‘You know, up inside Scardale Crag.’
‘First I’ve heard,’ Kathy said, sounding mildly affronted.
‘Just a minute, just a minute,’ George burst in. ‘What are we talking about here? What mine workings are we on about?’
Ma gave an exasperated sigh. ‘How much plainer can I make it? Inside Scardale Crag there’s an old lead mine. Tunnels and chambers and whatnot. There’s not much to it, but it’s there.’
‘How long is it since it was worked?’ Clough asked.
‘How would I know?’ the old woman protested. ‘Not in my lifetime, that’s for sure. For all I know, it’s been there since the Romans were here. They mined for lead and silver in these parts.’
‘I’ve never heard of a lead mine inside the crag,’ Diane insisted. ‘And I’ve lived here all my days.’
With difficulty, George resisted the impulse to shout at the women. ‘Where exactly is this lead mine?’ he asked. Clough was glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of this voice that cut like a blade. He’d had no idea that George had such an edge in him, but it confirmed to Clough that this had been the right star to hitch his wagon to.
Ma Lomas shrugged. ‘How would I know? Like I said, it’s never been worked in my day. All I know is that you get into it some place down the back of the spinney. There used to be a stream ran along there, but it dried up years ago, when I was a lass.’
‘So the chances are nobody knows it even exists,’ George said, his shoulders falling. What had seemed like a thread worth pursuing was falling apart in his hands, he thought.
‘Well, I know about it,’ Ma said emphatically. ‘The squire showed me. In a book. The old squire, that is. Not Philip Hawkin.’
‘What book?’ Ruth said, showing the first sign of animation since the two men had arrived.
‘I don’t know what it were called, but I could probably recognize it,’ the old woman said, pushing her chair back from the table. ‘Has that husband of yours chucked out the squire’s books?’ Ruth shook her head. ‘Come on, then, let’s take a look.’
In Philip Hawkin’s absence, the study was as cold as the frigid hall. Ruth shivered and pulled her housecoat tighter across her body. Diane threw herself into one of the chairs and took out her cigarettes. She lit up without offering them, then curled around herself in the chair like a plump tabby cat with a mouse in its paw. Kathy fiddled with a pair of prisms on the desk, holding them up to the light and turning them this way and that. Meanwhile, Ma scrutinized the shelves and George held his breath.
About halfway along the middle shelf, she pointed a bony finger. ‘There,’ she said in a satisfied voice. ‘A Charivari of Curiosities of the Valley of the Scarlaston.’ George thrust out an arm and pulled the volume down. It had clearly once been a handsome volume, now ravaged by time and much use. Bound in faded red morocco, it was about ten inches by eight, almost an inch thick. He laid it on the desk and opened it.
‘A Charivari of Curiosities of the Valley of the Scarlaston in the County of Derbyshire, including the Giant’s Cave and the Mysterious Source of the River itself. As retailed by the Reverend Onesiphorus Jones. Published by Messrs. King, Bailey & Prosser of Derby MDCCCXXII,’ George read. ‘1822,’ he said. ‘So where’s the bit about the mine, Mrs Lomas?’
Her fingers with their arthritic knuckles crept across the frontispiece and flicked over to the contents page. ‘I recall it were near the middle,’ she said softly. George leaned over her shoulder and quickly scanned the list of contents.
‘Is that it?’ he asked, pointing to Chapter XIV – The Secret Mysteries of Scardale Cragg; Ancient Man in the Dale; Fool’s Gold and the Alchemist’s Base Metal.
‘Aye, I think so.’ She stepped back. ‘It were a long time ago. The squire liked to talk to me about the history of the dale. His wife were an incomer, you see.’
George was only half listening. He flicked over thick off-white pages flecked with occasional foxing until he came to the section he was looking for. There, accompanied by competent line drawings that entirely lacked atmosphere, was the story of lead mining in Scardale. The veins of lead and iron pyrites had first been discovered in the late Middle Ages but had not been exploited fully until the eighteenth century when four main galleries and a couple of hollowed-out caverns were excavated. However, the seams were less productive than they’d appeared and at some point in the 1790s, the mine had ceased to operate commercially. At the time the book had been written, the mine had been closed off with a wooden palisade.
George pointed to the description. ‘Are these directions good enough for us to find the way in to these workings?’
‘You’d never find it,’ Diane said. She’d come up behind him and was peering round his arm. ‘I tell you who could, though.’
‘Who?’ George asked. It can’t have been harder to get lead out of the ground than information out of Scardale natives, he thought wearily.
‘I bet our Charlie could,’ Diane said, oblivious to his exasperation. ‘He knows the dale better than anybody living. And he’s fit as a butcher’s dog. If there’s any climbing or caving to be done, he’s your lad. That’s who you need, Mr Bennett. Our Charlie. That’s if he’s willing, after the way you’ve treated him.’
Monday, 16th December 1963. 11.33 a.m.
Charlie Lomas was as skittery as a young pup straining at the leash with the scent of rabbit in his nostrils. Like George, he’d wanted to race down the dale to the place where river met crag as soon as he’d known what was afoot. But unlike George, who had learned the virtue of patience, he saw no advantage in waiting for the trained potholers to arrive. As far as Charlie was concerned, being a Scardale man was advantage enough when it came to investigating the mysteries of Scardale Crag. So he’d paced up and down outside the caravan, smoking incessantly, nervously sipping from a cup of tea long after it must have been stone cold.
George stared out of the caravan window, glowering at the village. ‘It’s not as if we’re not used to people withholding information, but there’s usually a motive behind it that you can see. Mostly they’re either protecting themselves or they’re protecting someone else. Or else they’re just bloody-minded toerags who take pleasure in frustrating us. But here? It’s like getting blood out of a stone.’
Clough sighed. ‘I don’t think there’s any malice in it. They don’t even know they’re doing it half the time. It’s a habit they’ve got into over the centuries, and I don’t see them changing it in a hurry. It’s like they think nobody’s entitled to know their business.’
‘It goes beyond that, Tommy. They’ve all lived in each other’s pockets for so long, they know everything there is to know about Scardale and about each other. They take that knowledge totally for granted and simply forget that we’re not in the same boat.’
‘I know what you mean. Whenever we uncover something they should have told us, it’s as if they’re gobstruck that we hadn’t already known it.’
George nodded. ‘This is the perfect example. Ma Lomas never said at any point, “Oh, did you know there are some old lead mine workings inside Scardale Crag? It might be worth searching there.” No, like everybody else, she assumed that we’d know about them and her only intent in mentioning them was to get into my ribs because she thinks the police search has been inadequate.’
Clough got up and paced the narrow confines of the caravan. ‘It’s infuriating, but there’s nowt we can do about it because we never know what it is we don’t know until we discover we didn’t know it.’
George rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘I can’t help thinking that if only I was better at getting the locals