that I couldn't
guarantee such a thing. 'Where exactly is this wood?' he asked.
'It's on the Ryhope estate,' I said, and stood and bent over the map. After a
second I saw the name. Strangely, there was no indication at all of the
woodland, just a dotted line indicating the extent of the massive property.
Keeton was looking at me peculiarly when I straightened up. I said, 'It isn't
marked. That's odd.'
'Very,' he said. His tone was matter of fact ... or perhaps slightly knowing.
'How big is the place?' he asked then. 'How extensive?' Still he stared at me.
'Very extensive. A perimeter of more than six miles . . .'
'Six miles!' he exclaimed, then smiled thinly. 'That's not a wood, that's a
forest!'
In the silence that followed I became certain that he knew at least something about Ryhope Wood. I said, 'You've been flying close to the place yourself.
You or one of your pilots.'
He nodded quickly, glancing at the map. "That was me. You saw me, did
you?'
'It's what gave me the idea of coming to the air field.' When he added
nothing, but just looked very slightly cagey, I went on, 'You must have noticed
the anomaly, then. Nothing marked on the survey map . . .'
But instead of addressing himself to the statement, Harry Keeton just sat
down and toyed with a pencil. He studied the map, then me, then the contours
again. All he said was, 'I didn't know we had any mediaeval oak woodland
of that extent left uncharted. Is it managed woodland?'
'Partly. Most of it is quite wild, though.'
He leaned back in his chair; the burn scar had darkened slightly and I
thought he seemed to be restraining a growing excitement. 'That in itself is
amazing,' he said. 'The Forest of Dean is immense, of course, but it's well
managed. There's a wood in Norfolk that's wild. I've been there . . .' He
hesitated, frowning slightly. 'There are others. All small, all just woodland
that has been allowed to go wild. Not real wildwood at all.'
Keeton suddenly seemed quite on edge. He stared at the map, at the area of
the Ryhope estate, and I thought he murmured something like, 'So I was right. .
.'
'Can you help me with a flight over the wood, then?' I asked and Keeton
glanced at me suspiciously.
'Why do you want to over-fly it?'
I started to tell him, then broke off. 'I don't want this talked about -'
'I understand.'
'My brother is wandering somewhere inside it. Months ago he went exploring
and hasn't come back. I don't know if he's lost or dead, but I'd like to see
what can be seen from the air. I realize that it's irregular . . .'
Keeton was immersed in his own thoughts. He had gone quite pale, now, all
save the burn scars on his jaw. He focused on me suddenly and shook his head.
'Irregular? Well, yes. But I can manage it. It will be expensive. I'll have to
charge you for fuel. . .'
'How much?'
He quoted a likely figure for a sixty mile jaunt that made the blood drain
from my face. But I agreed, and was relieved to discover that there would be no
other costs. He would fly me out himself. He would turn the cameras on Ryhope
Wood and add it to the landscape map that he was compiling. 'It would have to be
done eventually, r ight as well do it now. The earliest I
could fly you out is tomorrow, after two o'clock. Is that all right with you?'
Fine,' I said. I'll be here.'
We shook hands. As I left the office I glanced back. Keeton was standing
quite motionless behind his desk, staring at the survey map; I noticed that his
hands were shaking slightly.
I had flown only once before. The journey had lasted four hours and had been
in a battered, bullet-ravaged Dakota, which had taken off during a thunderstorm
and landed on deflated tyres on the runway at Marseilles. I had known little of
the drama, being drugged and semiconscious; it was an evacuation flight arranged
with great difficulty, to the place of convalescence where I would recover from
the bullet wound in my chest.
So the flight in the Percival Proctor was effectively my first trip
guarantee such a thing. 'Where exactly is this wood?' he asked.
'It's on the Ryhope estate,' I said, and stood and bent over the map. After a
second I saw the name. Strangely, there was no indication at all of the
woodland, just a dotted line indicating the extent of the massive property.
Keeton was looking at me peculiarly when I straightened up. I said, 'It isn't
marked. That's odd.'
'Very,' he said. His tone was matter of fact ... or perhaps slightly knowing.
'How big is the place?' he asked then. 'How extensive?' Still he stared at me.
'Very extensive. A perimeter of more than six miles . . .'
'Six miles!' he exclaimed, then smiled thinly. 'That's not a wood, that's a
forest!'
In the silence that followed I became certain that he knew at least something about Ryhope Wood. I said, 'You've been flying close to the place yourself.
You or one of your pilots.'
He nodded quickly, glancing at the map. "That was me. You saw me, did
you?'
'It's what gave me the idea of coming to the air field.' When he added
nothing, but just looked very slightly cagey, I went on, 'You must have noticed
the anomaly, then. Nothing marked on the survey map . . .'
But instead of addressing himself to the statement, Harry Keeton just sat
down and toyed with a pencil. He studied the map, then me, then the contours
again. All he said was, 'I didn't know we had any mediaeval oak woodland
of that extent left uncharted. Is it managed woodland?'
'Partly. Most of it is quite wild, though.'
He leaned back in his chair; the burn scar had darkened slightly and I
thought he seemed to be restraining a growing excitement. 'That in itself is
amazing,' he said. 'The Forest of Dean is immense, of course, but it's well
managed. There's a wood in Norfolk that's wild. I've been there . . .' He
hesitated, frowning slightly. 'There are others. All small, all just woodland
that has been allowed to go wild. Not real wildwood at all.'
Keeton suddenly seemed quite on edge. He stared at the map, at the area of
the Ryhope estate, and I thought he murmured something like, 'So I was right. .
.'
'Can you help me with a flight over the wood, then?' I asked and Keeton
glanced at me suspiciously.
'Why do you want to over-fly it?'
I started to tell him, then broke off. 'I don't want this talked about -'
'I understand.'
'My brother is wandering somewhere inside it. Months ago he went exploring
and hasn't come back. I don't know if he's lost or dead, but I'd like to see
what can be seen from the air. I realize that it's irregular . . .'
Keeton was immersed in his own thoughts. He had gone quite pale, now, all
save the burn scars on his jaw. He focused on me suddenly and shook his head.
'Irregular? Well, yes. But I can manage it. It will be expensive. I'll have to
charge you for fuel. . .'
'How much?'
He quoted a likely figure for a sixty mile jaunt that made the blood drain
from my face. But I agreed, and was relieved to discover that there would be no
other costs. He would fly me out himself. He would turn the cameras on Ryhope
Wood and add it to the landscape map that he was compiling. 'It would have to be
done eventually, r ight as well do it now. The earliest I
could fly you out is tomorrow, after two o'clock. Is that all right with you?'
Fine,' I said. I'll be here.'
We shook hands. As I left the office I glanced back. Keeton was standing
quite motionless behind his desk, staring at the survey map; I noticed that his
hands were shaking slightly.
I had flown only once before. The journey had lasted four hours and had been
in a battered, bullet-ravaged Dakota, which had taken off during a thunderstorm
and landed on deflated tyres on the runway at Marseilles. I had known little of
the drama, being drugged and semiconscious; it was an evacuation flight arranged
with great difficulty, to the place of convalescence where I would recover from
the bullet wound in my chest.
So the flight in the Percival Proctor was effectively my first trip
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