not the earth one he’d expected but was lined with old headstones like the church paths at ground level.
‘Just incredible,’ muttered Gareth at his side.
The two men walked on. A few yards ahead the wall to their right seemed to come to an abrupt halt and Harry’s torch hit blackness. As the two men drew closer they realized an archway led through the wall. They could see nothing beyond.
‘You first,’ said Gareth.
‘Wimp.’
Harry stepped through the black archway and shone his torch around. ‘Well, I’ll be …’ he began. The underground space on the other side of the wall was even bigger than the church crypt.
‘We’re under the old church,’ said Gareth, who’d followed close behind. ‘Two churches, one massive cellar.’
‘I don’t imagine storage space is going to be a problem somehow,’ said Harry, shining his torch round to see arched and gated alcoves against the far wall. ‘I don’t think this was ever just a cellar. There’s too much ornamentation. I think it was used for worship. Can you hear water?’
‘Yeah. Sounds a bit more than a burst pipe,’ said Gareth. ‘I think it’s coming from over here.’
Gareth led the way; Harry followed, admiring the stonework around the walls, with its carvings of roses, leaves and insects. He saw a procession of carved stone pilgrims heading for a shrine. The flags beneath his feet were worn smooth. For hundreds of years monks had silently trod these stones. Ahead of him, Gareth had found the source of the water sounds.
‘I have never seen anything like this,’ he was saying.
Set into the furthest wall of the cellar was a massive stone scallopshell. Water was streaming into it from a narrow pipe several inches above and then, almost like a decorative water feature in someone’s garden, it poured over the sides of the shell and disappeared into a grille. Harry held out his hand and scooped up some of the water. It was freezing. He held it to his mouth, sniffed, then dipped in his tongue.
‘Probably drinkable,’ he said. ‘Do you think this was some sort of massive priest hole for the monks? When enemies came they fled down here. With their own water supply they could probably hole up for weeks.’
‘There are several underground streams around here,’ said Gareth. ‘We had to watch out for them when we were putting the house foundations in. Maybe you can bottle it.’
‘Heptonclough Spring,’ said Harry, nodding. ‘Has a ring to it.’
‘So can we discuss this whole crypt-versus-cellar business?’ said Gareth, who was shining his torch into the nearest of the alcoves. ‘Because I can’t help thinking there are dead things yonder.’
Shapes loomed out of the fog and for a moment Tom slowed down. Then he realized there had been buildings here at one time. He was looking at their ruins.
‘Tom, stop now!’
She meant it this time. There was no mistaking that particular tone and volume. He waited until his mother and Millie had caught up. Both looked tired.
The previous night, when his mother had come racing from her studio, smelling of paint and strong coffee, to find her eldest son crouched terrified behind his bedroom door, Tom had been convinced the little girl was still somewhere in the house. He’d refused to go back to bed until everywhere – absolutely every possible hiding place – had been searched.
Joe, the lying toe-rag, had refused to back him up, to admit that he too had seen the girl, had even spoken to her. Joe had just opened his eyes until they were as wide as saucers and shaken his head.
‘Thank you,’ said his mum. ‘Now can we all stay together, please? No one is going out of my sight in this fog. OK, I think it’s this way.’
With Millie on one hip, Alice set off and the boys trailed behind. Tom kept his eyes on the ground. If Joe said anything to wind him up he would land him one.
They reached the edge of a copse of trees just as the fog seemed to lift a little. A carpet of beech leaves lay before them. The trees were old and massive. Tom and his family stepped forward until they were in amongst them. The tiny cottage, straight out of a fairy tale, appeared before them.
Harry and Gareth were standing beside a small, stone-lined alcove. The entrance was covered in intricate ironwork and the gate was locked.
‘Don’t have the key to that one,’ said Harry.
‘Really not a problem, mate,’ replied Gareth, shaking his head.