Dialogues of the Dead

“Oh yes. And Geoffrey’s father, the famous absentee, would have dearly loved such a good price. He sold off everything he could, but the bulk of the estate land and its properties are entailed. The revenue comes from letting. Now Stangcreek Cottage refurbished and modernized would be a desirable holiday rental, but that costs money and the late lord wasn’t about to spend hard cash on anything but his own interests. What Geoffrey will decide to do remains to be seen, but I think that on the whole he so loves this bit of the estate for his own activities, whether artistic or atavistic, that he won’t want to encourage trippers.”

“Like us, you mean?” said Hat.

“Genuine bird-watchers he doesn’t mind, though it must come as a shock to some of them to see the duck they were just admiring through their glasses explode before their eyes. More tea?”

Hat glanced at Rye, trying desperately not to look too eager to be up and off. She put her mug down and said, “No thanks, Dick. Not for me. I came out to enjoy the fresh air and see some birds, though Hat here might like to hang around in the dry for the rest of the day. He seems to be allergic to water.”

Dick Dee smiled at him. The fact that there was more of sympathy than mockery in the smile didn’t help. He stood up and said brightly, “Ready when you are.”

Outside the rain was no longer dismissable as romantic mist.

Dee said, “Going back along the track, are you?”

“No,” said Hat firmly. “All the way round.”

“Oh. Bit wet along there, you’ll find. And there’s a lot of water in the Creek. You know the crossing, do you?”

“Yes,” said Hat shortly. “No problem.”

“Good. I’ll get back to trying to put an edge on that damn axe. See you tomorrow, Rye.”

“Can’t wait,” grinned Rye, giving him a peck on the cheek.

Hat turned away and set off at a rapid pace. Male chivalry didn’t seem to cut much ice with her so let’s see what a bit of physical equal opportunity did! Behind him he heard the screel of the axe-grinding resume but it was soon drowned in the noise of running waters.

The curve of steep hills to the west formed a natural watershed, funnelling rapid becks down through narrow gills with enough force to continue carving deep passages through the peaty ground levelling off to the tarn. The smaller streams were easily crossable, often with a single step or at most a bit of help from some natural stepping stone, but he deliberately chose a route which required maximum strength and agility. From time to time he glanced back to check Rye’s progress and always found she was matching him stride for stride, so he tried smiling encouragingly in an attempt to imply that he was holding himself in check for her benefit. His reward for such silent braggadocio was just. His foot slipped off a greasy rock into a tumult of icy water and, as his boot filled, she swept past him, laughing, and took the lead. If anything, her chosen route was more difficult than his and soon she’d opened up a gap between them. Eventually, however, not without satisfaction he saw her come to a halt as she reached the bank of Stang Creek itself, the most significant of the many water courses running into the mere. Crossing it was a problem if you didn’t know the exact location of the stepping stones, which weren’t easy to spot, most of them hiding beneath a couple of inches of water, except at times of greatest drought. Your first sight of someone crossing probably got you as close as modern agnosticism could manage to what the disciples felt on the Sea of Galilee after the feeding of the five thousand.

Looking forward to a bit of miracle-making, Hat called out as he approached, “So what’s the hold-up? Top athlete like you, I thought you’d just leap across.”

She turned to look at him and he immediately regretted his frivolous words. Her face was set, her eyes wide and startled. After her previous showing he couldn’t understand why such a small obstacle should cause such a strong reaction, but he hurried forward to reassure her there really wasn’t any problem.

Before he could speak she pointed and said, “Hat …down there …”

He looked downstream, his brain anticipating a distressed animal …a fox with a gangrenous trapped leg perhaps …or a drowned sheep …

And at first he saw nothing.

Then he made it out.

In the water, mostly submerged, held by the fast moving current against the hidden stepping stones over which he had planned to run so miraculously, was a body.

Or perhaps it wasn’t a body. The eye is easily deceived. Perhaps it was just some green plastic farm-feed bag, blown here by the autumn gales, bulked out by trapped air and floating vegetation.

He ran along the bank, hoping to be able to turn to Rye and with his laughter at her error bring the colour back to her face. But as he stepped out along the hidden stones and bent down for a closer look, he saw there was no cause for laughter here.

Rye was on the bank alongside him.

He looked up at her and said warningly, “I’m going to pull it out.”