‘Going on with the search, Piers?’

‘Is it worth it?’

‘Very strong position you’re in. You’re just a friend of Simeon who stayed at the commune and came to the funeral. They don’t know the wolfs den, don’t know he has been watching, don’t know who did the damage at Wigpool.’

‘So what?’

‘Got to let ’em loose, haven’t we? Badly want the bowl, and can be sure that Elsa has it.’

‘She’s safe with me, and they don’t know about us. You didn’t.’

‘Maybe. But wiser to give it up. Police and lawyers likely to be a nuisance too. I’d find another dowry for that splendid girl if I were you. Where did Simeon get his gold?’

‘But I haven’t a clue.’

‘Severn, old boy. Bright water and the shadow.’

Chapter Three

Again I must write an exact account of my operations while memory is fresh, in case I am ever compelled to justify them. I feel that I am guilty of a betrayal, yet must admit that the offence lies on me as lightly as do the deaths of Marrin and Evans. I intended neither, but perhaps did not care as much as I should have if my actions were to bring about a highly probable result. A sentence of one year for Marrin would, I think, be ample. My intervention was only culpable negligence. In the case of Evans I could plead self-defence unless witnesses agreed with each other in some outrageous lie, which, thanks to Denzil’s mission to the heathen, is now most unlikely.

On the whole I see the betrayal of my professional standards as worse than dubious manslaughter. On the other hand I am convinced that it is pointless to publish a discovery which in the absence of date and identity adds nothing material to history.

I return to my confession. The fact that I have just written ‘confession’ shows that my conscience is still uneasy, but to hell with it! If I published I should undoubtedly lose my reputation rather than advance it, and at the same time be forced to throw more light than is convenient on matters which could still, I fear, be of interest to the police.

After the indisputable verdict of Authority on the golden cauldron, I repacked it and consigned it to the safe deposit at my bank. The next urgent duties were to recover the major’s car before it was found and reported, and to release the prisoners at Wigpool. Meanwhile I left Elsa at my flat, where it was best she should remain until we had dealt with the parishioners of Gwyn ap Nudd and concocted some story to account for her sudden disappearance from Broom Lodge.

In the evening the major and I drove down to the Forest. After dark we found his old Humber undisturbed and extracted it from the thicket where it had been hidden. I was growing weary of darkness and straining eyes along the beam of a torch, and wished I had been gifted with night sight: a werecat rather than a werewolf. When we were out in the open we mended the wire, leaving the fence in better condition than before. As soon as wheel tracks had become barely distinguishable under growing grass the farmer to whom the derelict copse belonged would never notice that the wire had been cut and repaired.

No lodging was more discreet than the den, so there we remained till morning. I noticed that the major slept where he dropped as easily as any old soldier. That accounted for his patience underground as champion of the imagined Grail. He was divisible by three: one part the wandering friar, one part clubman, one part veteran of the Queen’s – or Arthur’s – bodyguard.

We were in no hurry to release the druidicals. They had now been buried for three nights and two days, and they could well endure another without food. Excellent fresh water they had in plenty. Before we unearthed them we had to know what their saner companions were doing or had done at Broom Lodge, so in the morning the major, as friend of Simeon Marrin and always welcome visitor, drove over to the commune for a casual call.

He came back with rations and the news. Evans and six others were missing. Elsa was missing too. The colonists assumed she was with the others but were puzzled since they knew that she had mild contempt for the inner circle. Had the police been informed? Well no, they hadn’t. General opinion was that the disappearance must be connected with some ritualistic observance. Three days of fasting under the oaks, perhaps. Broom Lodge was of course aware that the adepts did have their places of worship but out of reverence for the mysteries of others – inspired by Marrin himself rather than the characters of his disciples – refrained from tasteless curiosity. Another good reason for not reporting the missing persons was that the commune disliked police on principle. Working for the future and happy in the present, they felt no need for the protection of law.

All the commune knew of Wigpool was that Marrin had done some casual search for ores which he needed in the laboratory. Another tour of nearby pubs confirmed that Broom Lodge need never come into the picture at all. Marrin, with his genius for staging a convincing scenario, had set a story going that assays of minerals were occasionally carried out for the training of students in geology. That accounted for the tracks of vehicles and signs of excavation.

In the last of the twilight and an empty countryside we came upon the Broom Lodge van still standing at the end of the rough lane. It was safe enough there and the odd villagers who might have passed it would naturally assume that the ‘geologists’ were at work nearby or perhaps camping for a night or two. We approached the low heap of pit props silently, and listened. Nothing to be heard. Then we tried the blocked gate to the old workings. There they had been at desperate work, for a hole had been scraped out of the timbers which ended at the iron bars above and below the slit. It appeared to have been done laboriously with a knife, and all the chap had gained by a blistered palm was the certain knowledge that the bars were too close together for a body to pass. There, too, we could not hear a sound, but that meant little. The loudest speech could not carry round two corners of the gallery.

We started very cautiously to remove the pit props until only four were left, quite easy to push aside. Obviously the condemned were so demoralised in the darkness that they had given up hope and possibly were huddled together in the changing room which might retain some warmth from my bonfire. We wanted them out and away, so I went down as far as the cross gallery thudding on the floor with a pit prop and hammering against the rock wall. At last I heard somebody feeling his way up, falling and, instead of cursing, sobbing at his helplessness. I came up, cleared the hole completely and we settled down in a dry ditch close to the van to await their arrival.

It took the best part of an hour. Perhaps some of them had to be fetched up from the great cavern – a difficult journey through black nothing, even though the way could not be missed. Torches would have burned out long since and the batteries of flashlights would be flat. They must have had some in order to get from the entrance to the changing room, and now that I think of my fast and spontaneous activities, I believe there was a pocket flashlight in each of the coats I threw on the flames.

They whimpered with relief when they found their truck still in its place and collapsed against it, their dim figures looking like life-size rubber dolls simultaneously deflating. There were only six of them, and they were in no state to go hunting in the dark for the persons who had set them free.

Somebody said:

‘Could you finish the windlass?’

‘Not the lot. Couldn’t in the dark. Most of it has gone.’

A voice I recognised as Ballard’s whined:

‘The wind! Oh, the wind!’

There was not much of it. A damp, cool breeze. But when, as I myself had found, one has been wet, hungry and cold for so long fresh air is altogether too fresh.