they belong to whoever reads them, and no-one can say you are either right or wrong.’
Eve, black brows drawn together in distaste, took the book. ‘ So spoke the wanderer, mindful of hardship .’ She snapped it shut, seeming again the boy he’d first taken her for. He laughed, and said, ‘Not all are so mournful, though most… This one I knew by heart when I was young, though I never knew what it meant: “Wulf and Eadwacer”–’ He stopped abruptly, remembering the notebook upstairs, and seeing in the sulphurous yellow light the name EADWACER , scrawled half a dozen times, and repeated on the deck of cards dealt out the night before. As he said the name the two young women kneeling on the grass paused, and looked up at him. Clare looked stricken, as though he’d said something to wound her, and Eve said sharply, ‘What? What did you say?’
Her hostility was so sudden and unearned it took great effort for him to say without stammering: ‘It was nothing – just another poem, that’s all.’ He felt them begin to withdraw from him – Clare rocked back on her heels and crossed her arms against her breast, and Eve’s narrow white face had become fixed and hostile.
‘It was only the name of the poem. I don’t even know if I’m saying it right…’
‘Show me.’ Eve took the book, drawing quickly away from him. ‘ Wulf is on one island, I on another .’
The obscure old riddle became part of everything else that was uncertain and troubling: he was still a stranger in their strange land. She said, ‘Why did you choose it – why did you have to say it out loud?’
‘We’ve heard it before you see, John,’ said Clare gravely. She looked, he thought, rather disappointed, and all at once older than her years.
‘Yes.’ Eve began to wrap the book roughly, winding the string so tightly John flinched – oh, but careful, you’ll break its spine – ‘Yes – everywhere, all over the house, cut into the table, written in dust on the windowsills. Down there’ – Eve flung out an arm towards the high green bank at the garden’s end.
‘Down there?’ John shielded his eyes from the sun at its height.
‘Haven’t you seen it yet? The reservoir.’ Oh, but it’s a reservoir, of course, thought John – he’d seen that kind of embankment before on the outskirts of small towns where he and his brother fished without joy for trout and pike.
‘We’re going swimming there tomorrow,’ said Clare, forgetting for a moment the book and the hated name. The few tears she’d shed dried on her cheek. ‘We keep saying we’ll go, but we never do.’
‘We might, darling,’ said Eve impatiently, not yet finished with John. Her eyes were opaque as smoked glass; then they cleared, suddenly, as though she had reached a favourable verdict on some fresh evidence. She shook her head. ‘Oh, how could you know? There have been’ – she paused, as though selecting a word and finding it distasteful – ‘letters. Anonymous ones.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, yes – you’re smiling, and why wouldn’t you. Absurd, isn’t it? I keep thinking Holmes will arrive, with Watson following by train…’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said John. ‘Miss Marple, perhaps.’
‘It is more her line of work, isn’t it?’ The smoke receded, and left her mossy eyes clear and frank. ‘Poison pen letters. That’s what they call them, as if it’s not the person writing that’s at fault but the pen in their hand – they come for Alex, of all people! You can imagine someone wanting to torment Walker, can’t you.’ She said this with a slight secretive smile, which she swiftly shook off. ‘Or Hester, or even me. But Alex’ – she shook her head. ‘Well – you know.’ John, who knew less now than he ever had, nodded.
‘There’s always something, with Alex. It was bridges before. This time it’s the reservoir – he’s got it into his head the dam will break, and the reservoir will burst the
Eve, black brows drawn together in distaste, took the book. ‘ So spoke the wanderer, mindful of hardship .’ She snapped it shut, seeming again the boy he’d first taken her for. He laughed, and said, ‘Not all are so mournful, though most… This one I knew by heart when I was young, though I never knew what it meant: “Wulf and Eadwacer”–’ He stopped abruptly, remembering the notebook upstairs, and seeing in the sulphurous yellow light the name EADWACER , scrawled half a dozen times, and repeated on the deck of cards dealt out the night before. As he said the name the two young women kneeling on the grass paused, and looked up at him. Clare looked stricken, as though he’d said something to wound her, and Eve said sharply, ‘What? What did you say?’
Her hostility was so sudden and unearned it took great effort for him to say without stammering: ‘It was nothing – just another poem, that’s all.’ He felt them begin to withdraw from him – Clare rocked back on her heels and crossed her arms against her breast, and Eve’s narrow white face had become fixed and hostile.
‘It was only the name of the poem. I don’t even know if I’m saying it right…’
‘Show me.’ Eve took the book, drawing quickly away from him. ‘ Wulf is on one island, I on another .’
The obscure old riddle became part of everything else that was uncertain and troubling: he was still a stranger in their strange land. She said, ‘Why did you choose it – why did you have to say it out loud?’
‘We’ve heard it before you see, John,’ said Clare gravely. She looked, he thought, rather disappointed, and all at once older than her years.
‘Yes.’ Eve began to wrap the book roughly, winding the string so tightly John flinched – oh, but careful, you’ll break its spine – ‘Yes – everywhere, all over the house, cut into the table, written in dust on the windowsills. Down there’ – Eve flung out an arm towards the high green bank at the garden’s end.
‘Down there?’ John shielded his eyes from the sun at its height.
‘Haven’t you seen it yet? The reservoir.’ Oh, but it’s a reservoir, of course, thought John – he’d seen that kind of embankment before on the outskirts of small towns where he and his brother fished without joy for trout and pike.
‘We’re going swimming there tomorrow,’ said Clare, forgetting for a moment the book and the hated name. The few tears she’d shed dried on her cheek. ‘We keep saying we’ll go, but we never do.’
‘We might, darling,’ said Eve impatiently, not yet finished with John. Her eyes were opaque as smoked glass; then they cleared, suddenly, as though she had reached a favourable verdict on some fresh evidence. She shook her head. ‘Oh, how could you know? There have been’ – she paused, as though selecting a word and finding it distasteful – ‘letters. Anonymous ones.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Well, yes – you’re smiling, and why wouldn’t you. Absurd, isn’t it? I keep thinking Holmes will arrive, with Watson following by train…’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ said John. ‘Miss Marple, perhaps.’
‘It is more her line of work, isn’t it?’ The smoke receded, and left her mossy eyes clear and frank. ‘Poison pen letters. That’s what they call them, as if it’s not the person writing that’s at fault but the pen in their hand – they come for Alex, of all people! You can imagine someone wanting to torment Walker, can’t you.’ She said this with a slight secretive smile, which she swiftly shook off. ‘Or Hester, or even me. But Alex’ – she shook her head. ‘Well – you know.’ John, who knew less now than he ever had, nodded.
‘There’s always something, with Alex. It was bridges before. This time it’s the reservoir – he’s got it into his head the dam will break, and the reservoir will burst the
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