Viridian Tears (9 page)

Washes of ink from a shaggy ink cap mushroom brought a sense of menace to the drawing. She had precious few tubes in her little art box and she’d forgotten water, so her travel box of pigment pans was all but useless. She’d let it dry and ink over the drawing at home. It was too light as it was and wouldn’t scan well enough for her to embed it in the document otherwise. The cluster of mushrooms on the edge of the track had been a lucky find. Two to eat and one already gone to ink.

She packed up her art supplies and headed back into town. She paused to cut a chunk of honey fungus from the fork of a sycamore at the edge of the wood, inhaling the sweet scent it gave off under her touch. There was a good base meal here. If she could find a few more edible mushrooms she could partake of a veritable feast of nature.

The gloaming was already deepening into twilight when she left the main path and took the smaller track that led to the edge of the wood about a mile north of Laverstone manor. As familiar with them as she was, she had no desire to be in the woods alone after dark. She’d seen too many things that couldn’t be easily explained. Besides, she believed in the spirits of wood and water, the naiads and dryads and the old forest creatures. Just because she’d never seen them with her own eyes didn’t mean they weren’t real.

The track led past the old quarry. Chalk used to be dug from the stone here until the last war when the quarry fell short of able-bodied men and closed. It had become economically impractical after that and had been abandoned, though despite the signs warning of unstable cliffs people still came her to look for fossils.

A small fire sputtered in a ring of stones and she detoured to see who’d lit it. The figure working by its light sat on a tree trunk, using a small blade to chip away pieces of chalk from a fist-sized lump. A short distance away a tarpaulin was rigged up over sticks and branches. A makeshift tent for when the weather got too bad.

He looked up as Meinwen approached, his eyes glinting from a face so full of whiskers he could have been a badger in an army greatcoat, though to be fair a badger would have smelled a lot better. “Miss Jones, is it? I thought you’d be along here today.”

“You did no such thing, Joseph.” She held her hands over the flames to warm them. “You just want me to think you did.”

“I did though.”

“And now you’re going to ask me for sixpence.”

“Sixpence? Aye. A sixpence wouldn’t go amiss, though a pound or two would be equally welcome.” He grinned at her, his teeth flashing in the light of the fire. “Mebbe a few more an’ all.”

“A few more? Why? What have you found?”

“Ammonite.” Joseph held up the stone he’d been working, a perfect fossil emerging chip by laborious chip. Extracting it would take a trained museum curator weeks with a delicate set of tools but all it took Joseph was a couple of hours and pocket knife. “You’ll want that, I reckon, for your shop.”

“I will.” Meinwen leaned forward to study it. It was a remarkable specimen, four inches across and with the delicate tracery of sutures where the inner chamber walls met the outer shell. Even in the firelight she could see shades of patterning. “That looks to be a lovely one.”

“Ar. Fifty pounds or I’m a Welshman.”

“You’re clearly not Welsh,
cariad
.” Meinwen smiled. “Fifty it is then. Drop it by tomorrow?”

“If I’ve got time, ar.” Joseph fumbled at his feet and pulled something from the small pile of stones and stone chips. He had a knack of knowing which lumps of rock had fossils concealed inside and made an adequate living for his limited needs. “I’ve got this an’ all. I reckon it might be worth more n’ the fossil to the right person.”

“What is it?” Meinwen reached across the fire again, her hand out for the object. One of the sticks in the fire collapsed sending a shower of sparks upward. She gave a shriek as they caught in her hair, each spark sending up a tiny flame across the surface as it burned. She danced away, holding her head forward so the locks of gray-flecked red hung where she could smother them between her hands.

Joseph had stood and hovered at the edge of the fire. “What should I do? What should I do?”

She continued batting at her hair for some time after the flames had gone out, in case she’d missed a stray spark. The stench of singed hair filled the clearing. “It’s okay. I got them all, I think.”

“Ah. I can’t see no twinkles.” Joseph returned to his seat. “Happen you’ll be more careful around fires in future, eh?”

“I’ve always been careful around fires.” Meinwen came around the flames to his side. “Goodness knows what damage has been done. I shall have to wait till I get home to see.”

“It’ll be fine.” Joseph still held the object he’d been about to give her and was turning it over and over in his hands. It glinted at every revolution, reflecting the fire from a metal surface.

“What were you about to show me?” Meinwen held her hand out again. “I can see it’s metal.”

“Antique, mebbe.” He dropped it into her palm. It was the length of her forefinger and about half the diameter. A series of metal bars pierced the shaft at one end and the other was surmounted by a circle with an eye inside. The eye had a shorter rod bisecting it. “A key, I reckon.”

“A key to what?” Meinwen held it as close to the fire as she dared. It weighed as much as a bank bag full of pennies and seemed to be made of iron.

“Don’t know. If I knew that I would have used it, wouldn’t I?” He chuckled and held his hand out for its return.

Meinwen surrendered it with reluctance. “What do you want for it?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll ruminate on it.” He slipped the key in an inside pocket somewhere and drew out a plastic pouch of tobacco.

Meinwen straightened. “You’ll give me first refusal on it?”

“Aye, why wouldn’t I?” He patted her nearest leg. “You’ve always been fair to me, even when others wouldn’t. You’ve always given me a fair price for anything I find, an’ all. I check, you know. I walk past your shop and see how much you’re selling things for.”

“I didn’t know.” Meinwen smiled. “I have to add some on for myself and the rent on the shop.”

“I know that. I’ve no complaints.”

“Good.” Meinwen remembered her phone. “Would you mind if I took a picture of the key? I’ll try to research what it’s for. It might give an indication of it’s value, though I’m not promising anything. Where did you find it?”

Joseph’s eyes narrowed and he began mumbling to himself. Meinwen was too polite to eavesdrop though she couldn’t help overhearing the word ‘trucks’ several times. “By the canal,” he eventually admitted. “Not saying where.” He put his tobacco pouch down and took out the key again, snatching it away when Meinwen reached for it. “No more touching. Take your photograph.” He held his hand out flat, the key across it.

Meinwen slid open the lens cover and held out her phone. It clicked and Joseph snatched his hand away as if it had been bitten. “There. Done. You have your photograph. Now go and research it.”

“But the flash didn’t go off.” Meinwen examined the image on her phone screen. Despite the lack of flash she was sure she could fiddle with the image on her laptop.

“You go now.” Joseph had picked up his pouch again made shooing motions with it.

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Mebbe tomorrow. Mebbe next day.” Joseph returned to his ammonites as if he’d dismissed her from his thoughts already.

Meinwen nodded and picked up her bag, leaving Joseph and the clearing behind. He was one of the colorful locals the police always referred to when criticized for the number of homeless in Laverstone. He had somewhere to live, a disused railway carriage on the siding at Denholm Lane, though he was more often off camping in the woods than at home in his carriage. The council made annual attempts to offer him a flat or a place at one of the sheltered housing units but he always declined and they assuaged their guilt about him by supplying him with fresh blankets and food drops once a week. There was reputedly a nephew, somewhere, but no one had ever seen him. Few people even knew his last name.

Meinwen crossed Pettin’s Field by way of the public footpath over the barrow and the stile into Quarry Lane. She could have followed the lane all the way from where Joseph was camped, but it traversed the head of the quarry and would have added twenty minutes to her journey. Pettin’s Field was an easy shortcut if barrow wights weren't a concern.

Quarry Lane led into Quarry Bank and she stumped along, loosening her coat despite the deepening sky. After the morning rain the air was heavy with damp and her vigorous walk through the woods had left her hot and sweaty. A left turn took her into Gaunt's Lane and toward Winston’s garage. Just the spot for a personal thank you for helping her new friend and a cup of tea. She could use his bathroom, too. She didn’t mind going in the woods but the comfort of indoor plumbing was worth holding a full bladder for.

Chapter 9

Meinwen stepped gingerly through the front yard of Winston’s garage. She didn’t generally mind mud but the building site had more in common with the Somme than with the garage she remembered. The clusters of rusted and decaying cars had gone, replaced by an expanse of concrete and a series of low walls made of concrete blocks. The original building, made of timber and metal sheets with corrugated iron roofing still stood, though Winston had shown her the plans and it would be demolished and rebuilt when the new section had been completed. The only thing that would remain when the building work was finished was the huge radio mast occupying one fenced-off corner of the yard. It had stood since the seventies, at first a booster for the burgeoning Citizen’s Band radio enthusiasm, then for the exponential growth of mobile phones in the nineties. Red lights blinked on the top, though no airplane ever flew that low.

A light shone under the door and she hurried toward it, avoiding the larger puddles highlighted by their oily sheen of reflected streetlights. The door was, like the rest of the building, painted a deep British racing green with ‘Gaunt's Garage’ in friendly letters that made her think of ice-cream in fifties-style diners. She knocked, waited a moment and knocked again. When she still didn’t hear a reply she tried the door and since it was unlocked, stepped inside.

She could see Winston’s legs sticking out from beneath a car, an inspection light underneath throwing grotesque shadows across the garage. She put her art bag down next to a red tool chest and squatted next to his feet. She waited to see if he noticed she was there before she ventured to tap his leg.

He gave a strangled yelp and pushed himself out on a small flat inspection trolley. He relaxed when he saw who it was and pulled off a pair of earbuds. “Hello, love. I wasn’t expecting anyone this late.”

“Sorry. I was passing. I did knock.”

“Didn’t hear you.” He did a sit-up into a squat and rose to his feet. “Want a cuppa?”

“Sure, thanks.” Meinwen gave him a crooked smile. “Mind if I use the little girl’s room first? I’m bursting.”

“Sure.” He waved in the general direction. “I wasn’t expecting company, though, so there’s no scented paper.”

“That’s okay.” Meinwen went to the smallest room and opened the door with some degree of trepidation. The room was utilitarian at best, nestled against an outside wall with just a grill for ventilation. It smelled of stale urine, mud and motor oil, though as least it was well lit and, best of all, had a supply of soft toilet paper.

She tore off two squares and used it to wipe the seat before she dared sit on it. After that it was a case of emptying her bladder as quickly as possible, washing her hands in freezing water in the tiny sink and getting out before she gagged. She did have a moment to gaze at the house spider on the opposite wall and wonder if the toilet was preferable to wherever it had come from.

“Here’s your tea.” Winston gestured to a mug with the mane of a toolmaker on the side. “I wasn’t sure how you liked it so I put in milk and a sugar. I hope that was okay.”

Meinwen was torn between being a good guest and being honest. She decided on the former. “Certainly, thank you.” She picked up the mug and tried not to think about the layers of oil, fingerprints, lip prints, tea drips and tannin coating the mug. And that was the outside. “Cheers.”

Winston spotted her hesitation. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Cheers.” Winston raised his equally resplendent mug and took a sip. “Now then, you haven’t dropped in just to sample the delicacy of garage tea, have you? What can I do you for?”

“Actually, I was passing the end of the road and thought I’d drop in to thank you for your help in digging the grave this morning.”

Winston frowned. “What grave?”