Anthony Powell: Hearing Secret Harmonies

‘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 archaeological opinion accepts the place as a neolithic grave. There have been dissentient theories — boundary stones in the Dark Ages, and so on. They don’t amount to much. Local patriotism naturally makes one want the place to be as ancient as possible. The lintel probably went for building purposes in one of the farms round about. The uprights may have been too hard to extract. In any case there’s usually a superstition that you can’t draw such stones from the earth. Even if you do, they walk back again.’

‘Why the name?’

‘One Midsummer night, long ago, a girl and her lover were lying naked on the grass. The sight of the girl’s body tempted the Devil. He put out his hand towards her. Owing to the night also being the Vigil of St John, the couple invoked the Saint, and just managed to escape. When the Devil tried to withdraw his hand, two of his fingers got caught in the outcrop of rock you find in these quarrying areas. There they remain in a petrified condition.’

Murtlock was silent. He seemed suddenly excited.

‘Any other legends about the place?’

‘The couple are sometimes seen dancing there. They were saved from the Devil, but purge their sin by eternal association with its scene.’

‘They dance naked?’

‘I presume.’

‘On Midsummer Night?’

‘I don’t know whether only on the anniversary, or all the year round. In rather another spirit, rickety children used to be passed between the Stones to effect a cure.’

That was one of Mr Gauntlett’s stories.

‘Is the stag-mask dance known to have been performed there?’

‘I’ve never heard that. In fact I’ve never heard of the stag-mask dance.’

Murtlock was certainly well up in these things.

‘Do the Stones bleed if a dagger is thrust in them at the Solstices?’

‘I’ve never heard that either. There’s the usual tale that at certain times — when the cock crows at midnight, I think the Stones go down to the brook below to drink.’

Murtlock made no comment.

‘Covetous people have sometimes taken that opportunity for seeking treasure in the empty sockets, and been crushed on the unexpected return of the Stones. The Stones’ drinking habits are threatened. They will have to remain thirsty, unless the efforts of various people are successful. One of the quarries is trying to extend in that direction. They want to fill up the stream. Local opposition is being rallied. Where else will the Stones be able to quench their thirst? That was what the old farmer who talked to us was referring to.’

This time Murtiock showed no interest. The threat to The Devil’s Fingers might have been judged something to shock anyone who had spoken of the sanctity of another prehistoric site, but he seemed altogether unmoved. At least he enquired no further as to the conservation problem as presented to him. He did, however, ask how the place could be reached, showing close attention when Isobel explained. He discarded all his elaborately mystical façade while listening to instructions of that sort.

‘Is it a secluded spot?’

‘About half-a-dozen fields from the road.’

‘On high ground?’

‘I’d guess about five or six hundred feet.’

‘Surrounded by grass?’

‘Plough, when we were last there, but the farmer may have gone back to grass.’

‘Trees?’

‘The Stones stand in an elder thicket on the top of a ridge. It’s one of those characteristic settings. The land the other side slopes down to the stream.’

Murtlock thought for a moment or two. His face was pallid now. He seemed quite agitated at what he had been told. This physical reaction on his part suggested in him something more than the mere calculating ambition implied by Hugo’s story. Forces perhaps stronger than himself dominating him, made it possible for him also to dominate by the strength of his own feelings. He turned abruptly on the others, standing passively by while his interrogation was taking place.

‘Tomorrow we’ll go first to The Devil’s Fingers. We’ll reach there by dawn.’

They concurred.

‘You’ll find it of interest.’

He made an odd gesture, indicative of impatience, amazement, contempt, at the inadequacy of such a comment in the context. Then his more mundane half-amused air returned.

‘Barnabas will leave the bucket by the kitchen door when we set out in the morning.’