‘Oh,’ Orla said, frustrated.
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ Bill told her. ‘Is there nothing in the castle’s records?’
‘Not that I remember,’ Orla said. ‘Nobody mentioned this was hidden away in the basement.’
‘That’s a shame. The man who owned the place before you didn’t really live here at all. He had a bit of work done on it, but he spent most of his time in Italy. I don’t suppose he knew it was here either.’
Bill took a closer look at it, a frown of concentration on his face. ‘You know, there is someone who might know a bit more about this.’
‘Who, Bill?’ Orla asked.
Bill pursed his lips, looking as if he wanted to keep the information locked inside them.
‘Cranbrook. Ernest Cranbrook. Local historian. Used to live in The Saltings – the big house by the quay – but moved inland after his wife died.’
‘Have you a number for him?’ Luke asked.
‘No, but I know where he lives. We could take a chance and call round. But I should warn you . . .’
‘About what?’ Luke asked.
‘He’s a little . . . What’s the polite way of saying it? Eccentric.’
Orla smiled. ‘That’s okay,’ she told him. ‘I totally get eccentric!’
‘You’re okay going, then?’ Luke asked her.
Orla nodded. She could feel her heart racing, but knew it was with excitement about finding out more about the castle as it was about nerves in leaving its safety.
It didn’t take long for the three of them to leave the castle. A short drive in Luke’s van took them to the tiny hamlet of Sidbourne, with its fine flint church and a huddle of houses overlooking a green.
‘It’s that one there,’ Bill said, pointing to a red-brick cottage with a wonky chimney and an overgrown garden.
‘Ah,’ Luke said.
‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ Bill said, shaking his head in despair. ‘Before his wife died, she was a passionate gardener. The Saltings was always immaculate. But it was all left to go over after she passed. Used to drive Mildred Smy nuts. She was always banging on doors, trying to get people to keep their gardens neat and tidy. “For the greater good,” she’d say. I think she was relieved when Ernest sold up and moved out here.’
The three of them got out of the van and Bill walked ahead, opening a gate that was only half on its hinges and heading up a path made of brick but which had disappeared under a sea of weeds long ago. Bill tutted.
‘Breaks my heart. I should come out here and take it in hand.’
He approached the front door. Luke followed next, with Orla behind him. She had grabbed a favourite hat at the last minute but had decided not to hide behind sunglasses.
Bill rapped on the door, which was sun-bleached and had flaking paint. Orla noticed net curtains at the windows which were decidedly grubby. Or maybe that was the windows. Or possibly both.
Bill knocked again and, when the door opened, a curly-haired man wearing tiny round glasses stared at them. He was probably about the same age as Bill, but that’s where the resemblance ended. Whereas Bill always looked completely present and alert, this man looked a little glazed and vague, but his smile was a welcoming one.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’
‘Ernest? It’s Bill. From Lorford.’
Ernest frowned. ‘Bill . . . Wilson!’
‘That’s right.’
‘Always loved that name. A good rhyming sound. Bill Wilson!’
Orla smiled.
‘And these are my friends – Luke and Orla.’
They both came forward and shook hands.
‘Good to meet you,’ Ernest said.
‘Orla owns the castle now,’ Bill went on.
‘Does she, indeed?’ Ernest’s small eyes lit up behind his glasses.
‘Actually, it’s that we’ve come to talk to you about.’
Ernest nodded, his smile still in place, but didn’t make a move to invite them in.
‘Can we – er – come in?’ Bill tried.
‘Oh, yes. Of course. Forgive me. Where are my manners? Come in. Come in!’ He opened the door wider and they all entered a dark, narrow hallway lined with books, only there weren’t shelves or bookcases – only the books themselves, stacked in teetering, tottering piles. Orla glanced at Luke, whose eyes betrayed his amusement.
As they walked down the hall, Orla noticed a door open into a room on the left which, like the hallway, was full of books. These, though, looked a little more organised, sitting on shelves. There was also a single wooden chair and a telescope. That was all.
‘This way,’ Ernest said, leading them into what, in a normal home, might be a sitting room but was yet another room full of books. ‘There’s a sofa in here somewhere,’ he told them, obviously aware of what the room must look like to visitors.
Bill came forward and moved a heap of newspapers and notebooks. There were so many notebooks, all of differing sizes, and Orla couldn’t help noticing that the ones that had been left open were full of neat, tiny writing in blue ink. Luke and Orla helped, carefully taking an armful of the books away, placing them on the floor.
‘Ah – there it is!’ Ernest said with a winning smile once the sofa was revealed. ‘I can’t remember the last time I saw it. Do please sit. Can I get you anything? What is it young people drink these days? I’m sure I could find a teabag of some description.’
‘Oh, no – really,’ Luke quickly interceded.
‘No need to go to any trouble,’ Orla agreed, secretly dreading what Ernest Cranbrook’s kitchen looked like and not wishing to consume anything that might come out of it.
‘We were just hoping for a bit of information,’ Bill began as he sat down on the sagging sofa. ‘Orla – would you like to tell him what you’ve discovered?’
‘Yes,’ she said, sitting next to Bill as Luke examined a couple of old prints on the mantelpiece. ‘We’ve uncovered a rather unusual carving in the basement of the castle. What used to be the dungeon. It was covered up. Luke’s just found it. It’s carved at the bottom of an arch and looks pretty old.’
‘And what does it depict?’ Ernest asked.
‘Well, I think it might be the Wild Man,’ Bill said.
‘I had a feeling you were going to say that,’ Ernest told him, nodding to himself as he moved across the room towards a precarious tower of books. ‘Now, then – where is it? I know it’s here somewhere.’
Orla glanced at Luke again and they exchanged a bemused look. Did this man really know where all his books were? It seemed unlikely and yet there was a decided purpose about him and, sure enough, he pulled a book out with a triumphant cry. ‘The Wild Man of the Sea! A Tale of the Suffolk Coast.’ He handed the old hardback with the ripped cover to Bill, who flipped through it before handing it to Orla. It was a grubby-looking tome with pages that were yellowing and mottled, but there were some very good illustrations inside of green men, hairy beasts and something that bore a striking resemblance to her very own Wild Man.
‘Could we show you our Wild Man?’ Orla asked him.
‘At the castle?’ Ernest said.
‘Yes.’
‘We could take you there now,’ Luke said, on his feet in an instant. ‘That is, if you’re not doing anything.’