Hearing secret harmonies Read Online Free PDF Page A

set off again, this time in the direction of the old mill.
    ‘How on earth did you know about Daisy being at the spinney?’
    ‘The words came.’
    Murtlock spoke this time almost modestly. He seemed to attach no great importance to the advice given, in fact almost to have forgotten the fact that he had given it. He was clearly thinking now of quite other matters. This was where we should leave them. Henderson had set down the bucket containing the crayfish. Rusty was sitting on the grass beside the trap. When Fiona handed over the gardening gloves she allowed a faint gesture in the direction of humdrum usage to escape her.
    ‘Thanks for letting us put up the caravan.’
    She looked at Murtlock quickly to make sure this was not too cringing a surrender, too despicable a retreat down the road of conventionality. He nodded with indifference. There was apparently no harm in conceding that amount in the circumstances. Henderson, blinking through the yellow specs, simpered faintly under his Fu Manchu moustache. Rusty, rising from the ground, scratched under her armpit thoughtfully.
    ‘Why not take the crayfish as hors d’oeuvres for supper – or would they be too substantial for your limited fast?’
    Fiona glanced at Murtlock. Again he nodded.
    ‘All right.’
    ‘They have to be gutted.’
    Murtlock seemed pleased at the thought of that.
    ‘Fiona can do the gutting. That will be good for you, Fiona.’
    She agreed humbly.
    ‘You’ll be able to prophesy from the entrails,’ I said.
    No one laughed.
    ‘Bring the bucket back before you leave in the morning,’ said Isobel. ‘I expect we shall see you in any case before you go, Fiona?’
    The matter was once more referred to Murtlock for a ruling. He shook his head. The answer was negative. We should not see them the following day.
    ‘No.’
    Murtlock gruffly expanded Fiona’s reply.
    ‘We take the road at first light.’
    ‘Early as that?’
    ‘Our journey is long.’
    ‘Where are you making for?’
    Instead of mentioning a town or village he gave the name of a prehistoric monument, a Stone Age site, not specially famous, though likely to be known to people interested in those things. Aware vaguely that such spots were the object of pilgrimage on the part of cults of the kind to which Fiona and her friends appeared to belong, I was not greatly surprised by the answer. I supposed the caravan did about twenty miles a day, but was not at all sure of that. If so, the group of megaliths would take several days to reach.
    ‘We were there some years ago, coming home from that part of the world. Are you planning to park near the Stones?’
    It was a characteristic ‘long barrow’, set on the edge of a valley, two uprights supporting a capstone, entrance to a chambered tomb. The place had been thoroughly excavated.
    ‘As near as sanctity allows.’
    Murtlock answered curtly.
    ‘Sanctity was being disturbed a good deal by tourists when we were there.’
    A look of anger passed over his face, either at the comment, or thought of the tourists. He was quite formidable when he looked angry.
    ‘If you’re interested in archaeological sites, we’ve a minor one just over the hill from here. You probably know about it. The Devil’s Fingers – The Fingers, as Mr Gauntlett calls it.’
    If he knew something of Mr Gauntlett’s house being haunted, he might well have heard of The Devil’s Fingers. The name seemed new to him. He became at once more attentive.
    ‘It’s worth a visit, if you like that sort of thing. Only a short detour from the road you’ll probably be taking in any case.’
    ‘A prehistoric grave?’
    ‘No doubt once, though that’s been disputed.’
    ‘What remains?’
    ‘Two worn pillars about five foot high, and the same distance apart.’
    ‘No portal?’
    ‘Only the supports survive, if that’s what they are.’
    ‘The Threshold.’
    ‘If a tomb, the burial chamber has long disappeared through ploughing. The general consensus of