When I left him I was far from convinced of his reliability, but I did not go to the Cinderford police station. Marrin’s motive had first to be investigated. If I could not present his reason for attempted murder my allegations might not stand up. It was open to him to swear that he had tried to rescue me, failed to find me and in order to avoid newspaper publicity for his beloved commune had kept quiet about the accident.

To remain dead was not difficult. My name and face were only known at Beachley and Blakeney, where I had stayed at inns on this side of the river. So movement was no problem, nor was food. Provided that I watched the street long enough to be sure that no member of the commune was about I could enter any village shop without arousing curiosity. Though the Forest seemed gloriously empty there were a good many hikers on the green tracks and a few genuine tramps drawing unemployment pay from a post office, saving on rent and living life as – in good weather – it should be lived. I could pass as either.

Business for the day was to find a secluded spot not too far from Broom Lodge which I could make my headquarters. I thought the right choice would be one of the conifer woods close-planted by the Forestry Commission, dark and dismal but without anything to attract travellers on foot who naturally stick to the great oaks spreading over their waving green sea. First, I quartered a plantation near Staple Edge. That was no good – neither dell nor free mine, too dense and thus with a risk of fire if I lit one. However, it held an outcrop of rock forming an unmistakable landmark, and there I hid the diving kit which was a nuisance to carry and could attract attention. Then I struck south-east towards Blakeney and found another dense and trackless stand of conifers not far from Broom Lodge.

It covered the side of a steep hill, pock-marked by the typical depressions which might be due to Romans after iron or free miners after coal. Exploration led me to a level patch where the timber was thin enough to admit some sunlight. A building, which may have been a large cottage or a small iron foundry, had stood there once and its site had not been completely cleared by the foresters. The bricks of an outside lavatory still stood to a height of some four feet – a weatherproof den if I could find a roof for the three sides. That was provided by a rusty base plate from some engine. When a lever and a ramp of loose stones had got it into position I covered it with dead branches so that it looked like a rubbish heap to be burned when the woods were safely wet. More twigs laid over the turf beneath formed a bed – uncomfortable, but still a bed. As for fire, there was no danger whatever, for among the ruins was the blackened dome of a hearth with a few courses of chimney. Industrial rather than sylvan peace, but it served very well. There was no sign that gypsies or enterprising small boys had ever pushed through to the heart of the plantation – no paper bags, plastic bottles or travellers’ turds.

All morning, while eyes and legs were searching for a home, mind had been pondering the major’s question: did Marrin make the golden cauldron or was it ancient work? That rich, two-handled vessel, primitive but exquisitely curved, might be Saxon or a Roman import from the east. I am no authority on art, and without an original in front of me for comparison I could not tell. In any case this conjecture came up against a dead end. Why the smoke screen of alchemy and the yarn of a win on the football pools if Marrin had discovered and dug up an ancient hoard from tomb or temple, and could have made a fortune even after splitting with the state or the landowner?

I could not give the answer, but I was convinced that I was on the right track. Whatever he had found – and the Forest with its ancient mines and ports was as likely a place as any to unearth a buried treasure – he was keeping quiet about it and iniquitously melting it down himself to support his bloody colony of cranks.

I was at last very content that the major had advised me to remain dead. I was free to study Marrin’s movements without his ever dreaming that in his mysterious excursions a silent follower was closely behind, ready to expose him and rescue for posterity what treasure was left. Now that I had a home, I could familiarise myself with my territory as cautiously as any animal. I was about to write ‘hunted animal’, but that was false. I was an animal with a grudge and my quarry was human.

Never before had I realised how unforgiving is the conflict between the sacredness of knowledge and the acquisitiveness of the greedy, whether for the sake of personal wealth or the propagation of a creed, positive right against a wretched negative. Marrin would put it the other way round, convinced to the extent of murder.

In spite of the major’s sound advice I might well have decided against meeting him that evening if he had not uttered the words ‘with the rations’. Since Elsa’s sandwiches the night before I had had nothing to eat except a slab of greasy fried fish bought from a passing van. Shops anywhere near my headquarters were to be avoided. The corpse was learning that continual caution was needed if it was to stay dead among the living.

The map showed me that Little Drybrook was a hamlet safely far from Broom Lodge, which could be reached by forest tracks. I arrived early to reconnoitre the surroundings and waited just off the roadside. His battered car was unmistakable.

‘Ah! Glad to see you. Fixed up? Better be! Rain tonight,’ he said as soon as I stopped the car.

‘I can keep it out.’

‘Used to open-air life? Not all books?’

‘Not all books. Camels, donkeys, canoes – you name it. I’ve travelled by it.’

‘Middle East?’

‘Middle East.’

‘Colder up here.’

‘Colder in Greenland.’

‘Been there too?’

His voice sounded regretful when, finding myself slipping into his staccato speech, I spoke of the extreme climates I had known. Since he had been just too young for the war he may have seen little active service. Possibly the unexciting existence of a regular soldier had unhinged a too contemplative mind and inclined him towards dreams of a past in which war for the sake of Christianity was the normal spice of life. He’d have done better to choose the Crusades, but I suppose the very dubious Arthur gave more scope for imagination.

‘Good man! Thought you’d manage! But you’ll need a blanket.’

He handed over a splendid carriage rug dating from the time when there were no car heaters and told me to take it with me when I left.

‘Jump in! Short run into the Forest where we won’t be interrupted.’

He had found an idyllic spot between the armchair roots of a noble oak where he opened his picnic basket. It had a luxurious air of the eighteen-nineties about it and had belonged, he told me, to his grandfather. Gin, whisky, white Burgundy, strawberries and half a cold Severn salmon appeared, each from its proper compartment.

‘Couldn’t swipe anything from Broom Lodge,’ he said, ‘so I got it in Lydney and hung about till the chap had cooked it for me. Ought to know how. Catches them.’

While we were eating I encouraged him to talk of his religion. He was as sure of immortality as any pious Christian but considered that Marrin’s belief in reincarnation was an unnecessary theory. I ventured to bring up the question of Arthur’s battles, in which he himself seemed to be personally involved; then he only choked on his salmon and raised an emotional, hot-gospeller’s voice to declare that the past was always the present.

‘What’s the past? Only a string of presents one after another. No such thing as time, Simeon says. He’s quite right there. So the past is always the present if you can recognise it. That’s the difficulty: to recognise the fourth dimension when you’re in it. Could draw a diagram if I were a mathematician.’