Spend Game Read online

  It took me three hours. By then I was bushed. I broke for a brew-up, knowing I was coming closer and closer. By four o’clock I was focused clearly and resolutely on the niggly bit that had rankled for so long. I’d found it. It was one of the things Margaret had said that day I phoned her from calling at Virgil’s in Medham. She’d said Leckie was a collector of religious relics. I hadn’t known that. I remembered how surprised I was.

  I got the map out. A small circle was inscribed on a contour line. It would be just about where the hollow is on the Mount. My spine tingled. On the larger-scale map there it was again, inscribed as well. My chin was suddenly stinging with sweat and my elbow flexures became sticky. And abruptly I knew it. I said, ‘God Almighty.’ The birds took no notice but the robin on my arm looked shocked for a minute. The well. The tunnel had pierced an old well.

  Now I knew how Leckie and Doc Chase had come together, how Leckie knew of Chase’s quest. I knew why Leckie considered himself the legitimate discoverer once Chase had passed on. I knew how old Jonathan Chase, that brave Victorian dignitary, had got out of the hill. And I knew exactly why he and the rescue workers hadn’t managed to get back despite the desperate labour of several hundreds of them. I knew why Doc Chase sat for hours just staring at a hillside instead of wandering about on it. And why he went to Scratton to look briefly at a dull old tunnel before going ‘fishing’. And I knew that the tunnel deep inside Mount St Mary could be reached.

  But worst of all, I knew the way in. My teeth were chattering as I set the robin down and brushed the remaining bits off the paving with a broom. I’d have to go. Elspeth came in her car about then to take me to her training programme. I’d forgotten she was coming, but I went with her for company’s sake. You can imagine the state I was in afterwards; bad enough before.

  We had supper in a pub that evening. She told me which drinks and grub had least calories. I said, great, and borrowed from her because I happened to be a bit short at the time.

  I was up at the ungodly hour of five o’clock. I’d tried the night before to phone Tinker at the White Hart, but failed. No mates, no car, no money and no bird. In spite of it all I got my bike pumped up and was burning the road up north-west to Scratton before dawn.

  There’s an advantage in a bicycle. It’s silent. It can be fairly fast. It can be concealed in a way a motor cannot. And it doesn’t need a motorway. I was certain nobody could see me as I mounted my trusty steed and freewheeled down to the watersplash. I crossed the river and pedalled laboriously up the other slope of the valley. The surgery at Six Elm Green was silent, and the village still kipping like a top.

  From there I cut right, along a footpath leading due north. It runs between fields and through copses towards Scratton. I was surprised what a lot of cows were about. I thought they’d still be in bed. Only once I met some chap, a farm labourer leading a horse the size of an abbey. It frightened me to death, but he only said, ‘Good luck, chum.’ Probably thought I was out searching for birds.

  On a bike I could avoid even the side roads. Where the absence of footpaths forced me towards the metalled Mount St Mary road I got off and walked on the fieldwards side of hedges, my plimsolls wet with dew. By the time I came in view of the Mount I was aching from all the unaccustomed exercise. I’d taken longer than I really wanted and the day was full up. The hillside stood clearly outlined. Funny, but it appeared somehow less anonymous than previously, more personal, as if it was getting to know these crummy people who kept coming to poke at its scrubby surface.

  A car or two ran south towards our town, saloons. Jake’s great heap was nowhere in sight. Surely a Brummie wouldn’t be stationed on the hillside? They are notorious townies, even worse than me. I got to the edge of the line of dense gorse bushes and walked along it, pushing my bike with difficulty along the uneven slope. I don’t suppose I did it very well, but I had this idea of using the gorse line as a screen from people down on the valley road.

  It was seven-thirty when I reached the hollow where Moll and I had picnicked. Full of misgiving, I laid the bike down, covered it as best I could, and slid slowly down into the recess. It was the place all right. Its margins, tilted to accommodate the hill’s slope, were rounded. What interested me most was that about halfway down, the sides gave a sudden levelling, as if somebody had tried to create a sort of ledge all the way round. The hollow bore a scattering of hawthorns and sloes, not very many, yet more than the rest of the hill had. No stones were visible.

  At home I’d found a protractor, a cheap bit of plastic marked in degrees. I’d lashed a ruler and a pencil to it along fixed radii, using the Ordnance Survey map as a guide. If I pointed the ruler at the distant church spire, the pub below should fall exactly on the pencil’s line, sixty-eight degrees of difference. I climbed out and stood by the nearest gorse bush. Spot on. The church line and the pub line intersected exactly where I stood. I put my home-made gadget into the bike’s bag and sat down to look at the hollow, the hollow which I now knew marked the ancient well.

  I don’t want to make it sound enormous, because it’s nothing like that. It can’t be more than eighty feet across, and is only maybe twenty-five feet from the bottom of the bowl to the margin where it splits the line of gorse. The thought that Moll and I had lain there and actually noshed a picnic made me feel uneasy. We’d played about on the covered top of a bloody great hole leading down, down, down into the heart of a living hill.

  I got my bike up after looking carefully at the road in the valley. No. And no innocent fishermen across the river peering at me with binoculars. I slithered down the hill, bouncing my bike’s wheels for all they were worth, until I made the place where the gorse line began again. A freewheel bumpily down to the St Mary footpath and I reached the pub in a few more minutes.

  There were a few more cars about. Nothing sinister. A cart pulled by a nag, a brewer’s dray unloading at the Three Tiles. I pedalled airily across the bridge and got to Doc Chase’s sandy fishing patch without being mangled by maniacal swans. It was hopeless trying to conceal myself there. I sat and watched the hillside just as the old man had done for so long.

  The hill looked innocent again, utterly bland. Yet I shivered as I inspected its surface again. The Right Honourable Jonathan Chase had climbed from the tunnel to safety, not, as had been assumed, along one of the seven vent-holes which had been spaced out along the tunnel’s course. He had climbed up the ancient well. Then, by mistake, he’d told the people he’d escaped from one of the regular vent-holes. The tragedy was that any workman would have been able to tell the difference between the ancient brickwork of a medieval well and that which formed the inner facing of a tunneller’s vent-hole. But an august dignitary probably wouldn’t. In the horror of that muddy darkness he’d climbed blindly, struggling to feel space, any space, as the mud and slime had closed about him.

  ‘Ooooh.’ My moan frightened myself and a couple of little black ducks. They skittered flapping across the river. The dad swan came hissing along to see what the hell.

  I shook myself free of the collywobbles and gave a last glance at the hillside. Jonathan Chase had struggled out, tumbled down the hill. Naturally, in the confusion and the rainstorm the rescuers had assumed he had come up through one of the apertures they knew connected to the tunnel. So they had floundered about, trying to open the vent-holes. Nobody had thought of the ancient well. Or had they believed it effectively closed off?

  For absolute certain the little decorated carriage with its precious cargo would still be there, precisely where the railway tunnel intersected the course of the well. I had to get in. Presumably the deep, covered half of the well was still covered up by the tunnel’s flooring. I hoped to God it was. I didn’t fancy breaking into a tunnel only to go tumbling through a hole in its floor into a mile-deep derelict well.

  I pedalled home to the cottage. As far as solving the problem went, I had reached approximately where the old doctor had before he died, though maybe he hadn’t guessed about the well. It was then th
at it hit me.

  I had to stop by the roadside with the shock. Of course the old quack knew about the well. And so did Leckie. Relics. Religious history, Leckie’s specialist subject. There’s nothing so religious as a well, is there?

  Jerry from the garage delivered my old crate soon after I got back. He was amused.

  ‘Give you ten quid for it, Lovejoy,’ he quipped. ‘For the string alone.’

  ‘Get knotted, Jerry.’

  ‘Seriously,’ he joked. ‘Melt it down and sell the glue.’

  ‘Jealous.’ I signed the chit with a flourish. The price on the bottom made me swallow. Moll was going to have a lot of explaining for Tom. I hoped.

  As soon as Jerry’s estate van had gone I locked up and hurtled into town.

  Our library now shuts on Saturday afternoons, this being the only time most people can get to it. It’s part of our lifestyle nowadays, establishing social services skilfully beyond anyone’s reach. This time I just streaked in before they could shut the door.

  ‘All out, please. We’re closing now, Lovejoy.’

  Miss Vanston tried to block my path. I walked past into the reference section.

  ‘Not be a minute, Marlene.’

  She hates being called Marlene. ‘Mr Scotchman! Mr Scotchman!’

  She ran off for the librarian in a flurry while I dug out Attwater’s book on Saints and a couple of local histories. They tried to prise me out twice until I lost my temper and pointed a finger, smiling one of my special smiles, at Scotchman; without a word. After that they left me alone, but Marlene banged the books about as they restocked. There was only her and the uniformed watchman left by the time I’d found what I wanted.

  In Speed’s map of the area the well was marked ST OSYTH’S WELL. That was good enough for me. The little coastal resort town of St Osyth is where Leckie lived. What more natural than him taking an interest in the reliquaries and place names associated with his own village? I stood up and stretched, weary as hell. After all, I’d been on the go since an early hour. And, thinking of Julia, the previous day had been tiring as well. Marlene was still slamming piles of books about as I left. She’s a shapely thirtyish. She believes in Good Works, like not letting the public touch her books except as humble supplicants.

  ‘See you, Marlene.’ I clicked out through the turnstile. ‘Think of me in bed.’

  She ran a hand exasperatedly through her hair. ‘Lovejoy. Why do you . . . why do you take no notice of anybody?’

  What an extraordinary question. I stared at her. I take notice of other people all the bloody time. ‘It’s other people make me bad, love,’ I said with conviction. ‘Like you. I start out holy every single morning.’

  I went out into the brightening day.

  Chapter 18

  YONKS AGO, THE chances of holiness were largely confined to eccentric nuts, warriors (of the right sort) and royalty. It’s no surprise to learn that St Osyth was not only a raving beauty, but also sexy queen to Sighere, king of hereabouts in the seventh century. Eventually, she decided to go straight, and founded a nunnery at the tiny coastal village of Chich. After some sea rovers massacred the lot we beatified her as a martyr and Chich village became St Osyth. The place where she built her convent’s still there. Leckie’s windmill is only a stone’s throw.

  You might think it sacrilegious, but there’s a thriving trade in religious relics. Not as frank as in the Middle Ages, when the faithful would slice a finger off a dead – and even a dying – saint for luck. I believe our approach is a lot healthier. The trouble is finding genuine relics. Some are well authenticated. Others, like those paintings of the Blessed Virgin allegedly done by St Luke the Evangelist, are a bit dicey or even outright frauds. Yet Leckie only studied. Margaret didn’t say he collected – did she? I was sure she was right. Tinker or maybe Lemuel would have sussed that out before long, or maybe I’d have learned of it through auctions.

  So Leckie, interestedly examining St Osyth’s Well in the course of his hobby, encountered Dr Chase. Maybe they’d got talking. Perhaps they’d agree to try for the discovery together. Things were falling into place.

  Crossing the main London road, going out towards the village, I became aware of Jake Pelman. He was driving a natty little Japanese car. He gave me a sour nod, smiling. I didn’t like that. It isn’t often Jake cracks his ugly face. I gaped at all the cars that passed after that. Nobody looking like two Brummies full of aggro, thank God.

  I stopped to use the phone at the village shop. Elspeth was in the surgery, presumably lashing a huddle of sweating slaves to a distant drumbeat.

  ‘Lovejoy!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m so pleased you rang! I tried to wake you this morning as I passed but you were so soundly asleep –’

  ‘Look, love,’ I interrupted. ‘One thing. About Doc Chase.’

  Her voice suddenly went all smooth and professional. ‘Yes, sir,’ she cooed. ‘I’ll arrange another appointment. Just one second while I shut the door . . .’ She came back a little breathlessly. I guessed Nurse Patmore had popped her head in. ‘Go on, Lovejoy.’

  ‘When did Doc go, er, fishing?’

  ‘I told you,’ she replied, puzzled. ‘Every day he possibly could.’

  ‘No, love. I mean when. Morning? Afternoon?’

  ‘Oh, always as early as he could. Early morning.’

  ‘Did he ever say why?’

  ‘Something to do with the light, I think. I vaguely remember he said something about the light once.’

  ‘Elspeth,’ I said. ‘If I come out of this alive, you can have me for a whole week. I promise.’

  I rang off before she could draw breath. The last link was in the chain.

  The clever old man. He wasn’t working out how to get into the hillside. He hadn’t been puzzling over a mystery at all. Because to him there just wasn’t any mystery. He’d known everything all along, that the entrance to the tunnel was through St Osyth’s Well. You can see the small hollow easiest in the morning light, so you could tell if it had been tampered with. By late afternoon it is in shadow. It was all that simple.

  He’d not been searching for anything. He’d just been keeping watch. He was a guardian.

  The rest of the day I planned with obsessional detail. If my onslaught on the tunnel was going to fail it wouldn’t be because I’d forgotten some obvious and essential tool. I determined to take everything but the kitchen sink. And I’d take that, too, if I thought it would improve my chances.

  That afternoon I thought of ringing people to explain my plan of action, at least roughly where I would be, but gave up. Tinker would be as petrified as me. Lemuel’s known usefulness is a flat zero. Patrick would only have hysterics. All the others would try to beat me to it.

  Helen and Margaret would dissuade me as much as possible. Moll had abandoned ship. Pat would tell Maslow. Sue was housebound, and in view of her suspicions about me and, every other woman in the known universe she’d more probably chuck me down the bloody well than help. I was on my own.

  It’s easy to be brave on an afternoon with the post-girl calling and bright daylight everywhere. People came and went along the lane. One or two waved. I waved back. All innocence and peace.

  By four, I had a heap of things on my divan. It was still difficult getting about the interior of the cottage. Moll’s treen and furniture kept catching my knees. I’m no mountaineer, but I assumed the job would call for some climbing. I fetched in my clothesline to add to the pile. It looked strong, and felt in good nick. I have a few tools and I picked the best. My hammer’s pretty worn but looks tough. I included that, and got as many eight-inch nails as I could find. I use those when I’m making heavy picture frames, and managed ten of them. I tied them up with string and put them in a polythene bag.

  Torch. I wish I was the sort of bloke that worries about batteries and always has spare bulbs, but it’s no good. I’m not, and I had no money for any, so it had to go on the pile as it was. I included a ball of fine string. In the days when I could afford to collect flint
locks I’d have had a choice of several luscious miracles of firepower. I had one last look for Moll’s frightening pistol in case she’d left it for me in some secret hidey-hole. No luck. To this day I don’t know whether I’d have taken it if I’d come across it in some drawer. Maybe it’s a mistake to look back and quiz yourself about motives, because they’re a waste of time. I found a small hand fork and a hand shovel that goes with it. On to the pile.

  I’d heard it tends to be cold in caves. I laid out two singlets, underpants, socks and my worsted suit. It’s the only one I have, and hardly looked typical climbing gear, but it’s made of the proper stuff. On impulse I added three unused hankies. Shoes bothered me. The plimsolls from this morning’s jaunt were still wet through. I lit a fire and put them on the hearth, deciding to travel in shoes and change when climbing down to the tunnel. I added a box of matches. Funny how your mind works. I brought a propelling pencil with some spare leads and a few squares of white card, maybe thinking of floating a message out on some chance subterranean stream should that ghastly need ever arise. Which, of course, it would bloody well not. I was going to make sure of that, come what may.

  There comes a time in planning when you find you are planning too hard. Your brain never leaves off. I found myself getting in this state. I started sweating for nothing and kept rearranging my heap of stuff senselessly, so I got control of myself and made a meal. Then I went out for a walk while there was some daylight still left.

  I watched television for a bit. Then switched it off and listened to the radio. Then I watched a play I couldn’t make head nor tail of. Then I tried to read, but found I was reading the same page over. Then I sang some madrigals, but my heart wasn’t in it. I listened to a radio argument about the soaring costs of new bedding plants, and then watched the Wanderers get thrashed three–nil in a floodlit game, the duckeggs. I thought of candles, and added my only two to the heap.