Crybbe aka Curfew

She was glad they couldn't see the helpless tears in her eyes.

'I can't trust myself here,' Fay said, fighting to keep the tears out of her voice, I can't trust myself to perceive anything correctly. Too much has happened.'

'Have you thought about why it could be?' Powys asked, a soft, accepting voice in the darkness. 'Why no dogs?'

'Sure I've thought about it – in between thinking about my dad going bonkers, about holding on to my job, about somebody breaking in and smashing up my tape-machine, about being arrested for manslaughter, about living with a gho… about tons of things. I'm sorry, I'm not very rational tonight.

'So what you're saying is' – Rachel's very rational voice, 'that, because you wouldn't get rid of Arnold, Jonathon Preece deliberately set out to shoot him?'

'I had a phone call. An anonymous call. Get rid of him this weekend, or…'

'Or he'd be shot?'

'There was no specified threat. Just a warning. I think Jack Preece was the caller. Therefore it seems likely he sent Jonathon out with the gun.'

She heard Powys fumbling with the stove and its iron door was flung wide, letting a stuttering red and yellow firelight into the room.

His face looked much younger in the firelight. 'If this is right about no dogs – I'm sorry, Fay, if you say there are no dogs, I believe you – we could be looking at the key to something here.'

'You're the expert,' Fay said.

'There aren't any experts. This is the one area in which nobody's an expert.'

'If all dogs howl at the curfew,' Rachel said logically, 'why don't they just get rid of the curfew? It's not as if it's a major tourist attraction. Not as if they even draw attention to it. It just happens, it's just continued, without much being said. OK there's this story about the legacy of land to the Preeces, but is anybody really going to take that away if the curfew stops?'

'I don't think for one minute,' said Powys, 'that that's the real reason for the curfew.'

Fay sat up, interested. 'So what is the real reason?'

'If we knew that we'd know the secret of Crybbe.'

'You think there's something to know? You think there's good reason why the place is as miserable as sin?"

'There's something. Fay. how did you come to get Henry's dog. I mean, did you know him well?'

'Hardly at all. I'd done an interview with him on the day he died.'

'That's interesting. What sort of an interview? What was it about?'

'Er… dowsing. I wanted to know what he was doing in Crybbe, but it was obvious he didn't want to talk about that, so… Anyway, it was never used.'

'Have you still got the tape?'

'I imagine so. If you want to hear it, come down to the studio sometime. Up the covered alley behind the Cock.'

'Tomorrow morning?'

'Nine o'clock?'

'Fine.'

'And about Arnold, I got him from the police because it was obvious nobody else was going to. He was howling away in full daylight, and I'm pretty sure now that if I hadn't taken him, he'd have been dead. They'd have killed him. Before nightfall. Before the curfew.'

The torchlight shone in Jocasta's eyes.

'It's me,' Guy said. 'Look…'

'Yes, I know. Come here, I'm cold.'

'I haven't been,' said Guy. 'I couldn't go.'

'I don't understand – you've got the torch.'

'Jocasta,' Guy hissed urgently, closing the drawing-room door quietly behind him. 'For Christ's sake, why didn't you tell me we weren't alone?'

Jocasta felt very cold. She began to tremble, crawled to the Aga and scrabbled for her dress.

'Who is he?' Guy demanded. She couldn't see him, only the torch. Is he your father?'

Jocasta tried to speak and couldn't. She tried to stand up, tried to step into her dress, got her legs tangled, fell back on the rug.

'I waited,' Guy said. 'But he didn't come out.'

Jocasta, squatting on the rug in the torch circle, struggled vainly to zip up her dress. No eager fingers to help her now.

'What the hell's going on, Jocasta?'

She found her voice, but didn't recognize it. 'My father,' she said slowly, 'is in Chiswick. My husband, Hereward, is somewhere in Somerset. There is nobody here. Nobody here but us, Guy.'

A log shifted in the grate, sending up a yellow spark-shower, like a cheap firework.

'Then who the fuck was that old man in the bathroom? Having a shave, for crying out loud, with a… with a…' His voice faltered. 'With a cut-throat razor.'

The improbability of the scenario seemed to occur to him at last.

'How could I see him? How could I see him when all the lights…?'

Guy's voice went quiet. 'He was a strange kind of yellow,' he said unsteadily. 'A very feeble shade of yellow.'

The torchlight wavered as he advanced on the sofa. 'Where are my clothes? I'm getting out of here.'

'No!' Jocasta leapt at him, clutching the arm which held the torch. He dropped it. It lay on the floor, its beam directed into the fireplace. The logs looked dead and grey in the strong, white light.

'Don't go,' Jocasta implored. 'You can't go. You can't leave me. For God's sake, don't leave me here with… with…'

CHAPTER IV

The following morning, Sunday, just before 9 a.m., there was a sudden burst of sunlight, a splash of dripping yellow in a washed-out, watercolour sky.

The light looked to be directly over the Tump, the trees on its sides and summit massing menacingly around the watery orb. It was, Rachel thought, as if a green-gloved hand had reached out from the foliage, snatched the emergent sun and crunched it like an egg.

'I think we should call the police,' she said.

'Why?' said Humble. 'Whoever done it saved us a job.'

The Tump squatted under the sun, fat and smug. You could almost think the Tump was the culprit – as if the great mound had taken a deep breath, pulled in its girth and then let go, bellying out and crumbling the wall before it.

Then Rachel had seen the bulldozer, still wedged in the rubble.

'And there's Gomer Parry,' she said. 'What's he going to say?'

'Proves him wrong, dunnit? He reckoned the machine wouldn't go through the wall.'

'Without the wall collapsing on it. Which it has.'

A chunk of wall about fifteen feet wide had been smashed in or wrenched out and then the bulldozer plunged in again. Clearly an amateur job, but the spot had been well-chosen. It would leave a jagged gap directly under the huge picture- window in the stable-block.

'All we do about Gomer, we just pay him off,' Humble said. He was unshaven. He wore a black motorcycle jacket. Half an hour ago he'd rung J. M. Powys's riverside cottage. 'Put Rachel on.' She'd been quite shocked, didn't see how he could possibly have known about her and J.M.

It meant Max would know by now. Max would not be particularly annoyed that she was with J. M. Powys, but she'd done it without clearing it with him first – that was the serious offence.

Time to move on, Rachel decided abruptly. The facade's crumbling. Time to negotiate a settlement.

'I think the bulldozer's damaged,' she said. 'Look at the way the blade-thing is twisted.'

'Couple of thou' should see Gomer right. See, Rachel, you bring in the Old Bill, you're causing unnecessary hassle. Some f… body might get the idea we paid him to do it. Max would not like that.'

Him? You sound as if you know who did it.'

'Yeah, well, I got my suspicions.'

'Would you like to share them?'

'I keep my eyes open,' Humble said.

'Not much you don't know, is there, Humble?'

Humble smirked. 'Not much, Rachel. Not much.'

The metal plate on the door said. When red light is showing, do not attempt to enter.

The red light was on.

Not sure what to do, Powys walked around the dull, brick building which had once been a lavatory. When he arrived back at the door he was holding up a foot.