“Watch out for that chap!” she called as I left.
Immediately opposite the house was a leveled spot, originally designed to provide parking space for visitors who planned to climb the mountain. Now, as I said, they had to park in the village. From that flat area the hill continued to rise up towards the distant peak of Ingle-borough. We always said living at Tower House developed strong calf muscles if nothing else. You were either straining to go up or bracing to go down. Whenever we found ourselves on flat ground we walked so rapidly nobody else could keep up with us.
On the peak of the mountain were the remains of a Celtic hill fort. The story of the fort was that the last of the Iceni had gone there to make their stand against the Roman invaders. Armed to the teeth behind a heavy wall, they prepared for the attack. But the Romans had taken one look at them and decided to go round on their way to Lancaster and Carlisle. The Celts were nonplussed. After about fifty years of living in the wind and cold of the peak, the remains of the Iceni eventually came straggling down and got jobs on the docks at Lancaster.
I had soon found one of my favorite spots in the common, a dip in the grass where it was impossible to be seen. Here, if it was windy, you could swiftly find yourself in a complete cone of silence. The common was full of such holes, where the ground had fallen in over the cave systems which riddled the entire area. Here and there were deeper, larger holes, where the rock was exposed and which seemed like the entrances of caves but never really led anywhere.
Once below the level of the ground in the inverted cones, you couldn’t hear a thing. There was no better sense of isolation, and yet anyone who knew you could easily find you and you could be back at home within a few minutes.
With a sense of pleasurable anticipation, I opened the covers of The House of Arden, a companion to another favorite, Harding’s Luck. It was all about time paradoxes and people meeting themselves. My earlier exertions must have tired me more than I thought, because I fell asleep in the middle of the first chapter. The next thing I remember is rolling over on my back and blinking up into the late-afternoon sun. As I yawned I saw some large, round object drifting across the sky, a thin plume of smoke coming from it, a bit like the vapor trail of a plane.
Waking up rapidly, I recognized the aircraft as a hot-air balloon. A local group of enthusiasts took visitors up over the Dales during the summer, but they rarely came down this low. Nor, I realized, as the shadow of the basket fell across my hiding place, were they usually so big or so colorful. Next thing the balloon filled up my entire field of vision, and I could smell the smoke. The silk of the canopy blazed in the sun. Glittering scarlets, greens and golds dazzled me. From the rigging flew the cross of St. Andrew, the blue and white Scottish flag. I saw tongues of fire from the brazier in the basket and two very pale faces staring down at me. Then something whooshed past, and I heard a thump, a yell. As I scrambled up and out onto the common, there came the roaring sound of a powerful engine in high gear.
On turning, the first object I saw was the big antique convertible. Not the Lexus containing my parents, as I had half hoped, but a great, dark green monster with massive mudguards and a huge radiator decorated with an ornamental “B,” a single blue-clad occupant, swinging off the road and onto the flat parking space. The driver’s dark goggles gave him the appearance of a huge, mad lemur.
At the sound of another yell I looked back to see the balloon still dragging up the common, the silk bouncing and brilliant, the gasbag booming like a drum. The passengers had leaped from the basket. One of them had thrown out a great iron anchor and was trying to dig this into the ground, seeking to stop the balloon’s progress over the grass-grown rocks. The other passenger was clinging hard to the wicker, clearly not at all happy about his situation.
This happened so swiftly, I could barely take in what was going on. None of the people seemed to need help from me, and none seemed especially menacing. It occurred to me that I ought to duck down and hide, but the driver of the car had already seen me and was waving a gauntleted hand and calling out.
“Pardon me, miss. Could you tell me if I’m at the right place? My name’s Bastable. I’m looking for the residence of the Count and Countess von Bek.” Pushing up his goggles, he began to climb from the car, gathering the folds of his cotton dust coat which covered what appeared to be a light blue military uniform. On his head was a peaked cap of the same color.
“Good afternoon,” was all I could think of to say.
Another voice came from behind me.
“Good afternoon, my dear beautiful young woman.”
Somehow I wasn’t a bit offended by those rich, flattering tones, offered in the most delicious Scottish brogue I had ever heard. I turned round again. Grinning at me, the balloonist, in full Highland dress, including a brilliant kilt, was testing his anchor line now, having stopped the vessel’s drift. His companion was stamping heavily on bits of flaming wood threatening to set the grass alight. Then he reached into the basket and took something out. A black, undecorated oblong box, narrow and long. Clearly an electric guitar case. He was tall and very nifty in what appeared to be European evening dress. I wouldn’t have guessed he was a rock musician. When he faced me, I was surprised. I had seen him before. In my dreams! Though considerably younger, he could have been a relative of my albino grandfather or grandmother. He had the same refined, angular features, the same long, graceful body, the same slender fingers, the same white hair and subtly tapering ears, and he had the same scarlet eyes. He greeted me with an inclination of his head, then shouted across to the Scot.
“You promised us a smoother landing, St. Odhran.”
The man he addressed waved a dismissive hand and removed his befeathered bonnet, revealing a shock of red hair above lively blue eyes. With a broad, charming smile which reflected something of the swagger in his manner, he approached me. Reaching out an elegant hand, he made a deep bow, kissing the tips of my fingers. “You are the young Countess, I take it? I am the Chevalier St. Odhran, forever at your service.”
“I’m not a countess,” I told him, still fascinated by his albino friend. I was a bit distracted. “But I’m pleased to meet you. Would the person you’re looking for happen to be German? If so, there’s another gentleman wants to see him down in the village.”
“We are all British, I fear,” said the driver of the car, also presenting himself in that same charming, old-fashioned way. “Even my friend here”—he indicated the man in evening clothes—“has sufficient residency to claim citizenship.” He saluted. “At your service, Colonel Bastable of the LOTA, ma’am.” His manner was playful and won me over. He reminded me a bit of Sting and Hugh Grant combined. “I must say, we seem to have timed our arrival to the second. That’s not always the case. I wonder if you’d mind my asking a question. Would that house be Tower House, the residence of the von Beks?”
“I’m Oo Bek,” I said. “The youngest in the whole family.”
I was surprised that Mr. or Mrs. Hawthornthwaite had not yet come out to investigate, but if they were at the back of the house, perhaps watching the cricket, they might not have heard the visitors arrive. I had no instinctive suspicion of the three men and in fact trusted the albino just because I remembered someone like him in my old dreams, so I answered perhaps more freely than was sensible. I agreed that the Count and Countess von Bek did usually live across the road but that they had gone to London. My own parents, their son and daughter-in-law, were due back from Lancaster fairly soon.
“Ah,” said the tall albino rather sonorously. “The one thing we had not bargained for!” Putting his long case carefully down, he shook hands with me. His were the strongest, har