7

‘How are you, Dad?'

Cadi was standing in her back garden. The meadow, now mown and the hay baled, was populated with fifty or so sheep. No one had told Dai Prosser not to put them there. There had been no sign of strangers eyeing up the land. Charles Ford had not, as far as she knew, returned.

‘I'm good.' Her father had picked up the call almost at once this time after she had spent several days trying in vain to leave him a message. He obviously didn't believe in switching on any answering gizmos on his phone. ‘When are you coming to see me?'

‘Maybe in the autumn, Dad. That would be nice.' Her father, long widowed, had decamped to France several years before. The slight note of reproach in his voice cut no ice with Cadi. She knew he was having the time of his life out there in his Proven?al cottage.

After all the preliminary chat and questions as to his welfare, which as expected he answered with practised vagueness, she got to the point of her call. ‘Dad, do you happen to know where Uncle Meryn is?'

‘Why?'

The coldness in his tone was clear even in that one word.

‘I wanted to ask him something.'

The two Jones brothers had never got along, but even so, they kept in touch. ‘At a safe distance', as her father, Owen, described it. They came, as Owen constantly reminded his daughter, from different planets. How could they be friends?

‘Don't tell me you want to talk gobbledegook!' Owen -grumbled.

Cadi laughed. ‘Yup. Exactly that. I know he's in America. I wondered if you had an email address or something for him.'

‘Last time I heard, he was back at his cottage in Wales.' The reply was grudging. ‘I suppose I can find his phone number if you really want it.'

‘Oh come on, Dad, what's he done now?'

‘Nothing.'

She sighed. The brothers barely spoke. Never would, but she realised as she glanced down at the number she had scribbled in her notebook, her father hadn't had to look it up. He had known it off the top of his head. A mobile too. Who would have thought her dotty uncle Meryn would own such a thing. Dotty as in psychic. Dotty as in expert on the weird and wonderful and, wonderfully, back in Wales after his long sojourn in the United States.

‘Hello, Cadi. How are you?' Meryn was obviously outside somewhere. She could hear the wind echoing in the phone.

‘I was wondering if you could give me some advice.'

‘About?'

‘I'm not sure.'

‘Right.'

The reception on the phone improved as she heard a door bang. He had obviously gone indoors.

‘I keep hearing things,' she said cautiously.

‘And since you've called me and not your doctor, I take it it's not tinnitus?'

‘It's marching feet. And a galloping horse.'

‘Interesting.'

‘Actually, it's a bit scary. You couldn't come over, could you?'

‘I'm busy, Cadi.'

‘I know. It's just– it's urgent. They're threatening to build houses on the meadow next to my cottage and the noise of soldiers marching is getting closer each time I hear it. Closer and more urgent. I think they're Roman soldiers.'

‘Coming to the rescue of the meadow?'

‘No. Yes. Perhaps. I don't know. But there's something weird going on. I need, we need, to prove there was a Roman villa here.'

‘And you want me to stand the middle of the meadow wearing my cloak and pointy hat and tell them the field is haunted so they can't build there? You know what, Cadi, they would be ecstatic. They would charge double for houses in a haunted field.'

She scowled. ‘I wasn't suggesting you do that. As if I would! You are a proper professor, aren't you? You could prepare a real scientific professory sort of report. You don't have to be specific.'

‘Cadi– "a real, scientific professory sort of report"! What on earth do you think it is I do?'

She grinned to herself. ‘Not sure. Dad thinks you're a ghost hunter. I know you have super powers. Please, Uncle Meryn.' She was doing a mock wheedle. ‘You could just demand another, more thorough survey. A proper one. What is it they do on the TV? Geophys or something?'

‘I think you'll find it's called ground-penetrating radar. And they haven't done that?'

‘Not as far as I know. Chris, one of my neighbours, has been in touch with the planning office and demanded to see the survey, and I gather they came up with all sorts of stuff about it being unavailable. He doesn't believe there is one. Not a proper one. Either that or there is something there they don't want us to see. You'll be my secret weapon. I won't tell anyone how we know we're right, we'll just insist they come and do the investigation again with us there to watch.'

‘And so far your only reason for thinking they're lying and there was a villa there, is that you have heard a ghostly army marching to the rescue?'

‘And there is a long tradition in the village of something there, and in David's family too. We know there was definitely something called a marching camp, which might explain the marching footsteps, but I gather that isn't important enough alone to stop the development.'

‘Who owns the field?'

‘The developer.'

‘Oh dear. And what does the council say?'

‘The community council is one hundred per cent with us. The county council seem to think there's no good reason to say no to the application. Chris thinks that in itself is suspicious. He thinks maybe someone has slipped someone a backhander.' There was a hopeful silence. ‘Please.'

‘I suppose I could come and take a look.' He sighed.

‘That's brilliant. I thought you were still in the States. I thought you would have to write to them. But if you can come, that is perfect. I won't tell a soul, obviously. We could just go for a walk. At the moment there's a footpath across the field and there are sheep in there. It all seems quite normal. Oh,Uncle Meryn, it will be so good to see you again. When can you come?'

‘I'll drive over tomorrow.' She could hear the laughter in his voice. ‘And, Cadi, for the record: I am an emeritus professor and I hold two doctorates. That professory enough for you?'