.'

*And you know about history and things.'

Kate nodded. *A bit. I studied history at university.'

*So you know about the Romans.'

*A bit, as I said. I gather they came here.'

*And there were people here even before that.' Alison's brow wrinkled slightly. *The Trinovantes lived in Ess.e.x before the Romans came. That's a Roman grave.' She nodded her head in the general direction of the beach.

*A grave?' Kate frowned. *What makes you think that?'

Marcus. The thought had come unbidden and as swiftly it had gone. Marcus Severus's grave was found in somewhere called Stanway, which, she had seen on the diagrammatic map near his statue, was on the far side of Colchester, some twenty miles away.

*I just know.'

Kate looked at the girl, disquieted. *Alison, when you've got some time, would you show me your dig? Show me properly. Explain what you've done a the digging looks very professional a and tell me what you've found.'

*You really want to know?'

*I do. Not to interfere. I'm interested.'

*OK. Do you want to come now?'

With a moment's regretful thought about her baked beans and her book Kate nodded. *Hold on. I'll get my jacket and boots.'

The tide had receded a long way when they stood together side by side on the edge of the hollow looking at the excavated side of the dune. The wind was whipping the sand into little eddies which whispered amongst the thin dry gra.s.ses and the sun had gone, hidden behind huge threatening clouds. *I found some bits of pottery a shards, they're called, and some metal objects,' Alison said slowly. *They're at home. I'll show you when you come to supper if you like.'

*I would like.' Kate glanced at the girl. She did not seem to be showing any eagerness to jump down into the hollow. *How did you know where to dig?'

*The sea started it. Half the dune collapsed. Then I began to find things.'

*What made you think it was a Roman grave?'

*That's where you find things. In graves. There was a villa on our neighbour's farm. It's under his field, very near us, and there was a Roman road to the village and another to the other side of Redall Bay.'

*Was there?' Kate was fascinated. *Can we go down into the hollow? It'll be out of the wind and you can show me exactly how you've been sectioning the soil.'