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‘That’s what she said. She said he sounded agitated and he said, ‘it was by the gate’. Or something like that.’
‘By the gate?’ repeats Nelson. ‘Why must that man always talk in riddles? But this is good. We know where he was at midday on Friday, at least. And we can check the caller ID records on this woman’s phone. I’ll get the tech boys onto it. You keep on with the house-to-house, Lucy. See if anyone else spotted a wandering druid.’
Every time Nelson calls Lucy by her first name, she blushes. He hopes she gets over this habit soon.
‘What do you want me to do?’ asks Bradley.
‘I’ve got a disembodied hand for you to visit,’ says Nelson.
Chapter 22
Ruth tries to make an adventure of it. She packs sandwiches and promises Kate a picnic. She parks the car by the verge and they walk up the rutted track to the church.
‘Peddars Way, it’s called,’ she tells Kate. ‘That means someone who travels around selling things. It’s where we get the word peddler.’
‘I’ve never heard that word,’ says Kate. She’s still inclined to be grumpy. Ruth hopes that the beauty of the day, the sky bright blue, the cow parsley foaming in the hedgerows, will work its magic. She’s not holding her breath, though.
‘It was probably a Roman road once,’ she says, almost to herself. The path is quite steep now. Who says there are no hills in Norfolk?
The church appears through the trees. It looks solid and respectable, a typical parish church. Yet Ruth remembers Cathbad telling her that, when it was discovered in 1992 by a man called Bob Davey, the building was simply a mound covered in ivy, windowless and roofless. Even now, it’s not a consecrated place of worship. The villagers that once attended services are all dead and their cottages have disappeared, their bricks taken for farm buildings. St Mary’s was brought back to life by Bob and is sustained by a group of volunteers. According to Cathbad, the Church of England doesn’t contribute.
Ruth doesn’t expect that the door will be open, but the handle turns easily and she and Kate are inside, blinking in the sap-scented gloom.
‘What’s that on the walls?’ says Kate. Her voice is full of awe and Ruth is pleased that the church is having the same effect on her daughter that it did on her.
‘Paintings,’ she says. ‘They’re over a thousand years old. Can you see the angels?’
‘The people with wings,’ says Kate patiently. ‘Yes, Mum. And there’s God and all the gang.’ She went through a brief religious phase at primary school, which had slightly unsettled Ruth, but now refers to God as if he were a rather boring uncle.
‘The Holy Trinity,’ says Ruth. The paintings, once brightly coloured, have faded to a tasteful pink. Ruth would love to do some carbon-14 tests on the pigment. ‘It’s unusual to see Jesus without a beard,’ she says. ‘And that’s the Last Judgement. You can see the people going to heaven on the left and the ones going to hell on the right.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ says Kate.
You don’t know the half of it, thinks Ruth. Her parents had once believed utterly in the Saved and the Damned, sheep and goats. Ruth, an unmarried mother, was firmly in the latter category. It had been a shock to realise, after Ruth’s mother’s death, that their stories weren’t that dissimilar. Ruth’s father has softened his stance since his marriage to Gloria. They are both still devout Christians, though.
‘What’s going on there?’ says Kate, who is looking at the left-hand wall.
‘That’s the wheel of fortune,’ says a voice from the doorway.
Mother and daughter wheel round and Ruth knows that they are both expecting Cathbad, even though the voice isn’t like his. It’s deeper with a trace of a Norfolk accent.
A small man with a beard is addressing them. ‘Who controls the wheel of fate?’ he says. ‘One minute we are raised up, the next we are in the depths. “The wheel is come full circle, I am here.”’ His tone changes slightly. ‘If that does show the wheel of fortune, it’s the oldest depiction in Britain.’
Ruth can just make out what could be the outline of a wheel. A bearded man wearing what looks like a red beret appears to grasp the spokes.
‘The red paint is interesting,’ she says. ‘It’s very early to have vermilion.’
‘It came all the way from China,’ says the man. ‘BeforeMarco Polo went there.’
There’s no way of challenging this statement. Ruth introduces herself and asks if the man knows Cathbad. Somehow, she thinks he will.
Sure enough. ‘Of course,’ says the man. ‘Cathbad volunteers here sometimes. He’s a good soul, even though he’s a pagan. You know, we once had to defend this church from Satanists? Cathbad’s not one of their number. He’s a godly man.’
‘Have you seen him recently?’ asks Ruth. The talk of Satan and godliness is reminding her unpleasantly of childhood services in the Nissen hut where her parents got to grips with their faith.
‘Someone thought they saw him last night,’ says the man. ‘A cloaked figure. Maybe it’s the ghost of the Carthusian monk who haunts this place.’ He grins through his bushy beard.
Ruth has had enough. She gives the man her card. ‘If you see him, can you call me? It’s very important.’
