Dead Ground in Between (2 page)

He pulled out his handkerchief and spread it on the ground. Tenderly, as if it were a wounded bird, he lifted out the pot, which was heavy, and placed it on the handkerchief. The wafer-thin coins were stuck together but not hard to pull apart. One by one, he began to count them. On some of them, he could just make out the dates. One roll was from the time of Elizabeth Regina. The latest had the date 1643 and the head of Charles I stamped on one side.

He scratched at the back of his mind, trying to recall dry-as-dust history lessons in school. English Civil War. Roundheads and Cavaliers.

Jasper wiped his wet face now with the back of his sleeve. He started to retrace his steps. There. He was on the right track again. He hadn't gone too far out of his way after all. His lantern showed him the entrance to the barnyard. He knew exactly where he was going to hide his box. But wait. Didn't the
POWS
sleep in the barn sometimes? Were they still here?
Perhaps they'd gone back home to Italy. He couldn't remember if peace had been declared. Somebody had died in that war. His mother had cried for days. Or was it Grace who had wept and wailed? No, it wasn't her. He was fairly sure his son was alive. He'd seen him recently.

He hadn't seen at first that there was gold amidst the silver. He kept back three coins from the pot; one gold, two silver. They felt as smooth and silky as if the metal were the pelt of a little animal.

He replaced all the remaining coins in the pot and returned it to its shallow burial place, covering it again. He'd have to think about what do. It was his treasure, nobody else's.

Ollie shook his harness and whinnied. He probably wanted to get back to his stable. Jasper stood still. He mustn't forget where the treasure was buried. He had to register his bearings. “Whoa,” he called to the horse, and he walked over to one of the big hawthorns that stood at each corner of the field. With the eastern one as his marker he strode off forty paces. Back to the midpoint, twenty paces. Clee Hill at his back to the north. The soil where he'd buried the pot was a raw circle. He reached it in exactly ten paces forward in a straight line.

Not bothering to finish the ploughing, he guided his horse out of the field. He kept repeating the measurements to himself so he wouldn't forget. He'd have to think about what to do next. He must find Grace and tell her. She'd know what to do.

A sudden gust of wind slapped at Jasper's cheeks, driving the rain into his face. Where was his cap? Had he worn it when he'd left the farmhouse, or had it blown away along the road? Water was dripping down his nose. He was so cold.

It was because of Susan that he'd decided to move his treasure box. He knew she liked to snoop in his room. Claimed she needed to clean, but he knew that wasn't the truth.

Jasper thought of the case as his treasure box but it contained private things rather than things of value in the world. The medal he'd won as a boy for perfect attendance at Sunday school. A photograph of Grace taken just before they married: she was standing at a trestle table holding a large soup ladle, in front of her a bowl of some kind. A church picnic, probably. He'd put the picture and the medal together with the leather collar from his old beloved dog, Moss, into the case. He had taken some scraps of silk from Grace's sewing box and kept them to wrap his special things, like his wife's wedding ring. He'd added to it from time to time. Things he found in the fields, mostly. Stones that were beautifully marked. A man's steel watch with the time forever stopped at a quarter past eleven. It wasn't expensive, by the look of it, but he liked it, liked the solidity, the clarity of the numbers.

Now he chose a piece of blue silk, wrapped the gold coin, and put it in the box. The silver coin he'd put in his handkerchief and shoved it into his pocket. He'd find a hiding place for it. He vaguely recalled he'd taken three coins from the little pot. Was there a third somewhere? Another silver one? He must have dropped it.

Another gust of wind almost blew him over and he had to bend double. Somehow, he seemed to have gotten lost. He must have turned left at the farmyard gate instead of right. He was already soaked through, his hair plastered to his face. “You'll catch your death of cold.” That's what Grace always said if he was running out without his cap or his muffler. “You'll catch your death, Jasper,” she said. “Then what will happen to me? I have no desire to be a widow.”

But she'd gone first, and it was him who was left alone.

Where was she? Would she be at the farmhouse waiting with a towel she'd warmed at the fire and a pot of soup on the hob, the way she usually did on winter days when he came in from the fields? She'd be at the window. “You're soaking wet, Jasper. A dog has more sense. Come in out of the rain this minute.”

He should turn back. He could hide the box tomorrow.

His stash had grown steadily since Grace had died, but after Susan and John had come to live with him he'd kept his box hidden. His daughter-in-law would throw everything away as rubbish, he thought resentfully. He wasn't going to let her, no siree. He'd better return to the house or else Susan would scold him. She could be sharp with her tongue, that woman could. Most folks thought she was sweet as pie – John was lucky, they said – but Jasper knew better. He knew what she was really like. And she never made soup that he liked. Tasteless most of the time.

Thank goodness, here was the gate. He shoved it open and trudged across the yard to the house. He turned the doorknob. It was locked. Was it not his house, then? Had he accidentally gone to the Mohan house down the road? No, that was smaller than his, and their door was green. He remembered that. He knocked. No answer. Again, this time so hard he hurt his knuckles. Nobody stirred. He stopped. Susan would be angry if he woke her up.

The wind worried at his ears. Angry wind. He might as well go to the barn. It was always warm in there with the cows. But had he brought them in from the fields?

He must have. It was winter now.

Wait till he showed Grace the coins. She'd be thrilled about the treasure too. They wouldn't tell the landlord. He'd want to take it for himself. But Jasper wouldn't let him. It was his. He found it. Worked hard for it.

He plodded back to the gate.
Go right
. He continued on down the road as far as the barn, a darker mass against the night. Not far. His lantern swung in the wind as if he were on a ship.
The ship of life
, he thought to himself.
I'm being carried along by the sea. There are dangers all around. Vicious creatures from the depths. Pirates, always pirates. But the harbour is in sight. Grace will be waiting for me. She always is
.

He lifted the bar and pushed open the barn door. It was dark inside, but the warmth and shelter reached out to welcome him. The reassuring smell of the cattle.

Somebody called out. “Who's there? Who's that? Identify yourself.”

S
AM
W
ICKERS OPENED THE BEDROOM DOOR TO THE
sound of the alarm clock shrilling away unheeded. Sam and Tim had a small room at the back of the Mohan house. There was only one sagging double bed, which they had to share, and the meagre furniture was scruffy, but boarding with Mrs. Mohan suited them.

He walked over to the alarm clock and switched it off. Then he leaned over Tim and shook his shoulder, hard.

“Come on. Get up. We've promised rabbits to at least six people and we don't want to disappoint them.”

“Sod them,” muttered the other man, opening one eye. “It's not even bleeding daylight yet. How come you're dressed already?”

Sam pulled away the blankets. “Get up! Now!”

Tim curled up tighter. “Please, Sam. I can't go. My ankle's killing me. I can't even get my boot on. Let me sleep just a bit longer.”

Sam stood over him for a moment. “All right, you lazy sod. I'll give you half an hour. I'll go and lay the nets. But when I get back, no mithering or moaning. You'd better be ready to go.”

“I will,” muttered Tim. “I promise.”

“Half an hour. That's all. Don't forget we've got to show our ugly mugs in court later this morning.”

But his pal had already fallen back to sleep.

Sam paused for a moment to listen. Mrs. Mohan was elderly and slept in the front room of the farmhouse as she had trouble with the stairs. She was also hard of hearing, which made their
coming and going in the wee hours of the night much easier. Mrs. Mohan didn't seem to be stirring yet.

Sam left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Tyler woke too early, unrefreshed and miserable. He'd hardly slept at all. Painful, angry dreams had tossed him around.
Storm outside, storm inside
was how he thought about it. The gale had worsened, and you could sail a ship in the draft coming in around the window frame. His bedroom was freezing. He'd slept in his socks and dressing gown and was reluctant to leave the snug warmth of his bed. But as soon as consciousness came flooding in, all he could think about was Clare's letter.
Give your love to somebody else
. How could she say that? If she had offered him words of love he would have waited till hell froze over. But she hadn't. Sure, it was hard, but thousands of people were going through separations. You just got on with things, and you waited. After a while the pain numbed. The ache in the arms at night subsided. That was how Tyler had been dealing with missing Clare for the last two years.

She's right, you know
, whispered a traitorous voice in his head.
It's been too long
.

She might never be able to come back to him. Who knew how the war would end? Who would die and who would live? Then what? He didn't think he was cut out for permanent bachelorhood. But who could ever replace his love? The girl he had fallen for when they were children together. She'd left him once before, and he'd bounced into a marriage doomed from the start to be unhappy. Then, for a brief, brief, glorious season two years ago, she'd returned. To his arms, to his bed. A tantalizingly short time together.

Give your love to somebody else
. Yeah? Who? Who could replace Clare?

He slid out of bed. Christ, it was perishing. Usually he heard the friendly sounds of his sergeant as Rowell trotted around the kitchen preparing breakfast, but not even that early bird was up yet. Tyler knew he was getting spoiled. Every morning, Rowell made the toast, had the kettle on the boil ready for tea. Almost as good as a wife but without the intimacy of sex. Sex! He'd practically forgotten what that was like.
Give your love to somebody else
. At this moment, it almost felt like good advice.

He hopped over to the window, his toes curling against the cold of the linoleum, and pulled back the blackout curtain. Rain fell in sheets past the window. He wondered if the weather was this bad where Clare was. Probably not. Probably Switzerland was bright and sunny with a blue sky and crisp white snow. If that's where she was. He didn't even know that for sure. She might have been reassigned to another country. She might even have been back in England and just not able to tell him. Perhaps the truth was that her love had died, and this dismissal was just a ploy to get him off her conscience.

No, in spite of his distress, he believed the letter. He trusted in Clare's loyalty. For whatever reasons, she was pretty sure she wouldn't be coming back for a very long time.

He leaned his forehead against the icy windowpane. He hoped she was at least safe.
Give your love to somebody else
. How the hell could he do that unless he knew what had happened to her? He dropped the curtain and skittered to the wardrobe. Might as well get dressed and make himself useful.

Not for the first time, he made a mental note to do something about cheering up his living quarters. His bedroom was pretty basic in terms of furnishings, but he'd hung up two pictures after he'd moved in. One was a photograph of Jimmy and Janet taken on the boardwalk at Rhyl, where they'd all gone
for a holiday one summer. They were skinny kids in bathing suits, sand still clinging to their legs. Jimmy had lost his front teeth but it didn't stop him grinning like a Cheshire cat. They were happy.

The other was an oil painting he'd discovered in the Whitchurch market two years ago. It was a portrait of Clare done by an artist she'd met in Europe. He'd bought it on the spot when he'd recognized her. Moving into this house had given him his first opportunity to actually hang it. He regarded it for a moment. Perhaps he should take it down, stuff it in the wardrobe. Why torment himself?

Tim awoke with a start. The oil lamp was lit, and he could make out Sam on his hands and knees on the floor.

“What're you doing?”

“I decided to check our earnings,” said Sam. He slipped the chamber pot out from under the bed.

They never used it for its intended purpose but kept it to hold the profits from their little business. Mrs. Mohan never came into their room, and wouldn't have checked the chamber pot if she had. Sam removed the lid and upended the contents on the coverlet.

“Do you want to count it, Timmy, or shall I?”

“You. I trust you.”

Sam glared at him. “What do you mean, you trust me? What the hell do you think I'm going to do? Slip a couple of shillings into my pocket?”

Tim raised his hands in a placating manner. “Keep your shirt on. I was only joking. Go ahead and count away. Shall I get up?”

“In a minute.”

“Did you lay the nets?”

Sam shook his head. “No, I didn't. The wind was too fierce. It'll need both of us.”

He stirred the pile of notes and coins in the pot. Tim pulled the blanket up under his chin for warmth and watched.

“Ten pounds all told. Well, ten pounds, two shillings, and ten pence. Mrs. Cooper gave us a shilling tip, she was so pleased with that big buck we sold her.”

Tim peered at the money. “What we going to do with it all?”

“I've been thinking,” answered Sam. “I know I said we could save it to start our own business, but I've changed my mind.”

Tim frowned. “Not again.”

Sam began to gather the notes together. “We'll buy a car first. How can we be proper businessmen without a car? Now would be a very good time to buy us a car. There's dozens of them these days sitting up on blocks getting rusty. People would be more than happy for us to take them off their hands. Some poor widow, for instance, whose old man has kicked the bucket, and she don't know what to do with that darned old Bentley sitting in the garage.” He raised his voice into a falsetto. “ ‘Of course you nice boys can have it.' ” He knuckled his forehead ingratiatingly. “ ‘Thank you, missus. There's an awful lot wrong with it but I'll give you a fair price.' ‘Oh I know you will. You have such an honest face.' ”

“Bollocks,” snorted Tim. “Nobody's going to do that. It'll cost a lot more than ten quid.”

“We'll get it.”

“We won't get permission to drive.”

Sam returned the money to the chamber pot and shoved it back under the bed.

“Leave it to me. There are ways.”

Tim laughed. “And you knows all of them, don't you?”

Sam punched his pal on the arm, not too gently. “Good thing for you I do. You'd be as good as an unweaned calf without its teat if it weren't for me. Now come on. We can't stay out too long, we've got to be in court at ten o'clock.”

Tim swung his feet out of bed and tentatively stood up. “Ow.”

“Don't be such a baby. It's sprained, not amputated.”

Tim hobbled over to the chair where he'd piled his clothes the night before and, shivering, started to get dressed.

“Shite. I hope we don't get a fine. You should have kept your temper, Sam.”

“It was that bleeding pansy of a constable that got my goat. He could have looked the other way. We weren't doing nothing.”

Tim grimaced. “I suppose you might say that. If you discount what we'd got hidden in our baskets.”

“Good thing the stupid ponce didn't think to look. He was just too excited at writing down my naughty words.”

Tim pulled his heavy jersey over his head, muffling his voice. “You're a misery this morning, Sam. What's the matter? Her husband come home early, did he?”

“None of your business,” snapped Sam.

Tim emerged from the jersey. “Pardon me for asking. I'm your pal, don't forget.” He dragged his boots out from underneath the chair and gingerly pushed his right foot into one, wincing as he did. He stood up. “Right, I'm ready.”

The wind pounced on them as soon as they stepped out the door.

It was pitch-dark. It could have been the middle of the night. Sometimes when they went out on mornings like this, Sam fantasized that the world had stopped turning and there would never be daylight again. Perpetual darkness. Wicked
things happened in the darkness. That's when animals killed their prey.

“Blimey, it's a bloody gale,” said Tim.

There was a large rabbit warren in the copse that ran from the crest of the rise along the north perimeter of the Cartwright farm. Tim and Sam had been there before but, according to Tim, rabbits reproduced at such a rate that there was an almost endless supply for the picking.

“It's good to keep them culled. Makes the survivors healthy and stronger,” he said solemnly. “It's a rule of nature.”

Sam snorted. “If it's a rule of nature, it should apply to people as well, but I can't say I've noticed. Healthy men are being killed off by the hundreds, and them that's left don't seem stronger. The opposite. They's all old and decrepit.”

Tim thought for a moment. “But that includes us, and we ain't old and decrepit.”

Sam switched on his torch and led the way to the disused shed where they kept their ferrets. They both suspected Mrs. Mohan knew they kept the animals in there, and why, but she had never challenged them. If a rabbit appeared as a special gift for her to make into a stew, she accepted their feeble explanations. They'd come across the poor thing out in the field. A dog had got to it and they'd put it out of its misery. At least four such unfortunates had come to that end while they had been staying there. She didn't question them, just made tutting sounds at the disgraceful behaviour of the dogs that the farmers insisted on keeping.

Sam pushed open the shed door. The strong smell of the ferrets sailed out at them. They had three, a hob and two jills. One of the jills was pure white and a good hunter. Tim took her out of the pen and dangled her in his hands.

“How's my girl, then? Ready to go and chase some little bunnies for your dad?”

“Weeping Jesus,” said Sam. “One of these days, the bloody thing is going to answer you.”

“Ferrets are sensitive. They pick up mood just the way dogs do.”

“Well, I'm rapidly getting into a bad one, so get a move on.”

“I think Snowflake should stay at home. She's been off her feed a bit.”

“She's probably knocked up again. Mr. Blizzard there is as randy as a goat…or a ferret. He won't stop until he keels over.”

Tim returned the jill to the cage. “You might be right. I'll give her the time off. She can put her feet up.”

“Lord help me,” said Sam. “Will you please hurry up?”

Tim removed the brown male and put it in its carrying box. The remaining ferret reared on its hind legs, its nose twitching.

“You want to come, Digger?” Tim said. “All right then.”

He stroked its long back gently then placed it in the other box.

“Let's go. Bunnies, prepare to meet your Maker.”

Even though it was only a local court and dealt with lesser offences, the courtroom was intended to intimidate. It had been built at least four hundred years ago, when peasants knew their place and were made to realize the power and majesty of the law. The panelled walls were dark with age, the wooden benches shiny from use. The magistrates' seats were on an elevated platform, and the bench in front of them was massive and solid. Behind them, high on the wall, was the county coat of arms, and next to that a large clock.
Tempus fugit. And don't you miscreants forget it
.

Below the platform sat the two clerks of the court. The courtroom was not much warmer than the police station and
one of them looked quite padded. Tyler thought he was probably wearing a wool jersey or two underneath his official black gown. The other clerk was a woman. The two could have been related, Tyler thought, both elderly, both grey-haired and rather stooped. She was typing rapidly. Facing all of them was the defendants' dock, lower than the magistrates', of course.

Tyler had been directed to a bench at the side of the room, positioned close to the magistrates – he was an upholder of the law, after all. This was where the plaintiffs and any witnesses sat. Across from them were two more benches for those who were up on a charge.