Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(13)

There were bright rags hanging off the branches of a tree. A lot of rags, and not all bright any more. Some were new, others fading, and now he could see that what he’d at first taken for swags of lichen or rotting leaves were yet more bits of cloth, mouldering away to nothing. He wondered for a second how the wind had brought so many rags to a single tree, and then saw that each was knotted on.

He walked closer to examine the peculiar decorations, staring at what seemed to be a baby’s lacy cap tied to one branch, and his forward foot came down half on hard stone and half on nothing at all. He reeled backwards, flailing to keep his balance, and realised he’d nearly stepped into a well.

It had no raised edge, no fencing. It was merely a hole in the ground, lined with moss in a way that suggested stonework as far down as he could clearly see. It smelled of old, cold water but he couldn’t see any water, just dark empty dampness. This was presumably the well of de Mandeville’s manor house, but in impossibly good condition for its age. He could see a few suspiciously regular mossy stones scattered around, which were probably the remains of walls, but no other sign of human habitation. The centuries had smoothed away all evidence of a house; a well would have collapsed into itself, or filled up with leaf-mulch that turned to earth.

Evidently people had kept it in some sort of repair at some point, though it didn’t look as though it had been tended to for decades. Perhaps it had been at the behest of the treasure hunters who believed it might contain a chest of gold? They’d had a similar legend in Saul’s village, of a treasure trove buried in a field. The story went that it had to be dug for, but always sank away when it was almost in the hunters’ grasp. He’d dug himself, aged six, feeling all the thrill of seeking hidden secrets even when he’d found nothing but worms.

It was a commonplace enough myth for a well. But why the rags tied to a tree?

He was reaching for one to examine it when he heard a rustle. It wasn’t particularly loud, but it was the first noise he’d heard in this weirdly silent place, and it made him jump. He swung around, and saw another man coming through the trees. The man registered him at the same time, and they both said, in unison, “For God’s sake!”

Saul put his hands on his hips. Randolph Glyde spread his own hands out in a frustrated gesture. They glared at one another.

“At this point,” Saul said, “I think it’s fairly obvious that you’re following me. Would you care to explain?”

“At this point,” Glyde mimicked, “I think it’s fairly obvious that you’re getting to places before me. I should like to know how and why.”

“Getting to what places? This is a wood!”

“Disingenuous, Mr. Lazenby. It’s an unmarked part of private grounds reached by a bridge, and yet here you are. You didn’t come here by accident. What the devil are you up to?”

Saul opened his mouth to respond with equal brusqueness and stopped himself, remembering abruptly that the man was unbalanced.

He didn’t look unbalanced. Actually, he looked quite extraordinarily good. He was hatless, and the dappled light touched his sleek, dark hair giving it a tinted sheen, as though he were wearing a coronet of green. He was lean and long and glowing with health, and his casual brown tweed suit, well cut and modern in style as it was, somehow gave him the look of a forester.

Glyde was scrutinising Saul too, a frown between his eyes. “You look...well.”

“Uh, thank you?” It had sounded nothing like a civility; more as if looking well were an odd thing for him to do. “Speaking of health, you left last time before we could summon assistance. I must ask—”

“I am not a shell-shock case,” Glyde said. “Let’s dispose of that red herring right now. I am as sane as any man in England, if that’s anything to boast of. I did spend my war in Flanders, but shells were the least of my troubles. And you, Mr. Lazenby, spent yours in Mesopotamia.”

Saul felt the blood surge in his face. It was a sickening shock every time he was identified, even if it was something he constantly expected and dreaded. He had to struggle to control his voice. “I see you have been looking me up.”

“I have, yes. It isn’t the most edifying history I’ve ever read.”

“Major Peabody knows,” Saul said abruptly. “In case you were planning to inform him. I have not hidden my past from him or anyone.”

“A bold decision, considering that you seem very lucky to have escaped the firing squad. Most people would not care to admit to a war record like yours.”

“I may be a damned fool and worse, but I’m not a coward, and I’m not a bloody liar,” Saul said through his teeth. “And you may go to hell. I have done nothing except obey my employer’s orders; you’re the one following me around and looking me up. If you don’t like me, leave me alone!”

Glyde was watching him intently. Saul gave him the nastiest look he could. “Well?”

“Would you care for a drink?”

“What?”

“A drink. You’re probably thirsty.” Glyde walked forward, taking something from a battered leather satchel incongruously slung over his elegantly clad shoulder. Saul realised it was a tin cup on a piece of string. He stared, speechless, as the man came up to the well, opened his mouth to point out that if the well had any water at all it was far too low to reach, and was prevented by an almost immediate splash. He must have been mistaken.