Midnight is a Lonely Place by Barbara Erskine Page A

your trouble.
    The panic had gone almost as soon as it had come. Out here in broad daylight, in the brilliant sunshine and the light, tossing wind with birds patrolling unconcerned along the tide line, her moment of terror seemed absurd. It was imagination, that was all. A visit to the museum, a new preoccupation with Boudicca and the events of nineteen hundred years ago, together with the isolated situation and already she was having hallucinations. Strong coffee would soon sort that out.
    Slightly faster than she would normally have walked she retraced her steps towards the cottage. Only once did she look back. There in the dazzle off the sea a sand devil whirled in the hollow where she had been standing. She watched it for a moment. It looked almost like a figure. Then it disappeared.
    Letting herself in out of the wind, she shook her hair back from her face and putting her finds down on the kitchen table she put the kettle on even before she removed her jacket and boots. While the kettle was boiling she went to the phone but there was no answer from the Lindseys.
    Picking up her coffee and her two artifacts she carried them through into the living room and put them down on her work table. Automatically she turned on the word processor. Waiting for it to summon up her programme she picked up the torc and examined it again. It was large – large enough to go around the neck of a full grown man at a guess, and still heavy in spite of, or perhaps because of, its corrosion. She stared at it for a long time then carefully she placed it on the windowsill before sitting down before her keyboard.
    When she next looked up it was nearly one o’clock.
    This time Diana was in when she phoned. Her query about the digging on the beach was greeted by a moment of embarrassed silence. ‘You were there this morning, you say?’ she asked cautiously.
    ‘I was walking on the beach.’
    ‘Of course. I think the place you’re talking about is where my daughter has been doing some digging. It’s for an archaeological project at school. It’s not a designated site of any kind.’
    ‘I see.’ Kate frowned. She could hear the defensiveness in the other woman’s voice. ‘It’s just that there seemed to be signs of some kind of ancient usage –’ Her eyes strayed towards the doorway into the hall. She couldn’t see the windowsill where her finds were lying. ‘I felt that probably someone qualified ought to take a look at it. It could be an important site.’
    ‘I think you’ll find Alison has that in hand. It’s her project entirely, Kate.’ Diana’s voice took on an unaccustomed firmness. ‘Please leave it to her.’
    And keep your nose out! Kate muttered as she put down the phone. She wandered back into the sitting room and stood looking down at the metal torc. If Alison was going to inform the museum then that was fine. She would show them her two trophies at the same time. She picked up the piece of twisted metal and examined it once more. It was badly corroded and bent, but the basic design of intertwined strands of metal wire was clearly visible. She scratched at it cautiously with her fingernail. A pale gleam appeared. She hesitated, then she scratched at it again, this time harder. The faint scratch showed a distinctly silvery sparkle. It was silver. She was holding a silver torc.
    I CURSE YOU, MARCUS SEVERUS, FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE HERE THIS DAY
    The voice was so sudden and so loud she dropped the torc onto the table. Frantically she shook her head. The sound had been inside her ears; it came from her brain. From her head. From her soul. Frightened she stared round the room. Then taking a deep breath she picked up the twisted metal again. It was very cold beneath her fingers. As cold as it had been when she first picked it out of the wet sand.
    ‘This is stupid.’ She said the words out loud, and her own voice sounded light and insubstantial in the empty room. She carried the torc and the piece of pottery to the small