‘Know what?’ asked O’Hara, his long body sprawled beside her on the turf.
‘Those lights and colours. Don’t you remember the Ferguson one-act play, Campbell of Kilmhor? It comes: The blue and the green and the grey fires… That’s what they were making. I wonder why?’
‘For the destruction of your soul? said O’Hara softly. ‘I said they were trying to raise the devil. Will you be quiet now! I think I hear them coming.’
‘This is it!’ muttered Laura, feeling, she confessed to Mrs. Bradley later, a chilly sensation down her spine. ‘Who comes, though?—and why?’
‘Lie close,’ murmured Gascoigne. ‘They’re coming this way, I think. I only hope they haven’t been tipped off that there are strangers in the House!’
Laura listened. Very soon, through the thick darkness, could be heard the approach of several persons, one of whom almost immediately revealed, by the light of a lantern from which he had slipped the cover, that he was wearing riding breeches and boots, and was, in all probability, therefore, the horseman whom the three had seen go past when they were on their way to the circle of standing stones.
When this man had reached the middle of the stone circle he set down his lantern upon the ground and thus provided enough light for Laura and her companions to see the number of persons who were with him. There were eight of them, the man himself making nine, and Laura, tapping heavily with her forefinger upon Gascoigne’s shoulder, indicated that this magic number was again of some importance and interest. Just as she had concluded this unnecessary observation, the party she was watching began slowly to disperse until one of the standing stones hid each man and the lantern alone could be seen, glowing bright as a topaz in the middle of the ring of stones.
Led by Gascoigne, the watchers began to crawl towards the stones. Minutes passed. There was the silence of death. Then began a slight sound too loud to be called breathing, too quiet to be called grunting. Laura heard it first, and, for a reason she could not afterwards explain, but which was due to some instinct acquired by females as opposed (in all senses) to males, she leapt up, shouting, ‘They’re on us! We should have kept to the hedge!’
It was true. There ensued a curse and a shout, followed by a tense moment of dramatic fervour as her cavaliers went into battle. Laura, prompt always for action, went bounding to help them, and then heard two shots as she wound her long, strong arms about a stranger who loomed up in the light of the lantern. Then came a cry from her left in a voice she did not know; that, apparently, of one of the postulants of the Druids.
‘Look out! Someone else! Look out, boys!’ Her opponent wrenched himself free, but Laura had a coat button and a lock of his hair. Gascoigne grounded his man and fell on him, and muffled cries could be heard as he bumped the man’s head on the turf. The man, however, showed sudden agility. He rolled over, kicked backwards at Gascoigne’s face, leapt up and raced off. Gascoigne, pursuing him, ran into a bush he had not seen in the dark, and tripped and fell.
There was the sound of a rich cackle. A formidable beam of light was switched on. Mrs. Bradley, her revolver still in her hand, swept her torch across the ground in widening arcs. By this means O’Hara was discovered sitting masterfully on one of the foemen.
‘I think he’s dead,’ he said. ‘I tackled him low, and I think he hit his head.’
Mrs. Bradley knelt down and examined the fallen man. She gave Laura the gun to hold. The man opened his eyes.
‘Well, well!’ said Mrs. Bradley, as he sat up and felt the back of his head, and winced. ‘And what game is this that has to be played by midnight among the relics of pre-history?’
The man, who was young and badly needed a shave, looked sheepish and scrambled to his feet.
‘It’s just a ceremony,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it’s ruined for this year. Was it you that fired the gun?’
‘It was,’ replied Mrs. Bradley. ‘Pick up your lantern and go home. And don’t drink spirits until a doctor has examined your head. You might regret it. But, first, who are you?’
‘I’m with the film people,’ he responded sullenly. ‘We weren’t doing any harm. You’d no right to attack us like that. We only came up for a lark because… because…’
‘Because the Druids might dance? Don’t lie,’ said Mrs. Bradley peremptorily. ‘Be off with you. And you children, too,’ she added. ‘Every one of you ought to be in bed! This is all very foolish and frightening. Which is your way, young man?’
‘Oh, the village,’ said the young man crossly. ‘I’m in lodgings there.’ He limped away from them. Mrs. Bradley kept her torch trained on him. He picked up the lantern and, using it to light him on his way, went slowly, half-dragging one leg, in the direction of the path which eventually gave access to the main road near the village of Upper Deepening.
‘And now,’ said Mrs. Bradley, as the wavering lantern disappeared from view, ‘to your car as quickly as you can.’
Guided by her torch (Laura still holding the revolver), they returned to the wood in which they had left the car. They could see its rear light among the trees, so they made their way to it, climbed in, and made room for Mrs. Bradley.
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I have George to drive me back. Laura, I suggest that you come with me, too, then these young men can sleep in their car. I also suggest that neither of you two returns to Slepe Rock until the morning,’ she added, addressing Gascoigne and O’Hara. ‘There have been strange happen-ings to-night, from what I hear at the hotel! Sandbags, indeed! Drive back towards the outskirts of Cuchester, and park the car in the lane that leads to the ancient fort. You, Mr. O’Hara, will know the lane I mean.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said O’Hara, in a gravely obedient tone. ‘And you’ll pick us up there in the morning?’
‘At ten o’clock,’ said Mrs. Bradley briskly. ‘Now good night, heaven preserve you, and don’t run into any more mischief.’ She stood away whilst Gascoigne, who was driving, backed the car on to the road, but as soon as its tail-light had topped the rise, she seized Laura’s sleeve and said urgently, ‘And, now, child, back to the stone circle, for we cannot remain in this unenviable condition of doubt.’
To Laura’s astonishment, excitement and secret, slight dismay, they were soon dodging under the cartshed. Then they set their faces towards the north-east and approached what Laura, with some lack of originality but with a nice sense of what it would feel like to be permanently agoraphobic, had begun to think of as the wide open spaces beyond the farm and on top of the hill.
‘Don’t speak, if you can help it,’ said Mrs. Bradley, suddenly, ‘after we pass the next gate.’
‘I was wondering what had happened to the horse,’ said Laura mildly, taking advantage of the permission implicit in her instructions to speak at least once before they reached the gate. ‘One of those men was on horseback.’
‘The horse? Oh, I led it away. It is in one of the stables at this farm,’ said Mrs. Bradley carelessly. ‘It came from here, I expect.’
‘What do you think the men with the lantern were up to?’ Laura then asked.
‘Oh, an interment—or a disinterment,’ Mrs. Bradley replied. ‘I thought it would be a very good idea to find out which. The Chief Constable and his men should be in position by now. I only hope they haven’t frightened our birds away.’
The cheering news that the police had been brought into the adventure reassured Laura. To Mrs. Bradley’s amusement, she stepped out briskly.
They passed the gate which Mrs. Bradley had mentioned, and were soon walking upon turf, for Mrs. Bradley had left the track, and was bearing over to the west towards the barrows.