We sat and listened to the rain falling on the roof. The smell of wet grass came up through the floorboards. Mr. Brown was sitting with his elbows resting on his knees.
“I wonder if I might ask a question, Mrs. Pretty,” he said.
“By all means.”
“It’s just — it’s just that I can’t help thinking, why now?”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“Well, I’m wondering to myself why you want the mounds excavated now. After all, it’s not as if you’ve just arrived here, or anything like that.”
As soon as he had finished speaking he glanced away. I suspected he thought he might have overstepped the mark.
“You are quite right, of course,” I said. “I often discussed it with my late husband. It was a subject that greatly interested us both. But unfortunately he died before we were able to make a start. Then, after he died, I found that it did not seem appropriate somehow. As for what changed my mind, I can only say that I felt that if I did not do it now, then it might be too late.”
He nodded several times. Slowly, the sound of the rain died away. When it had stopped completely, he said, “Shall we go outside and take a look?”
The air was warm and humid. Steam was already rising from the mounds and the surrounding fields. In places, the rain had beaten the barley flat, the stalks snapped through. The expanses of exposed earth were dotted about with brown puddles.
We stepped around the puddles, scattering rabbits as we went, and walked over to the largest of the mounds. It rose before us, a good four or five feet taller than the others, with a bulkier, much less graceful shape.
“I know you’ve always fancied this one, Mrs. Pretty.”
“Yes, but plainly there is no point in excavating it if you are sure it has already been robbed.”
“Even so, let’s have another look, shall we?”
As he had done on our first meeting together, Mr. Brown ran up the side of the mound, his feet sliding on the wet grass. When he had reached the summit, he stood there, looking down, with his hands on his hips. Then, as before, he vanished. Just when I was beginning to wonder what had happened to him, he reappeared.
“No, it’s definitely a flute, Mrs. Pretty. Deeper than most too, so it looks as if they must have dug quite a wide shaft.”
He started to come back down. But after only a couple of steps, he stopped. I thought at first that he must have caught his foot in a rabbit hole. Then, turning around, he climbed back up. Once at the top of the mound, he began to pace, very deliberately, around its circumference.
When he did come down, he scarcely looked where he put his feet, slithering the last part of the way. Then he started pacing, just as deliberately, around the base of the mound. First, he went one way and then the other. As he was on his second circuit, I saw that his face had taken on the same pointed look he had had when he found the butcher’s tray. I heard something too: his tongue had begun clicking against the roof of his mouth,
“What is it, Mr. Brown?” I asked.
Instead of answering, he ran back up the mound, remaining there for several minutes with his hand cupping his chin. This time, when he came down again, he did so more slowly. At the bottom he began filling his pipe.
“I suppose you are eventually going to tell me what is on your mind,” I said.
“It may be nothing, Mrs. Pretty. Nothing at all. But I happened to notice that this mound is not symmetrical. If you look down from the top, it’s more obvious than it is here. You’d expect it to be circular, like the others. But it’s not. It’s more oval, like a hog’s back.”
“Is that relevant?”
“All the other mounds are symmetrical. Why not this one?”
“Perhaps whoever constructed it simply made a mistake.”
“Mmm… But that doesn’t make sense, does it? Not if you think about it. This is the biggest mound of all. It’s the only one you can see from the river. Even on a day like today, it’s clearly visible from the opposite bank. Surely they would take more trouble over it. Not less.”
“What is your explanation?”
“Not an explanation, Mrs. Pretty. Just a theory, that’s all. What if the mound was originally symmetrical? At some stage, this land must have been plowed up. After all, everywhere else round here has been. That ditch over there—” he pointed towards the road — “that looks like a medieval field boundary to me. And there’s also another one running along the edge of the wood. What if whoever plowed the land knocked a bit off the mound, as it were. Nobody would have noticed, still less cared. By the time the robbers came along, they would have sunk a shaft into what they thought was the center of the mound. Or so it would have appeared to them. But it might not have been the center at all.”
“Let me make quite sure I understand you, Mr. Brown. You are saying that while the mound has been robbed, or an attempt has been made to rob it, the thieves might have been looking in the wrong place.”
“That’s about the gist of it, yes. Course, I might be wrong.”
“But you might conceivably be right.”
“It’s a possibility,” he allowed.
“I see… But I have told Mr. Reid Moir that you will be free to go to Stanton by the end of the week.”
“We should have an idea by Saturday,” he said. “One way or another.”
“What do you think, then, Mr. Brown? Would you care to attack it?”
He cupped a match over the bowl of his pipe. The tobacco lit with a hiss and he blew out a mouthful of smoke.
“No harm in trying, is there?”
That evening I ate all the food on my plate, as well as a piece of Cheddar cheese afterwards. As Grateley was taking the plate away and after I had asked him to thank Mrs. Lyons, I said, “It has come to my notice that a member of staff has been using one of the bedrooms upstairs.”
He did not falter. “A member of staff, ma’am?”
“Or rather two members of staff.”
“Two members of staff?”
“There is no need to repeat everything I say, Grateley. I do not know who is responsible, nor do I intend to make any effort to find out. However, I do not wish this to happen again. Will you make my feelings on the matter known?”
“Of course. Certainly I will, ma’am.”
With my plate in his hand, he moved across to the sideboard. Before he reached it, I said, “By the way, Grateley, I have not inquired for some time, how is your lumbago?”
He stopped in mid-pace.
“My lumbago? It is very much better, thank you, ma’am.”
“Good. I am pleased to hear that. And do be sure to give my regards to Mrs. Grateley,” I added.
His composure was badly holed by now. “I — I will indeed, ma’am,” he said.
No more hurriedly than usual, although rather less fluently, Grateley gathered up the serving dishes. He disappeared through the swing door with one long leg trailing behind him.
My efforts to find Robert a new governess have proved fruitless. Several of those who had advertised in the newspaper did not even reply when I wrote to them. None of those that did sounded remotely suitable. There are noticeably fewer advertisements than usual for domestic positions; no doubt people are loath to think of new jobs at such a time.
Mr. Brown, I am afraid, has found nothing. Nothing except for a few minute fragments of blue glass and some splinters of bone. These have been packaged up and sent off to the museum in Ipswich for analysis. The work is taking longer than anticipated — due in part to the size of the mound. It has been, he says, like digging into the side of a small mountain.
By the end of the third day it was plain that all three men were not just tired but disillusioned. I noticed they seldom talked to one another any more when they were working. At their break times they sat around looking contemplative and glum. Mr. Brown, in particular, is taking it all personally, plainly feeling that his failure to find anything is a reflection on his competence. As for Jacobs and Spooner, I suspect they cannot wait for Saturday to come around and for the excavation to be over.