11

Isobel, on the other hand, was even more surprised when she was roused next morning by a kiss from Michael. She was immediately wide awake and wary. ‘What are you playing at? And what time is it?’ Her eyes were growing accustomed to the light, and to the fact that there was no sun yet, just a chalky bloom in the high, braided clouds.

‘It’s just after five-thirty—’

‘What!’

‘Yes, and you’ve got to get up. I’m not playing at anything, I’m as serious as a sermon. That sofa is bloody uncomfortable, especially on the second night. I couldn’t sleep again and so I’ve spent the whole night sitting bolt upright and thinking. And I think I’ve sorted it out, our little problem, I mean. We’ve got to get a move on.’

‘What? What do you mean?’

‘Just what I say. I’ll explain as we go.’

‘Go? Go where?’

‘Godwin Magna.’

‘But why—?’

‘Get dressed! I told you. I’ll explain as we go.’

It took twenty minutes. Fortunately, though it was early, Rupert Walker was up so that Michael was able to pay while Isobel got dressed. Otherwise it might have looked as though they were trying to leave without settling their bill. He also used the opportunity to give Walker one of his cards.

‘You drive,’ Michael said, as Isobel came out of the hotel into the cool morning air. The salt smell of the sea mingled with that of warm bread from the hotel kitchens. The sun was just beginning to bake the gravel in the driveway. ‘You’ve had some sleep in the last forty-eight hours.’ Defiantly, he showed her his lighted cigar. ‘I need this, after the night I’ve had.’

Isobel started the engine, setting off a couple of dogs they hadn’t noticed before, and no doubt waking the entire hotel. They both giggled. Quickly, she sped the car down the drive and east on the road to Abbotsbury. ‘Now,’ she said, as the car gathered speed along the empty lane. ‘For the second time, what are you playing at?’

‘At being a brilliant amateur detective. Almost on a par with some of Inspector Sadler’s bright ideas.’

‘Explain!’ she hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Or I’ll drive your bloody car off that cliff.’

But Michael had the map open on his knee. ‘We’ll cut across country. Turn left in Abbotsbury. It’ll be signed to Portisham and the Valley of Stones. It’s quite a steep hill.’

‘Michael!’

‘Oh, I’ll explain, don’t worry. Just don’t miss the turning.’

They slipped into Abbotsbury, as still as a tomb. The liquid sun at that hour washed over the yellow in the stone, so that the whole village seemed gilded for a moment. When they had found the road to the Valley of Stones and Isobel was accelerating along it, Michael went on.

‘One thing I’ve learned in this little caper is that if you’re getting nowhere you must start again, clock in, make your pre-flight checks, all over again, leaving all your assumptions to one side. That’s what I decided to do about Peverell Place at—oh, roughly a quarter past two this morning.’ He hesitated. ‘Ask yourself this question: what is the most important attribute of Peverell Place, what is it that drew us here in the first place?’

‘The coat of arms?’

‘Exactly. It’s obvious, very obvious. Next question: what does the coat of arms consist of?’

‘Michael!’

‘Okay, I’ll answer for you. Swans and masks. Again, it’s all very obvious. Now to the important bit: why swans and masks? I don’t mean all that stuff about Venice and the king giving the Peverells the swan concession. Remember, we’re dealing with an ecclesiastical mind here. Medieval grey matter. What would masks and swans have meant to the painter of the picture?’

Isobel was silent for a moment. They swept through a high beech wood, just beginning to glitter with gold and green. They passed a sign to Helstone. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘You do—you’ve just forgotten for the moment. I was alerted by what Rupert Walker reported Grainger had said. Grainger said that “The mask reveals all.” But a mask doesn’t reveal all, does it? Quite the opposite, in fact. A mask is a disguise. A mask is the symbol of deceit. And the chief characteristic of a swan is its muteness, its silence. Deceit and muteness: that’s two things. Third, going back to the picture and what Helen found when she cleaned it, there’s something else we’ve overlooked. The figure of the monk gazing down at the tile isn’t a monk at all—’

‘Yes it is—’

‘No. You’re driving so you can’t see, but in fact the monk has no face. It’s hidden by his hood. I didn’t think that mattered but I now think it matters very much. When Helen cleaned the grime away from the tile, she also uncovered the monk’s feet and they aren’t human feet at all—’

‘She said he had pointed toes.’

‘Correct. Well done. Your memory is waking up too. Helen said they were like claws. At about four o’clock this morning I found out what a beast, a lion, cloaked in a large garment and with no face, stands for. I simply went through one of the reference books from A to Z. A.M. to zzzz … Fortunately, I found it under “D”, so it didn’t take a fortnight.’

‘D for …?’

‘Deceit. A lion dressed in a monk’s habit is the medieval symbol of deceit. Don’t ask me why at the moment, just take my word for it. Anyway, that makes two deceits and one mute, if you see what I mean.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘Hold on. I want to give you all my reasoning, so you’re convinced. We’ve just passed the Hardy monument; you should turn right soon … look out for the sign.’

They were coming into a small valley, descending. Ahead of them were some electricity cables. There was a village in the folds of the hills. ‘Martinstown—yes?’ said Michael. ‘There’s the sign. Turn right here.’

Isobel swung the car round. The sign said ‘Winterborne Monkton 1½ miles’.

‘Once I started thinking about deceit, I started looking at the monk figure again. And at about five o’clock this morning I finally registered something else we haven’t noticed about him—it. Something so obvious we never thought it important. But it’s crucial.’

‘And that is …?’

‘Want to guess?’

‘Michael!’

‘No, seriously. There is a very simple, very obvious way the monk is different from some of the other characters in the picture.’

She started to brake, annoyed by his teasing.

‘Okay, okay. Some of the figures in this puzzle face to the right, others face to the left.’

‘Yes, of course I noticed that. It’s obvious but … you think it matters?’

‘I do now. Like you I had noticed it before, but never imagined it was important. However, just before the “Deceit” entry in the book I was reading throughout the night, there was another paragraph, headed “Dance”. There was a drawing which made up part of the entry, a drawing of a picture that looked familiar, except that the layout artist for the book had split the figures in his drawing according to whether they faced left or right. I had only skipped the item as I waded through the entire book, but now I went back to it. I suppose I only noticed that the figures in our “Landscape” were facing different ways because my subconscious had seen this other entry, for “Dance”. Anyway, when I paid more attention to the “Dance” paragraph, I immediately recognised the picture it was using to illustrate the point—Botticelli’s famous allegory, La Primavera, “Spring”. Everyone knows it—it’s in the Uffizi in Florence. Now there are seven figures in Botticelli’s picture, almost as many as in yours, and what I didn’t know, but the book told me, was that they are laid out to symbolise a musical scale. The figures facing right represent all the notes that are in harmony whereas those facing left represent discord.

‘Now apply that to our picture. What I think it means is that all the figures facing right are proper clues, designed to produce a harmonious solution to the mystery. Whereas all the other figures, facing left, are—quite simply—red herrings.’

‘You mean … you mean they were put there deliberately … to confuse us?’

‘Yes. That’s exactly what I do mean. The medieval mind was like that, as I keep saying … I also think that Grainger, grrreasy Grrrainger, who’s more used to this than we are, twigged what was happening almost as soon as he arrived at Peverell Place. That’s why he didn’t stay long, and that’s what he meant by the cryptic statement, “The mask reveals all.” The Peverells were chosen by the person who painted Landscape of Lies because they were known at the monastery of Monksilver and anyone getting on the trail would automatically assume that Peverell Place, with its smuggling associations, and its undoubted links through Henry the Horseman, was a perfect hiding place. But whoever painted the picture, or designed it, also knew that their coat of arms was perfect. It underlines the point: like the masks, Peverell Place was a deceit; like the mute swans, it has nothing to tell us. We’ve been on a wild-goose chase. A wild-swan chase. That’s why we couldn’t find a river or anything else that fitted with Charon, the next clue. Philip Cross faces right. The next three figures face left, leading us astray. But Charon is a real clue—see, he turns to the right. And that’s not all. The figures which face right also face the upside-down crucifix and, as we learned right at the start, the crucifix, in this context, stands for wisdom, for truth. Don’t forget also that Helen told us she uncovered a tear on the face of one of the characters. He is facing the wrong way and, if you examine the faces of the other figures facing the wrong way, they all have tiny tears on their cheeks. Extraordinary detail—and why? They are sad because they know they are liars, they know they are misleading us.’

Isobel slowed the car to negotiate a blind corner, then picked up speed again.

Michael paused. ‘Then, I looked up “sad”—it was a subheading under “Emotion”. In medieval times certain colours represented sadness, brown especially. What do we find in the Landscape? All the figures facing the wrong way are wearing something in brown.’

Isobel took her eyes off the road and glanced at Michael.

‘There’s more. Their lips, for instance. All the real clues have their lips parted, as if they are speaking. They have something to say. All the false clues either have no lips at all, because there is no face showing, as with the lion, or their lips are closed. They can tell us nothing. All the wrong clues are wearing jewellery—rings mainly, or gems sewn into their clothes. Jewels are a symbol of vanity, or corruption—what could be more of a red herring? I’ve said it before, Isobel, once you know how to read this picture it hits you like Laphroaig. And now I’m certain: we’ve been on the wrong tack. Betamax, not VHS.’

‘I can’t believe—’

‘There’s one other thing. But first we’re coming into Winterborne Monkton. We turn left, then right almost immediately, towards Winterborne Herringston.’ He waited while Isobel negotiated the turns. They saw a milk lorry but that was all.

‘When we started, right at the beginning, remember there was a design at the top of the marble column?’

‘Adam and Eve?’

‘No, no, the next design. A man with an iron rod, descending some steps which lead towards Mercury, the figure who turned out to be Philip Cross—remember?’

‘Yes, of course. Why go back to that now?’

‘This is something I noticed at a quarter to six this morning, when it all fell into place and, like Prince Charming, I woke you with a kiss.’

‘If Prince Charming doesn’t get a move on with this story, he’s going to sleep for rather more than a hundred years.’

Michael grinned. ‘I could use it, after the night I’ve had.’ He pulled on his cigar. ‘I should have thought of this before, but the man with the wand is descending five steps. I will wager tuppence to a Turner that means there are five clues to be negotiated before we get to the treasure.’

‘Ah! Then your theory doesn’t work. There are nine figures in the ring and, if my memory serves me right, five of them are facing left. That only leaves four clues.’

‘Very observant. Prebloodycisely. But again I’ll bet that means the last figure also contains the fifth step within it. Let’s tackle that when we come to it. The main thing for now is that Peverell Place and Lewell Monastery play no part in all this. We have to go back to the last real clue, back beyond Higher Lewell, to Godwin Magna, and start again from there. The best news of all is that, according to the map, there is quite a large river flowing through Godwin Magna but we never saw it. It’s called the Frome. The Charon clue obviously refers to that and, as we agreed the other night, the next figure, the merman, means we have to travel downstream, towards the sea.’

The road east of Winterborne Herringston wound down a gentle valley and was caked in mud from the hooves of cattle which, even at that early hour, had already been taken in for milking. The sun was higher in the sky and beginning to burn off the stretches of cloud.

After a short silence, Isobel looked across to Michael and said softly, ‘Are you shattered? Two nights without sleep—I feel very guilty.’

Michael grinned back. ‘Good. I like that. But don’t feel too badly—after all, it paid off in the end.’

‘I’ll pay you back for the hotel room, and all the rest of our expenses, if ever we do find this damn stuff.’

Michael reached across to pat Isobel’s thigh reassuringly. Quickly, she lowered her left hand and gripped his wrist, stopping him from touching her. But she held his hand for a moment longer than was necessary and, when she replaced it in his lap, stroked it for a moment before changing gear as they came to a crossroads.

‘Just over a mile to Godwin Magna,’ Michael said, reading the sign. He looked at the map again. ‘According to this, we go through this village, then there’s a sharp, left-hand bend that leads down a steep hill. At the bottom of the hill, the road curves round sharply to the right and crosses the river. Let’s make for there.’

Isobel slowed as they came to the village. This time they came in from the south, the opposite direction to before. They passed the church on their left, and the copper beeches. By now there were signs of life—dogs, one or two people on bicycles, a postman’s van. But the village shop, where Michael had hoped to buy some chocolate, for breakfast, was still closed. It was just on 6.30.

They descended the hill and, at the bottom, turned a corner. A low stone bridge, liverish with damp, lay ahead. Isobel drove slowly across the bridge to a gate on the far side. She pulled up beside it so that most of the car was off the road.

They got out and walked back to the bridge. They stood in the sun and leaned over the parapet to look at the brown waters below. Near the banks, the river was streaked with lines of sedge, green and black. In the middle, however, the water was too brown and too deep to see the bottom and ran swiftly.

‘So that’s the Frome,’ said Isobel. She bent to pick up a twig from where it had fallen. She threw it into the waters and they both watched as it sped downstream.

‘And we follow that,’ she added. ‘But how? And what are we looking for?’

‘I left the map in the car, but from what I remember the river doesn’t go anywhere near a road for two or three miles. And, in any case, in the sixteenth century river traffic was much faster than roads when they had them. I fear therefore that this is where we abandon the 190. Let’s go back to the car and look at the next clue in the photograph.’

Isobel leaned against the side of the car, enjoying the sun, which was getting stronger all the time. She looked at the photograph. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘The Triton, the merman, is wearing what looks like a string of flowers around his neck—just like Philip Cross had the order of St Michael around his. That must be a clue, don’t you think?’

‘I’m sure it is. I’d noticed it too. The details are what have counted so far—the upside-down flames on Mercury’s tunic, the number of steps the man at the beginning was descending, the half-hidden upside-down crucifix. Everything in this picture has a meaning, so I’m sure the flowers do too. You don’t recognise them, do you? The flowers, I mean. They aren’t something you have growing on your farm?’

Isobel smiled. ‘A farm is a farm. Not a market garden.’

‘Well, there must be a market garden or a garden centre somewhere near here, where we can get help. Let’s go back to the village and ask.’

They got into the Mercedes. Michael wound back the sun-roof and they returned up the hill into the village. By now it had gone seven and the shop was open. They bought chocolate and found from the shopkeeper that there was a garden centre seven miles away, in Laycock.

As they drove out of Godwin Magna, Isobel said, ‘We’ll have to show them the picture, I suppose.’

‘I don’t see that we have much choice. We’ll have to think up some excuse that sounds perfectly natural. Any ideas?’

‘Not yet. Look, do we need to do this? The flower is clearly painted—white petals with pink stamens and a small yellow spot at the end. If we found a boat somewhere and slowly explored the river, I’m sure we would recognise it. That way we need involve no one else.’

‘Hmm. Our problem is time. Grainger is well ahead of us. The flower may be well known—and there may be well-known places around here where it grows in profusion. An expert would know all that and be able to guide us straight to where we want to go. On the other hand, the flower may no longer exist. It could easily have been cut down or the site where it grew built over. In that case it would help us to know what sort of place it grows in, so that we can search for somewhere it might have grown.’

Isobel was only half convinced. ‘You may be right,’ she said. ‘We’re nearly at Laycock anyway, so let’s keep going.’

Laycock was bigger than Godwin Magna and boasted a school and, on that morning, a market. It was nearly eight o’clock when they arrived, and the main square was already choked with stalls selling cheese, homemade jams, vegetables, fish and flowers. Isobel, who was still driving, edged the car through the throng. Michael got out at one point to ask at a flower stall where the garden centre was. He was directed to the Slapstone road and told that the centre was about a mile along it.

Around Laycock the countryside was scrubbier than the lusher fields of Godwin Magna. Michael was always amazed at how, in England, the countryside could change so quickly. It was one of the things he loved.

‘Nora’s Nurseries’ were announced by a big, bright, red and gold sign. Though it was not yet a quarter past eight, they were already open. The gate was pulled back and boxes of flowers, bright splashes of scarlet, were stacked near the entrance, ready for sale. They turned off the road into a dusty courtyard surrounded on three sides by greenhouses. A large, handwritten sign said, ‘Geraniums—one free with every 4 U buy.’ Next to it was a note which read, ‘Please ring for attention.’ An arrow pointed to a bell.

‘Leave this to me,’ said Isobel. ‘You look too much the city slicker to be real in this part of the world. At least I’ve got farmer’s hands.’ She got out of the car and rang the bell. Almost immediately a voice from deep within one of the greenhouses shouted back, ‘Coming!’

After a short delay a woman dressed in blue dungarees and wearing a red scarf around her head marched out through a door. She had ruddy cheeks, a huge chest and mud on her hands. A dog yapped at her heels. ‘Bloody animal!’ she said, playfully trying to kick the creature. ‘Good morning. Lovely day.’ She had a loud voice.

‘Are you Nora?’ said Isobel.

‘Bloody awful name, isn’t it? Still, I should be grateful it’s not Edna or Ethel. Do you want flowers, or fruit?’

‘Fruit, please, and some help.’

‘Of course. This way.’ She looked across to Michael, sitting in the car, then led Isobel back into the greenhouse.

Both women were gone for about ten to fifteen minutes. Michael switched on the radio in the car and started to listen to the breakfast-time news. In America no fewer than seven candidates had announced that they would be running for President, even though the contest was more than a year away. Michael wondered how many would survive the now regular media hunt for skeletons in their respective closets. He was just turning over in his mind whether to suggest a wager on the subject when Isobel reappeared. She shouted: ‘Michael, come and give me a hand, please.’

He slipped out of the car and followed her. They walked down between rows of chrysanthemums, with high, dark green leaves, clammy from the thick atmosphere inside the greenhouse. At the end was a clearing in the forest. Here Nora had her office, a stove pipe which provided heat in winter, a chair, a phone and a primus stove to make tea.

He smiled hello to Nora, who nodded back. She held some money in her hand and was obviously in the process of giving Isobel change. Isobel motioned to a box of apples. ‘Make yourself useful, Michael, please. Take that to the car.’

Michael lifted the apples and carried them back to the Mercedes, thankful to be back in the fresh air and out of the warm wetness of the greenhouse. He put the apples on the back seat with the reference books. Isobel was a few paces behind, still chatting to Nora. This time Michael sat behind the driving wheel. Isobel waved goodbye to the other woman and got in alongside him. ‘Turn back to Laycock,’ she said and then swivelled in her seat to wave again.

‘Well?’

‘I bought the apples as a sweetener—and it will be nice to have one every so often. I told her we were on a rally, one of those treasure hunt things, and that the flower was the next clue. I thought that would arouse the least suspicion.’

‘At half past eight in the morning? Oh, well, so long as she believed you. Go on.’

‘She recognised the flower—it’s a problem, I’m afraid. It’s almond.’

‘Almond?’

‘Yes. The good news is that almond grows near water. The bad news is that almond is almost unknown in Britain.’

‘That needn’t be a bad thing. If it is almost unknown, then the few places where it does exist might be quite famous locally. Could she help on that?’

Isobel shook her head. ‘No. She said she only recognised it because her brother lives in Italy, where he has a garden centre, and almond is very common there.’

Michael steered the car back into Laycock, back through the crush of people in the market. As he came out on the other side, he said, ‘Maybe I’ll have an apple now. Pass me one, will you?’ He chewed for a while, then said, ‘So, we have to get down on to the river. We need to rent a boat. Once we are actually on the water, we may see all sorts of things we can’t see from anywhere else. I can’t say I like the idea, though. Some trees last for hundreds of years but a rare one that doesn’t normally grow here …’ A thought struck him. ‘Hold on. If it is a rare tree maybe that means someone in the area, someone with a property that adjoined the river, was very keen on gardening and brought back rare plants from abroad, just like Peverell brought back rare horses. That happened a lot.’

Excited now, he pulled the car to one side and reached for the map in the back of the car. Opening it he laid it on both their laps. He found the River Frome and traced its meanderings with his finger.

‘Yes … See! There seem to be three places where formal gardens or woods come down to the river. Here at Sayers Heath, then at Quarr Wood and finally Warmwell Green.’

‘But they could be eighteenth-, nineteenth—and even twentieth-century gardens.’

‘True, but there’s a chance that newer gardens, or woods, were built over earlier ones, because the micro-climate, or drainage, made it ideal for growing things. In any case, once we are actually on the river we can survey the whole bank, to be on the safe side. You didn’t by any chance ask that Nora woman where we could hire a boat?’

‘No. I thought it would sound odd.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right.’ He tugged at an eyebrow. ‘It will be in Dorchester, I expect. That’s the only big town around here.’

It took about half an hour to get to Dorchester. Since it was still not yet nine o’clock, they stopped off at The Yeoman for another Thomas Hardy breakfast. ‘We can find out from the hotel where the boatyards are,’ said Michael.

Around ten they nosed the Mercedes behind County Hall, as they had been directed, down around the local prison to where a number of small, red-brick industrial buildings huddled on either side of the river. There were warehouses, a small gasholder, a ship’s chandler’s, a railway siding that hadn’t been used in years and now led nowhere. They came to a dead-end road, and right at the bottom they saw a sign which read, ‘Waddon Wharf: Boats for Hire.’

Michael pulled the car half off the cobbled road and on to the pavement. ‘Let’s take the rest of the apples,’ he said. ‘In case there aren’t any pubs on the river. Leave your handbag in the glove compartment—we don’t want it falling into the river.’

They crossed the street and walked into the dock. ‘Now’s your chance to be bossy again,’ said Michael, grinning at Isobel. ‘Boats are your business.’

A youth of about eighteen was sitting on a tin and slapping paint on to the upturned hull of a small boat. He was listening to a radio but looked up as they approached.

‘We’d like a boat, please,’ said Isobel.

‘Oars or powered?’ He didn’t move or stop painting.

‘Oh, with an engine of course.’

‘It’s three pounds an hour.’

Michael stepped forward, taking his wallet from his jacket. ‘How long would it take to get to Wareham, do you think?’

The youth shrugged. ‘Four hours. Maybe five.’

‘And how late do you stay open tonight?’

Only now did the youth stop painting. ‘We’re open until eight all through June. But if you want the boat all day you have to pay in advance. Ten hours—that’s thirty pounds.’

Michael handed over two £20 notes. The boy put the paintbrush on the top of the hull, got up, took the money and disappeared into a brick, lean-to shed which appeared to be the office. He brought back the change and then led them by a twisting path around several other upturned boats in the dockyard. This brought them to a short pontoon. The boat which the youth selected for them looked reassuringly new, though it was nowhere near as big as the craft on which they had sailed the Broads. In fact, it looked to Michael like little more than a rowing boat with an engine fixed to the back. The boy said it was called a skiff.

He showed them how to start and stop the engine. He checked that there was a full tank of petrol, and filled a spare. He stowed it away, with some ropes, in a compartment at the prow of the boat. A square piece of board fitted loosely in the top of the compartment to keep out the rain and spray. A single oar, for emergencies in case of engine failure, lay along the bottom of the skiff. ‘This juice should last you all day,’ the youth said. ‘If it doesn’t, or if you have any problems, you can get petrol and technical help at Wool and at Wareham. Or you can phone us on the number painted on the engine casing.’ He pointed it out to Isobel. ‘And, don’t forget, rivers aren’t like roads. You keep right.’

He held the boat steady as Isobel and Michael, carrying the apples, got in and settled themselves evenly. The small craft was much less stable than the bigger boat they had used in East Anglia. The youth pushed them off, waited for a moment to see how accomplished they were in boats and then, reassured that Isobel at least knew what she was doing, disappeared back to his paintbrush.

At first the river was quite narrow and ran quickly. Also, since they were still upstream from Godwin Magna and therefore on a part of the river they were not interested in, Isobel gave the engine full throttle. The sun was now high enough in the sky for its rays to beat on their skin with a good heat, though the breeze coming off the water was pleasantly cooling. It was shaping up into a perfect day.

They had the river more or less to themselves, though as they passed Dorset College of Agriculture they watched one or two rather larger boats drawn up along the bank, being loaded with bags of fertiliser.

It took them about forty minutes to get to Godwin Magna. As the familiar bridge, with its damp patches, came into view, Isobel slowed the engine so that they were moving through the water barely faster than the current. The hill to the village rose on their left, while on the other side a wide watermeadow, treeless, ran down the edge of the Frome for about half a mile.

For the next hour and a half Isobel and Michael moved slowly downstream. Sometimes the road was in view, though more often it was not. In the flatter parts of the valley the watermeadows were marshy, stippled with reeds. In other places the trees came all the way to the edge, making the water dark and the air cool. As their eyes became accustomed to river life, they saw fish, moorhens, different types of ducks, sly water rats just nosing the surface.

They came to Sayers Heath first but didn’t bother to stop. It was a modern pine forest, regulated and dense and probably no more than forty years old. There was no house associated with it, which might relate back to earlier times. There were no flowers of any description.

They motored on, occasionally munching apples. Grainger might still be ahead of them but Michael found it was difficult not to relax in such idyllic surroundings. The sun, reflected in the water, was beginning to hurt their eyes. They passed a few boats but nowhere near as many as there had been on the Broads. They chugged by clouds of cow parsley with their acrid tang, wild rhododendrons, once crimson but now over, swags of dark blue berries they couldn’t put a name to.

Quarr Wood they reached just after noon. This looked much more promising and Michael’s pulse quickened. The wood lay just beyond a very old stone bridge and below a meadow which had a number of curious, curved dips in it. Isobel noticed these and recognised what they were.

‘That’s where the river used to run,’ she told Michael. ‘There are places like that near the farm and all over Britain. In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries the monks straightened the rivers so that the water ran faster and turned their mills more efficiently. That means we should find a very old mill, or at least the site of one, at the end of this straight stretch. This is a medieval area now, just here. Keep your eyes peeled.’

When they came to it, Quarr Wood actually straddled the river. The water here was wide with shingle banks. Two swans patrolled the shingle. To Michael, the trees looked like a mixture of the old and the new. There was a profusion of nettles, but what caught his attention was an old stone weir to one side of the river, where a tributary joined it, and an old wall which looked as if it had once enclosed a garden.

Michael pointed to the weir. ‘That’s marked on the map as Blood River—see how red the water is, from the local soil. Let’s put in to the shingle bank.’

Neither of them was exactly dressed to forage in the jungle of nettles and trees which lay beyond the shingle, and the going was hard. Nonetheless, they followed the broken-down wall as best they could and found that, at its far end, there were a number of other walls, equally ancient. Trees and undergrowth sprouted up everywhere.

Breathing heavily from the exertion, Michael said, ‘I remember on the map that there is a Quarr Abbey marked in old-fashioned gothic type, meaning it’s a ruin. This must be it. If we could find a link between Monksilver and Quarr then this is the place where the almonds might have bloomed at one time.’

‘Look, there’s a lane over there, and a notice.’

It was true. They had reached the road.

They broke free of the nettles and undergrowth and emerged on to the tarmac. The sign was dilapidated but legible. ‘Quarr Abbey’ it read:

Quarr Abbey was a thriving institution in the fourteenth century but fell into disuse after a local woman, who had given birth to a child by one of the monks, killed her infant, committed suicide and was secretly buried in the abbey graveyard. Under ecclesiastical law, the abbey grounds immediately became deconsecrated. When the scandal became public, no one could be found who would exhume the body. The monastery thus gave away the land to the local village of Quarton but no one wanted it and it was never used. In time, other bodies which, for one reason or another, could not be interred in consecrated ground, were buried here at Quarr. These were mainly suicides and for that reason Quarr Wood was known for a time in the Middle Ages and up to the Reformation as the Wood of Suicides. The abbey could not survive the scandal and closed in 1467.

‘Grisly,’ whispered Isobel with a shudder.

‘So the abbey was already a ruin by the time our story started. And no one would go near. That could make it an ideal hiding place.’

‘What do you want to do?’

Michael hesitated. ‘We’ve made so many mistakes so far, I don’t want to make any more. This is a good bet but there’s plenty of river for us to see yet. Let’s go on, simply so that we can rule out any other sites. Then we can come back and study Quarr more carefully.’

They retraced their steps through the undergrowth and along the side of the wall and returned to the boat. Isobel started the engine and they moved off. They stopped at Wool, where the Wise Virgin pub adjoined the river, and bought some sandwiches. But they were soon on their way again.

Below Wool the river became very winding, almost doubling back on itself at several places. They passed another pine forest at Stoke Common, but this did not come near the river. Warmwell Green, when they came to it, was an eighteenth-century house and park, well tended, with horses and grazing cattle, all standing about as if they were waiting to be photographed for a postcard. Michael noticed some Roman remains here and there, and a very old stone bridge, called Holmebridge. There was also a priory at Holmebridge but its grounds did not come down to the river.

Beyond that they passed under a railway bridge, chugged passed an oil tank and came to the playing fields of a school. They had reached Wareham. Isobel slowed. ‘Shall I go about?’

‘You mean turn, I suppose.’ He grinned and looked at his watch. ‘Three-thirty. Yes. It has to be Quarr Abbey. It’s the only place that fits. Let’s get back to Dorchester and drop off the boat. If they have room at The Yeoman we can stay there tonight and start in the museum tomorrow morning. There must be old plans of Quarr somewhere, which might help.’

Going back, upstream, Isobel asked Michael to steer so she could sunbathe. They swapped positions—with difficulty—and she hitched up her skirt again to brown her legs. Michael tried hard to concentrate on the river banks. He lit a cigar.

The breeze blew the smoke towards Isobel and she waved it back to him. ‘You make so many clouds, Michael Whiting, it’s a wonder you don’t make rain.’ She turned away.

Sitting in the stern and watching the river more closely now that he had to steer, Michael was amazed at how unfamiliar it looked going upstream, compared with coming the other way. The overhang of trees was quite different, bends looked different, the approach to bridges was unexpected.

They passed Quarr, Michael now convinced more than ever that that was where they would be coming back to. They passed Cranes Moor. At Woodsford, Isobel again took over the tiller and Michael sat near the bow of the boat, looking at the map. Woodsford was one of the villages where the church was on the river.

Suddenly, Michael shouted. ‘I’ve got it! It’s not Quarr at all. Pull over, Isobel, let me show you. It’s on the bloody map!’

It was easier said than done to stop, but Isobel managed to steer towards an overhanging tree which Michael could grab hold of. She didn’t switch off but put the engine into neutral and took the map from Michael as he held on to the tree trunk.

‘Find Woodsford on the map,’ he said excitedly. ‘Follow the river down from Dorchester … got it?’

She nodded.

‘Right. Now go back upstream. What is written next to the village name in gothic type?’

‘Woodsford Castle.’

‘Correct. Now, look at what is written on the other side of the river, opposite Woodsford Castle.’

‘Frome Mead?’

‘No, next to that.’

‘White Mead.’

‘Yes!’

‘So?’

‘Isobel! White Mead. White Meadow. Why is it called white meadow? Because white flowers used to bloom there. Because, when it was given its name, the white colour was notable. Why was it notable? Because it came from a rare tree, a foreign tree, a tree that no one else had.’

‘Why didn’t they call it Almond Mead?’

‘Maybe they did, some of the time. But it was White Mead that stuck. And the clincher is: where better to hide something than in a castle? This has to be the place.’

‘A minute ago, you were convinced it was Quarr.’

‘Isobel! It must be one of these two places. But my betting is on the castle now. Come on, let’s get back. There’s bound to be material on the castle in the local museum. We’re only four miles from Dorchester.’

Isobel handed him the map, put the engine into gear and Michael let go of the tree. The boat surged forward. After a few hundred yards, the river wound to the right. ‘White Mead should be just round this bend,’ said Michael. ‘Keep over as close to the bank as you can. Maybe there’s still a trace of almond somewhere.’

There were bushes sticking out from the bank now, rather than trees, and they had to proceed quite far around the bend before White Mead opened up in front of them. The mead was indeed flat and stretched back several hundred yards to where a forest started. There were, however, a few smaller trees clustered at one end of the meadow, and Michael was just about to ask whether Isobel thought they could be almonds when she cried out, in a half whisper, ‘Look! Another boat.’

It was true. A launch, much larger than the boat they were in, was drawn up by the bank.

Michael stared ahead. As he did so, a figure appeared, walking across the meadow towards the launch. It was a tall thin man with greying hair and, from Isobel’s earlier description and the photograph on the book jacket, Michael realised it could only be one person.

‘Grainger!’ whispered Isobel, voicing Michael’s thoughts. ‘Has he seen us?’

‘Not yet, but he soon will. There’s nowhere to hide in the middle of a river.’

‘Oh God! Now he’ll know we’ve caught up with him.’

‘It had to happen, sooner or later. He’s not finding this any easier than we are … It’s been three days since he was at Peverell Place … He may have been cruising the river ever since, looking for a likely spot.’

‘Do you think he’s found anything?’

‘He can’t have, if I’m right and the answer is at Woodsford Castle.’ Michael peered forward again. ‘He doesn’t look as though he’s carrying anything. It has to be the castle.’

‘It will take us nearly two hours to get to Dorchester and back again. If Grainger discounts the meadow, he might try the castle next—and we could be too late. Why don’t we put ashore now and go straight there? I know we wouldn’t have the car but it’s better than—he’s seen us!’

Michael peered across to the figure in the field. Grainger had stopped on the bank, in the act of untying the rope which tethered the launch. His face was stony and fierce.

By now the skiff was passing the launch. As it did so, another bridge, one used only for farm animals, came into view. Michael looked at his watch. It was nearly seven. ‘Make for the bridge,’ he said as softly as he could and still make himself heard above the engine noise. ‘We can get ashore and there’ll be a track of some sort leading to the main road. Easier than having to cross fields.’

The bridge was perhaps 500 yards away. Isobel opened the throttle as far as it would go and the engine pitch rose to a whine. The bow lifted as the propeller dug deeper into the river.

Michael looked back. ‘Stampede time,’ he breathed. ‘He’s following!’

It was true. Grainger had started his launch and had turned it to head back upstream. As Michael watched, he saw the bow of the launch lift, as Grainger also put his engines on to maximum power.

For thirty tense seconds, Michael watched. Then he yelled, ‘He’s catching us! Christ, he’s much faster than we are.’ The bridge was still a couple of hundred yards away.

Isobel looked back over her shoulder, and shuddered at how close Grainger was all of a sudden. ‘I can’t go any faster,’ she cried. ‘The throttle is full open!’

‘Try for calmer water,’ said Michael, pointing to a stretch of smoother river in the middle of the flow.

Isobel nudged the tiller and the boat moved over.

It was a mistake, Grainger’s launch, moving up all the time, now slipped in between Isobel’s wake and the bank, making it impossible, as the bridge approached, for them to put ashore as they had planned.

‘We’re going away from the castle,’ shouted Michael. ‘Can you stop and turn?’

Grainger was drawing level. And he was edging closer.

Isobel throttled back. Immediately, the boat settled in the water and Grainger’s launch shot ahead. Quickly, Isobel thrust the engine into reverse. Their small boat might have been slower than the launch but it was much more manoeuvrable.

She took the boat’s stern close to the bank—it was high and lined with nettles just here—then threw it into forward gear again and steered back down the river.

‘See where the church is,’ cried Michael, pointing. ‘You can see the steeple. There’s a graveyard between it and the river. It’s flat and I saw a wooden landing. Let’s try to get ashore there.’

But Grainger had also turned by now and was again in pursuit. Worse, it was further to the churchyard than it had been to the bridge going upstream, so he had more time to catch them. This time Isobel made no attempt to alter course; she simply set the boat’s prow downstream and held it there, cutting as close to the bank as she dared when they came to the bend. With three hundred yards to go, Michael could see the landing but Grainger was only thirty yards behind them. At two hundred he was a boat’s length away.

The waters of the river gleamed in the afternoon sun. The wake from the two boats rocked the reeds by the banks, flushing out the moorhens which bobbed up and down in angry disarray.

There was a hundred yards of water between the skiff and a safe part of the bank. Grainger’s launch rocked in their wake.

They came to the final bend before the church landing. Isobel took the skiff very close to the bank, hoping Grainger, with a bigger boat, would have to take a wider course. The rattle of the engines bounced back off the bank, emphasising how close the two boats now were. The river straightened.

Then Grainger rammed them.

The first sensation Michael had was that they were being pushed faster through the water. But then Isobel was knocked forward and she fell into the well of the boat, rocking it wildly. The launch again rammed the engine and suddenly the whine died, fuel spilled everywhere, as the tank was burst and the feeder pipe snapped. The boat suddenly yawed to the left, away from Woodsford and the graveyard. The bitter tang of petrol filled the river and Michael noticed patches of it, purple and yellow, catch the sun on the surface of the water.

The launch, under full speed, rushed on past them but already Grainger was preparing to turn. Michael checked that Isobel was not seriously hurt, then reached for the oar which the youth had left in the boat for emergencies. He could at least steer with that. The skiff was so unstable, however, that it took Michael vital seconds to get the oar in position. By then, Grainger’s launch had turned and was now aimed upstream, coming straight towards them.

‘Where did he get that launch?’ gasped Isobel. ‘Do you think he has to give it back by eight o’clock, just as we do?’

Michael grinned grimly. He was now trying to use the oar to make contact with the bank, to steer them nearer so that they could scramble ashore. For some reason he noticed that he still had his cigar in his mouth. It hadn’t even gone out. But then the launch was upon them.

Grainger was clever. Since they no longer had any power, he approached them below full speed. Then, about twenty yards away, he accelerated so that the bow of his launch rose in the water. Finally, at the very last moment, he throttled back so that the launch not only rammed them but dropped down on to their skiff.

The grating sound of cracking wood was louder than Michael expected. Splinters flew everywhere, and cold, cold water began to fill the boat. The force of the collision threw Michael and Isobel outwards, back into the centre of the stream and away from the launch. Michael gasped as the cold, raw water closed around him. His nostrils filled with river and the rank odour of sedge and petrol swamped him. He surfaced and gasped for air. Jesus, the water was cold! And it was June. He was a good swimmer—in a pool—and waited a moment before trying to strike out. He didn’t know how strong the current would be. He watched himself being swept downstream and immediately decided that the water flow was much too swift to fight.

Now he looked about for Isobel. He saw her head, her hair plastered to her skull. She was a few yards upstream but further from the bank. ‘Don’t fight the current!’ he yelled. ‘Swim with it and try to get over to the other bank—look out!’

Grainger had turned the launch and was coming back downstream again. He was about fifty yards away.

Michael struck out for the far bank. He tried to get himself downstream of Isobel so that eventually the current would bring her to him.

Grainger must have sensed that Michael was the stronger swimmer, for no sooner had Michael taken a few strokes than he saw that the launch was making for Isobel. Worse, he could now see that Grainger had something in his hand. A pole. No! It looked like a boat-hook.

Isobel was helpless. From her movements it was clear that, though she could swim, she was not really at home in the water. Grainger would be able to spear her as easily as a leaf on a lawn. He was by now only thirty yards away and moving fast. There was no hope that Michael could get to her first and, even if he could, what would he do?

Michael could also see that Isobel was tiring—their clothes made movement difficult. Frantically he looked about him. There was nothing he could throw at Grainger, nothing he could use as a missile. There were pieces of wood from the splintered skiff floating nearby but they were all too big to throw far. Now Grainger was only twenty yards from Isobel! The boat-hook in his hand looked vicious, an eighteen-inch stiletto at the end of a ten-foot wooden shaft. A curl, a hard metal twist, jutted out halfway down the spike. It transformed the spear into a barb. As Michael watched, the hook glinted in the sunlight.

Suddenly, to his right Michael saw the square piece of wood that had covered the compartment in the prow of the skiff, the compartment where the extra fuel and ropes were stored to keep them from getting too wet. The square must have been dislodged when Grainger’s launch had rammed them. It was bright blue and floated a little downstream from Michael in the middle of the river. He took three swift strokes and grabbed at it.

‘Isobel!’ he called. As she turned to him, Michael gave a huge kick with his legs under water, forcing the top of his body above the waterline. As he rose he threw the square of wood towards Isobel. He spun it flat, just as, when he was a boy, he had thrown stones on the surface of the sea, skimming them along the top. The square of wood hit the water about five yards short of Isobel but skidded on, settling where, without a second thought, she grabbed it.

She didn’t need telling what to do. But would she have time? Grainger was now no more than ten yards away. With one arm he was steering the launch straight for Isobel, intending to crush her as well as spear her.

Isobel took the square of wood with both hands and held on. Grainger was now five yards away. He lifted the boat-hook.

Just as the prow of the launch seemed as if it would sweep over Isobel, she did as Michael had done moments before. She kicked with her legs. Her body surged sideways and the launch missed her—but only just and, as he swept by, Grainger, in the stern, stabbed down at her with the boat-hook. The movement of the launch added to Grainger’s own strength and the hook flashed down faster than a guillotine. Isobel twisted in the water. After the effort of kicking herself out of the launch’s path, she was more exhausted than ever and lay virtually horizontal in the river, presenting a large, unmissable target.

From where Michael was it seemed that Grainger had aimed at Isobel’s heart, though it might have been her neck. At the last second, however, she managed to lift the square of wood which Michael had thrown. She held it above her, a square blue shield about an inch thick.

There was no time to spare. The black, gunmetal spike slammed into the wood.

The sound, a thud mixed with a loud crack as the wood split from the force of Grainger’s thrust, shot back across the river towards Michael. It was sickening in its intensity.

Michael didn’t wait to see what Grainger would do next. He struck out directly for Isobel, fighting the current. She had a similar thought and was swimming towards him. ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘There!’ He pointed towards a part of the bank where a tree leaned out over the river. ‘There!’

Grainger was slowing again, but the current had taken him further downstream and he would now have to come back against the flow.

Michael reached the tree first. Some of its branches hung down almost to water level but they were too thin to take a person’s weight. The more sturdy trunk, however, was three or four feet above the waterline, out of reach. As Isobel approached, Michael gave another kick and his body rose in the water. His shoulders and arms lifted free. His clothes, wet and heavy, clung to him, hampering his movements. His hands reached the trunk but couldn’t hold on, they were so wet and cold. He slipped back and the river closed over his head. The stench of algae and petrol again filled his nostrils.

As he surfaced, coughing and sneezing, he looked downstream and saw Grainger beginning to move towards them again, no more than fifty yards away. Michael realised with horror that Grainger had not turned his boat this time. He was reversing upstream! The boat was hardly slower in reverse, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that Grainger was coming for them screw first! The propeller could cut their legs to bits below water. Michael looked at the tree above him. He had to get up there. Grainger would get one of them this time.

Michael struggled in the water, kicking with his legs as he shrugged off his jacket. He curled his knees up to his chest and yanked off his shoes. They floated away though he barely noticed. He looked up at the tree again. He took a deep breath. Grainger was thirty yards downstream. Michael kicked. His body lifted and this time his hands closed over the top of the trunk. For a moment his body hung there, his skin showing through his dripping shirt, and his trousers clammy against his legs. Grainger was twenty yards away.

Michael heaved and pulled his legs out of the water and shoved his right knee over the trunk. Through his trousers, its bark burned his flesh. He pushed his knee further, until he could hook his foot over the other side. Then, using that, he levered his body horizontally along the tree. Grainger was barely fifteen yards from Isobel.

Michael reached down. Isobel’s hands were wet and cold and her grip was not strong. Michael jerked her up, let go and, as she fell back, grabbed under her armpits. As he took her full weight he gasped. He thought his own arms would be dragged from their sockets. Water, cold heavy water, poured off Isobel, though her sodden clothes squelched with still more river. Ropes of sedge clung to her hair, her shirt, her belt. Ten yards away the propeller from Grainger’s launch was churning the water a foaming white.

Michael pulled. And pulled. Isobel’s body rose a few inches out of the water. He yanked again. She rose higher. The twisting propeller was five yards away. ‘Hold the tree with your arms!’ he yelled. She did as she was told. Michael grabbed her legs and pulled them clear of the water and on to the trunk. They both gasped for air, shivering and sobbing as their clammy clothes stuck to them, making every movement, even breathing, uncomfortable.

Below them a change in sound signalled that Grainger had shifted gear. The launch slid back into midstream and then, turning, moved ever faster as it caught the main flow of the river and surged with it downstream towards Wool and Wareham. Having missed Isobel a second time, Grainger was getting out.

For a moment Michael and Isobel lay shivering on the tree, getting their breath. Then, slowly, with Michael leading the way, they inched backwards to the more certain safety of the river bank.

Michael backed gingerly off the tree. Here the bank was covered with nettles. He looked about him. Were there any witnesses to the dreadful attack they had just endured? He could see no one. It was a perfect English evening. The countryside was serene, a landscape of lies in itself. He picked wet weed out of his hair, broke off a heavy branch from the tree and used it to sweep a path through the nettles to the flat meadow beyond. Then he went back for Isobel. She had edged herself to the foot of the tree trunk but she now leaned against it, sobbing. Her hands, her lips, her shoulders were all shaking.

‘Michael …’ she gasped, ‘Michael … he tried to kill me. If that hook had … oh!’ A sound, purely involuntary, escaped from her throat as she relived the moment and a shock reaction set in. She shook and cried inconsolably.

Michael put his arms around her. He plucked the wet sedge from her hair and her shirt. He peeled some of it from where it clung to her neck and cheeks. For a long while, he said nothing. He just gripped her tightly and felt her shaking inside his arms. Then, very softly, he said: ‘Isobel, it will pass. You are in shock. Perfectly normal. It will pass. Don’t forget, we’re alive. Grainger lost this round. We beat the bugger.’

‘But he’ll come back. And—’

‘Don’t think about that now. I think we should move away from the river, don’t you? It’s bad luck. I’ve made a path through the nettles. Come on.’

Gently, he took her hand and led her into the meadow. They were both shivering badly now. ‘I see some roofs over there.’ Michael pointed. ‘Let’s hope the natives are friendly. I think we’re safe from Grainger for a while.’

There was still no sign of anyone else. It had now gone seven and the day was no longer as warm as it had been. Michael made Isobel hurry as much as she could, even though they were both racked with exhaustion, and Michael had no shoes. The meadow was pitted with thistles, spiky branches and half-hidden stones. In no time, Michael’s feet were bleeding. When they came to the gate, things did not improve. The lane beyond was made up of rough stones that helped a tractor’s tyres but still bit into Michael’s feet. Worse, when they came to them, the roofs turned out to be cowsheds and a barn. There was not a human soul in sight. More exhausted than ever, they were forced to trudge on up the farm track towards the road. Their clothes clung to them as if they had been vacuum-packed to their skin and their joints felt cold and stiff. They walked awkwardly, like robots, their clothes squelching in time to their steps.

After another ten minutes they came to the tarmac road and Michael could tread more easily. There were no signs but instinctively they both turned left, towards Dorchester and away from Grainger. A car passed them going in the same direction. Michael waved at it and the driver, a woman, slowed, but as soon as she saw their appearance close up she accelerated hard and was soon out of sight.

Isobel was still shaking, still in shock. Her mind was still focused on the moment when Grainger hurled the boat-hook at her. Michael gripped her arm to guide her along the road.

After a few hundred yards, they reached a pine forest on the right. Young trees, straight and thin as boat-hooks, stretched upwards by the thousand. At the end of the trees they saw three or four houses. ‘Thank God!’ growled Michael.

Leaving Isobel at the gate, Michael tried the first house. He rang the bell. There was no reply. He knocked hard on the door. There was no reply. He tried again. Silence: the house was empty. Coming back down the path, however, he saw that he was being eyed from across the way by a large man who was just wheeling a bicycle down the path from the house opposite. Michael walked across to him.

‘We had an accident on the river,’ he said. ‘Our boat sank. As you can see, we need a place to dry off and to make a telephone call.’

The man inspected him hard. He looked at Isobel, still standing where Michael had left her. Her shaking seemed to convince him that Michael’s story was true, for he said, ‘Hmm. That river’s trouble. Flooded last year and drowned thirteen sheep. Missy there looks poorly.’ He leaned his bicycle against the hedge. ‘Come on.’ He walked back to the house, opened a side door and looked out through it. ‘This way.’

Michael had fetched Isobel from the far side of the road and they followed the man. The door led into a conservatory that had soaked up sun all day and was wonderfully warm. Immediately Michael felt his body respond. The man had some towels in his hand. ‘There’s a bathroom in there.’ He pointed into the house. ‘You can wear these if you like.’ He fetched two old raincoats from behind the door. ‘Better than nothing.’

‘You go first,’ said Michael to Isobel, gently shoving her inside the house. He turned back to the man. ‘You’re very kind. If I could just use your phone …?’

‘No … This has to be reported first. I’ll call Frank Hilton—he’s our local PC. He’ll know what to do. Then you can phone. Hang on here.’

While he was gone, Michael started to dab himself dry with the towel. He took off his shirt and squeezed the water out of it. The conservatory was doing a wonderful job of reviving him. Michael had not been a direct target of Grainger, as Isobel had, and so his reaction to their ordeal was not as extreme. The image of her shaking, out there in the road, flashed into his mind. Her shoulders, her lips, her chin … tiny, rapid tremors. It brought back for him the vibrations he had felt in the water as Grainger had reversed towards them, the propeller of his launch twisting the water into white fury. Michael tried to think ahead but couldn’t. All he was aware of was that Grainger’s violence was getting worse. Money, big money, even the prospect of it, did that to some people, though he had never come across it personally before. Grainger’s viciousness gave him only one piece of comfort. They must be very close to the end, very close indeed.

The man returned before Isobel. He had a bottle with him, and some glasses. ‘Frank’s coming right over. Five minutes. Here, you’ll need this.’

Michael smiled as the welcome whisky was splashed into a glass. He swallowed hard and felt the familiar itch as the firewater warmed his insides, matching the effects of the conservatory on the outside.

‘I’ll show you to the phone.’

Michael followed the man, taking the glass with him. He found the number of The Yeoman in Dorchester in a book beside the telephone and called the hotel. Yes, they remembered him from before and, yes, they had two rooms. He sighed and finished his whisky as he put down the receiver. He could sort out everything else from there.

Isobel reappeared. She wasn’t shaking so much now, but she wasn’t recovered either. It was too soon for that. She accepted the whisky and sipped at it. The raincoat swamped her but at least it was dry and warm and, in a curious way, Michael thought it looked quite sexy. He didn’t say so, though, and went off to the bathroom to change himself.

While he was gone, he heard a car pull up outside: the policeman had arrived. When Michael returned to the conservatory it was to find the policeman writing down details of the ‘accident’.

Isobel spoke shakily, and scarcely above a whisper. As the constable was scribbling, she added, ‘We’re sorry to put you to this trouble. We were very foolish, trying to change places in midstream. Our own silly fault.’

Michael stared at her. What was this? But Isobel swallowed some whisky, glaring back at Michael over her glass, a fierce expression that dared him to contradict her.

The constable finished writing and looked up. ‘So there was no one else in this … skiff … with you?’

They both shook their heads. That was true, as far as it went.

‘And did the boat sink?’

‘Most of it,’ said Michael. ‘Bits and pieces floated away.’

‘Did anyone else see the accident?’

Again Michael shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Mind you, we scrambled ashore along an overhanging tree. We weren’t looking out for spectators.’

‘What else did you lose? Personal things?’

‘I had to take my jacket off. My wallet, credit cards, pen, chequebook, were all inside. I took my shoes off too.’

The constable continued writing in his book. ‘How did you get here?’

‘We walked. Up a track, past some cowsheds, then along the road by the pine wood. A woman in a car saw us, but didn’t stop. Can’t say I blame her.’

More scribbling in the book. Then the policeman closed it and put it away in a pocket.

‘If it’s all right with you, sir, I think I’ll drive you into Dorchester. Just to make sure all this has a tidy ending.’

‘Fine,’ said Michael. ‘I don’t know what my credit is like at The Yeoman but, if they will allow me, I’ll give you a bottle of whisky to bring back for this gentleman here.’

‘This way, then,’ said the constable.

Michael gathered up their wet clothes. He thanked the man whose house they had used and shook his hand. ‘We’ll need the raincoats as far as Dorchester. But the constable here can bring them back.’

The man nodded and they all got into the police car. The constable thoughtfully put the heater on so that the drive to Dorchester was both speedy and comfortable.

At The Yeoman, there was a certain curiosity about a couple who arrived wearing raincoats, and nothing else, but the receptionist recognised them, the hotel records confirmed the names and addresses which they had given to the policeman, so he was reassured. He said that next morning he would inspect the river near where the accident had taken place, just for form’s sake. Then he added, ‘How are you going to get home from here?’ asked the policeman.

‘With difficulty,’ said Michael. ‘I left my car near the boatyard, but my car keys were in my jacket. Isobel’s handbag is locked in the car. And it’s Sunday tomorrow.’

‘If you have any problems, give me a ring.’ The policeman handed Michael a card with a phone number on it. ‘You’ll probably have to ring your bank on Monday and they may need some convincing. They may trust me.’

Michael thanked the constable, gave him the whisky for the man whose house they had used, and then he and Isobel were shown upstairs. The hotel staff provided two towelling dressing-gowns and took away their wet things, promising to have them cleaned and pressed by the next morning.

They both took lingering baths, then climbed back into their towelling robes. Not having proper clothes, they could not eat in the dining-room. Dinner, plus the whisky and wine which Michael ordered, was brought up to them. They ate it in Isobel’s room. Michael swallowed ravenously, though Isobel only picked at hers.

As soon as she had eaten enough, she asked him to turn his back. She slipped out of the bathrobe and got into bed. It was not yet eleven o’clock.

Michael sat drinking his whisky. ‘Isobel?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Today wasn’t pleasant. We could stop now. We should stop now. We should have told that policeman about Grainger. Why didn’t you?’

She was lying on her side, her back to him. She pulled the sheets and blankets about her. ‘Get into bed.’

He hesitated, unsure what to do.

‘Get in. I’m cold.’

He took off his dressing-gown, put his whisky on the table at the side of the bed and slipped between the sheets. Isobel was indeed very cold. She pulled his arm around her, until his body cupped hers.

After a few minutes she said, ‘Put out the lights, please. Then come back.’

Michael finished his whisky and switched out the bedside lamps. Then he put his arm around Isobel again. When they had settled, and their breathing was regular, Isobel whispered, ‘Michael, I was scared today. Terrified. Terrified like I’ve never been before.’

As best he could, with one arm, Michael gave her a hug. Their bodies pressed together. Isobel was now not so cold. He was aware of the smell of soap on her skin.

‘I really did think, when I was floundering in that river, that … that he was going to kill me. I even imagined what it would feel like to have a boat-hook in your chest—’

Her body jerked involuntarily as the memory came back, and Michael tried another hug.

‘All the time I was in Beirut, I was never as frightened as today. Not in Nicaragua, the Philippines, Afghanistan. What got into Grainger?’

Michael, who had never had any ambition to see war, secretly thought he lacked the qualifications to comfort Isobel. His sister Robyn would be better; at least she had been to unusual places. Instinctively, he spoke softly and slowly, trying to reassure Isobel as much by his tone as his words. ‘That’s the wrong way to look at it. We don’t know him and, obviously, he’s a very violent man. Several million pounds are quite enough to make even the wisest owls cuckoo. He had several million pounds of cordite in him today. He was Megaton-mad.’

For a moment they lay quietly in the dark. Not that the room was very dark once their eyes became adjusted. Amber light from the streetlamps outside streamed around the edges of the curtains. Michael didn’t so much kiss Isobel’s shoulder as press his face into it.

Then Isobel said, ‘I’ve never known any really violent people. I mean, when you are a journalist and you go to places where there is a lot of political violence, you see the end results, the damage, the bodies, the blood. But you hardly ever see the people who do all that. When you meet the terrorists, you meet the leaders, people who may condone bloodshed but don’t exactly set off the bombs themselves. There must be a difference, too, between killing people at a distance with a bomb or gun and … well, like today.’

She paused, and Michael gave her another one-armed hug.

‘To kill someone, to stab them, close to, in the countryside, on a summer’s day, in England … disregarding the consequences … have you ever met anyone like that, Michael?’

Michael thought back. ‘No, not personally. But Greg has. When he was younger he was in one of those crack army units—you know, all parachuting and unarmed combat. He talked about it once. The most remarkable thing he said, the thing I remember most, was that violent people often have a remarkably good grasp of the psychological aspects of rough stuff. He said, for instance, that even quite stupid people, when they get into a brawl, will not spend any time arguing. They hit the other person straight away and as hard as possible. Violence is so rare in most people’s lives that when it happens to them their first reaction is surprise. They can’t believe that it’s happening and that it’s happening to them. By the time they do, it’s too late.’

‘Yes, I can understand that. But what makes people erupt, like Grainger did today? What makes some people violent in the first place?’

‘Genes? Drink? Then again some people seem to have violence bottled up inside them. Maybe Grainger’s like that. Don’t forget what happened to him at Oxford. It must have made him very bitter and angry and it’s been slowly coming out. He broke into your house but didn’t do much damage. He damaged the boot of my car. Then he attacked Helen and knocked her studio about. Then today …’

He left it unsaid. He waited and then whispered, ‘Talking might soothe you tonight, Isobel. But Grainger isn’t far away, don’t forget. He’s probably in some other local hotel, just like us. We may be equally close now but he’s got the advantage of being vicious. We can’t fight fire with fire. We need the police.’

‘Damn him! He’s not going to win! If we told the police, it would be out of our hands. The police would take ages, just to ask questions. We’d have to tell them everything, about the picture and the missing things. We’d have to—or they wouldn’t understand Grainger’s motives. He’s a respectable academic, after all. Unless we tell them everything, they might easily not believe us. Yes, we were in the river—they’d believe that. But no one saw Grainger attack us.’ She sighed. ‘If we did make them believe us, then the police would have to broadcast the details to other police forces … Who knows what would happen then? They might alert the papers. The picture would be evidence … Lots of people would get to know what we know.’

‘Better than a repeat of today—’

‘No!’

Michael had felt Isobel’s body tense. Now it relaxed and she spoke more softly. ‘No. After today, Michael, after today especially, this is personal. Between him and us. I was forced to give up in Beirut, over Tony. Not this time. I want revenge.’

Michael felt Isobel tense again. ‘It frightened me, Michael. Grainger terrified me. But you don’t know me very well. I don’t give up. I stayed in Beirut, remember? No, we’re going to catch Grainger and then overtake him. We know now what a vicious reptile we are dealing with. There’ll be no replay of today. I can be a reptile too.’

In the shadows Michael smiled. What sort of reptile did Isobel imagine she was? But at least it meant that her spirits were reviving. Again he tightened his arm around her. ‘This is my anaconda hug.’

She groaned in pleasure and took hold of his hand. She moved it back. ‘Ever since I was young, I’ve loved having my back stroked. It’s so soothing. I need soothing now.’

He pushed back the sheet, revealing the smooth sweep of her back, all the way down to the top of her buttocks. He touched her skin. He moved the tips of his fingers up the line of her backbone, across her shoulders and down to her waist. He scored a fingernail back up her spine. Around the base of her neck, he softly massaged the tops of her shoulders. Then all the way down again.

‘Mmmm.’

She manoeuvred on to her front so that he could stroke more of her back. He traced arabesques with his fingertips, lozenges, figures of eight, loops, parabolas, swans’ necks.

‘Mmmm. We can’t stop now.’

‘If you feel sure. I don’t think Grainger will have done any more searching tonight. You can’t dig in the dark but he’ll be at the castle at first light tomorrow. We won’t—there’s no way we can be. We’ve no money, hardly any clothes, no car until I find a key that fits. All that will take two or three hours to fix at the very least. So the reptile might still win—but, yes, I agree that we can’t stop now. It’s a risk, not bringing in the police—but I suppose I’m glad you feel that way too.’

She twisted her head and looked at him, then reached over her shoulder and grasped his fingers as they brushed her neck. ‘Michael,’ she said, kissing the tips of his fingers. ‘When I said we can’t stop now, I wasn’t, actually, thinking of Grainger.’