Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(68)

Saul was swaying on his feet, face ghastly. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no!”

He was off and running then, stumbling over the uneven ground, dodging through trees. Randolph sprinted after him, Sam at their heels. They were heading for Camlet Moat, of course. Randolph had lost all sense of connection to the place, he realised—if there was something wrong there, he wasn’t feeling it at all. He could only hope Saul would find the way, and that the Moat was amenable to being found.

Saul was hurdling obstacles, running desperately through the wood, over a path, and that in itself worried Randolph if they were heading for the Moat. Which they were, because he saw the dim green of the algae-coated water through the trees, and other shapes, too. Something big and angular that didn’t, couldn’t make sense. Not here, not on bloody Camlet Moat—

“Is that a mechanical excavator?” Sam asked, as they came to a stumbling stop. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Oh no, no,” Randolph said. “Don’t tell me.”

“Mother of God.” Saul put out a shaking hand, pointing. “I think they’ve dug him up.”





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


THE BRIDGE WAS COVERED IN heavy wide planks, ones evidently designed to make a reliable path for the mechanical excavator to be driven on and off again. It was parked on the land side, along with a wheelbarrow full of spades. There was no sign of any men.

“The damned fools,” Randolph said. “Let’s see the damage, shall we?”

“We need to get these things off the bridge first,” Saul said. The planks were an irritant like a splinter, forcing an entrance that should only be requested.

Neither Sam nor Randolph argued. The three of them carried the planks off, piling them to the side of the bridge, until there was only the dark semi-rotten wood once more, very low in the water. It was nearly dark by the time they’d done.

Sam flicked on his flashlight and turned to Saul. “When you’re ready.”

They were expecting him to lead. He nodded, and set out over the bridge, onto Camlet Moat.

It looked small. It felt small, like a little moated bit of land in the middle of a park, just an ordinary place. It was hard to see whatever damage had been done, but he could feel the wrongness.

The bridge was in the middle of one side of the Moat; the well was on the far side, in the left-hand corner. Saul headed that way, remembering the tales of treasure hunters and dreading what he’d find.

“Damnation,” Randolph said as they approached. “Damn.”

There was a great dip in the ground, perhaps eight feet deep at the lowest point, and a vast pile of earth and stones behind it. The cloutie tree sprawled some way away where it had been tossed, roots bare, offering cloths dangling in the dirt. The shaft of the well descended from the centre of the pit, dark and dead. Sam’s torch beam played on that, and then moved sideways to illuminate a shape on the ground. A man’s body, face down, not moving.

“That’s not good,” he said.

Saul scrambled down into the pit, loose earth sliding underfoot, to where the body lay. A shortish, plump form in a Norfolk jacket, hatless, grey hair matted dark with blood.

He moved around so as not to obstruct the beam of light, braced himself, and turned the body over.

Dull horror ignited into vivid revulsion and he scrambled back, unable to tear his eyes from the slack dead face, spectacles broken, open mouth half-filled with earth. “Oh God, no. It’s the Major.”

“Peabody?” Randolph asked from above. “Hell’s teeth. The silly bastard.”

“He was a decent man,” Saul said, feeling he ought to offer something to the dead. “He didn’t deserve this.”

“If he dug up Camlet Moat, I hope he rots.” Randolph lowered himself into the pit to join Saul, and bent to examine the body.

“Human, animal, other?” Sam asked from above.

“Head stoved in, one big dent. Not animal, so I’d guess human.”

“Why?” Saul asked hopelessly. “Why would someone do this?”

Randolph blew out a breath. “He comes here to dig, presumably for relics, or treasure—”

“You can’t excavate an ancient site with a mechanical digger!”

“Did he know that? Would he care?”

Saul opened his mouth, and closed it. Major Peabody hadn’t been a scholar, or trained in any way. He’d wanted to prove his theories to be true, rather than to discover the truth. And he’d wanted to find something wonderful so very much.

“If he’d had reason to believe there was something here... Maybe not.”

“And his pet archaeologist had vanished. So he came here, spurred by his fanaticism—alone?”

“With help. I very much doubt he could operate a digger, and there were several spades.”

“With other people,” Randolph agreed. “And then, well, either he didn’t find what he was after, or he did. If he didn’t, perhaps the other party knocked him on the head in a fit of justified annoyance and left. But if he did...”

“They took it off him, and stopped his mouth,” Sam said from above. “Was someone hiding behind Peabody? Using him to get to the well?”

“Why would they?”

“Because I’d kill anyone buggering around at Camlet Moat,” Randolph said. “I’d have been up here at the first spadeful of earth if it had happened last week, and buried the bodies in their own pit. But I didn’t know this was happening, because Theresa made you the Walker, and you didn’t know what was going on because you’ve been dropped into this mess as ignorant as a newborn babe, and I couldn’t help you through it because that fucking fool Delingpole had locked you up. What a shambles.”