He drank, remembered that he must eat and found a pork pie in the glove compartment. Dryden watched as a gaggle of schoolchildren emerged from the sulphurous, pale purple mist, heading for an early school bus to Cambridge. Humph swished the wipers so they could see the bus arrive, its decks lit and crowded with pale, vacant faces.
‘See you later,’ said Dryden, unfolding his long frame in a series of awkward, rheumatoid creaks before vanishing into the fog. Humph’s eyelids closed instantly, and he dreamt of exercise, his most familiar nightmare, pounding along in jogger’s pants as the cars, tantalizingly close, swished by on the tarmac.
The Crow’s lights were on and Jean was mopping the lino in the reception area. Dryden tiptoed over the wet floor without being heard, not a difficult feat in this case, and ran up the wooden steps to the newsroom, attempting to counteract extreme fatigue with physical action. He felt light-headed and heroic, a very dangerous combination which to the untutored could look like courage.
The office was deserted. He switched on the radio and caught the local news – they had the murder, but only the briefest details. He tried his answerphone. There was one message: ‘Hello. I’m not sure why I should be making this call. You owe me nothing, Mr Dryden. It’s just that today – I’m sorry, its Vee Hilgay – yes, as I say, today the council is going to send round the bailiffs. I’m to be rehoused, as they put it, in a home in the town centre. I’ve been to see it: a warehouse for the dying. I won’t go. Russell said you might be able to do something – or at least embarrass them by showing up. It’s all very civilized – 10.00am sharp – final payment in full the only remedy. I’m the best part of £1,600 short so I think we can rule that out. Yes.’ There was long pause. ‘Goodbye, Mr Dryden.’
Dryden checked his watch: 8.05am. He logged on to his PC and opened his e-mails. He recognized the press release immediately by the name of the sender: ‘Speedwing’ was the assumed name of the leader of the local New Age activists, most of whom lived in the narrowboats which crowded the damp banks of the river out on Padnal Fen. The locals had tagged them ‘Water Gypsies’, jealous of their freedom and always eager to add to the list of lurid stories which embellished their sex lives. Dryden, who after Laura’s accident had spent more than a few happy nights in their mildly narcotic company, reported their campaigns with enthusiasm, even if the editor insisted the stories were kept downpage. One of the water gypsies in particular, Etterley Foggit, had caught his eye. He had so far resisted Etty’s frank offers of solace and sex, although he enjoyed the sporadic courtship.
‘Stop the desecration!’ read the press release headline. Dryden braced himself for the usual pot-pourri of mangled syntax, misdirected rage and faulty history. He didn’t have the time, or the energy, for the Water Gypsies, but something made him read on…
Archaeologists working on the edge of Ely have found an Anglo-Saxon burial site and are secretly desecrating this ancient shrine in their hunt for treasure.
They have refused to publicize the finds – which point to the site at the old PoW camp being used as a chariot burial for an Anglo-Saxon prince or princess – to avoid alerting local opposition.
Don’t let them get away with it!
The Druidical Council has met and decided to call on all those who wish to protect the spirits of the dead to assemble at the site this Thursday – 28 October – when there will be a total eclipse of the moon.
A silent vigil will be held throughout the night and our representatives will attempt to persuade those working on the burial site to join us and abandon this act of vandalism.
Supporters should assembly at 10.00pm by The Cutter Inn. More details from speedwing@ hotmail.com
‘Shit!’ said Dryden, attempting to coax the office coffee machine into action with a sharp blow to its electrics. There was a buzzing sound and his cup filled.
He was annoyed with himself for sitting on the story of the chariot burial. As it had turned out the Express would be far more interested in the archaeologist’s murder than his latest find, but if he hadn’t held back Dryden could have got the story in the previous week’s paper. He wondered how the news had got out, and recalled that several of the diggers in The Frog Hall had worn New Age badges, but it was never a secret that was destined to be kept, something he should have realized at the time. The demonstration was unlikely to materialize as most of Speedwing’s escapades began and ended at the bar of The Cutter Inn. But he would have sent the press release to most news outlets in the region, so Dryden now had no choice but to slip the story of the chariot burial into his main piece on the murder.
Vee Hilgay’s eviction worried him more. He could offer to pay himself, but felt the gesture would be rejected and smacked of charity. And there would be more bills, and the responsibility of paying them. But if he could find the missing Dadd her troubles were over. He felt sure Serafino Amatista had died holding the painting, but he was no nearer finding out where it was today. Had Valgimigli died for it? Did the £im price-tag explain his brutal murder?
Dryden text messaged The Crow’s resident photographer Mitch Mackintosh, giving him the time and the address for the planned eviction.
He checked further down his e-mails and saw Laura’s name immediately. Twice. Guilt swept over him, a familiar sensation which he had become suspiciously adept at ignoring. He’d planned to visit The Tower, but an evening in The Frog Hall had led him to California and Professor Valgimigli’s butchered corpse.
He opened the first she’d sent. It was brief, but with three attachments.
HI. SEE THESF. L X.
The first attachment was an online cutting from the Cambridge Evening News of June 1942. It was a story on wartime food shortages and plans to boost potato production in the Fens. Dryden read it three times but could see nothing of significance. He closed it down, guessing that Laura had accidentally downloaded the wrong cutting, a mistake she had made before in e-mails. He checked the clock, aware he was short of time, unable to suppress his impatience.
He nearly didn’t bother with the second attachment.
It was from the Cambridge Evening News again, a single-column story from the front page, 18 August 1943. The three-deck headline was redolent of pre-tabloid journalism.
HOUSE THIEVES STRIKE AGAIN LEAVING POLICE BAFFLED
Fourth country house falls victim to gang operating in our region
Detectives unable to stop spate of raids, appeal for public vigilance
By Our Own Staff
Burglars ransacked Southery Hall, north of Ely, on Saturday night and got away with a haul of silver plate, jewellery and cash, according to police at Cambridge.
The raid is the fourth in the area in eighteen months in which country houses have been the target and where police suspect the thieves had intimate knowledge of the interior layout of the estate and buildings.
A ladder was found beneath a window above the servants’ block which was regularly left open to air laundry. A gun dog was found poisoned on the lawns of the hall, the home of the Rt Hon. George Riding QC.
Southery Hall hosted the annual harvest festival ball on Saturday night and it is understood the thieves entered the estate shortly after the last guests left at 1.00am.
‘We are determined to apprehend these criminals who have preyed on houses where the normal security arrangements have been relaxed in the interests of boosting agricultural production for the war effort, and where large numbers of regular staff are now serving in His Majesty’s armed forces,’ said Detective Inspector Archibald Wigg.