I found Quinnell sitting at David's desk, tapping at the keys of the computer with one finger, aimlessly. He raised his head as I came in, and smiled at the picture I made.
"My dear girl, could you have found a larger raincoat, do you think?"
"It was the closest thing to hand," I told him, pushing back the hood. "My sister conveniently forgot to pack my own, you see..."
"Conveniently?"
"It's a Barbour raincoat," I explained. "Almost new."
"Ah." He looked me up and down, assessingly. "Well, I'm sure we can find something more your size. I can barely sec you, in that one. You look like a large rubber duck.''
At least I was dry, I consoled myself, shaking out the dripping folds while Peter returned his attention to the computer. "I thought Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest," I reminded him.
"What? Oh, yes ... yes, it is." He typed something out and frowned. "It's only that this system is still giving us some problems. Eating my reports, you know, and spewing out all kinds of unintelligible symbols—that sort of thing."
"That sounds rather like you might have a virus," I offered, moving closer to look.
"Yes, well, that's what we thought, too, at first. But we've had it all checked out and serviced since, and our consultant couldn't find a problem."
"How odd."
"Not to worry, I'm sure we'll get it sorted out." Switching off the machine, he stood and smiled warmly. "If all else fails, I can always hit it with my cricket bat. Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"That would be brilliant, thanks."
He went through to the common room and came back with two mismatched mugs of steaming liquid—black for himself, and white for me. He'd only seen me drinking coffee once, last weekend, and I was surprised he'd remembered how I took it; but then Peter Quinnell, I had noticed, made a habit of remembering.
"You look as though you need this," he said, handing the mug over. "Did the rain keep you awake, last night?"
I assured him I'd slept very well. "I only woke up once, I think, and that was the fault of your neighbor's horses. He ought to be shot, really, keeping them out in this weather."
Quinnell's eyebrows drew together, vaguely. "Horses?"
“Yes, the ones in the field behind here. Does he race them, or something?"
"There are no horses here, my dear. A few cows, maybe, but..."
"I've heard them twice now," I said firmly. "Galloping."
"Ah." He nodded, smiling faintly, a parent amused by an obstinate child. "Perhaps you've been hearing the shadowy horses.''
"The what?"
"That's Yeats," he explained kindly, naming the great Irish poet. " 'I hear the Shadowy Horses ...' Pucas, I suppose he meant—evil spirits in the shape of horses, though it's quite the wrong season for pucas, just now. November's their month." He tilted his head to one side, thinking. "Of course, Yeats might have been writing of Manannan's horses. In Ireland, our sea-god, Manannan Mac Lir, is also the god of the otherworld, riding his chariot over the waves in the wake of his magical horses. They carry men off, do those horses—over the water and into the mist, to the land where the living can't go. When I was small," he said, his eyes warming, “my father would show me the waves rolling in, with their curling white foam, and say: 'Look now, boy, look at the horses of Manannan, see their white manes... he'll be coming behind in his chariot.' "
Small wonder the Irish were poets, I thought, when their gods were as close as the waves on the sea. "And did you ever see him?" I asked.
"Manannan? Oh, no." The long eyes softened, turning inward. "But I shall, my dear, one day. No doubt sooner than I'd like."
His voice was gentle and resigned, but it bothered me to think of him as old, to think of the sea-god's horses coming to carry him off to the country of the dead. And anyway, the horses that I heard at night were either real or dreamed, not phantom creatures born of Irish folklore.
"I've been taking another look at that sherd you found, yesterday," he went on, changing the subject. "Gave it a bit of a cleaning. It came up rather nicely . .. would you like to see?"
Unlocking the door to the finds room, he switched on the light to show me where the gleaming bloodred fragment, freshly scrubbed, lay drying on a bit of newspaper beside the sink.
"The edges, you see," he pointed out, "aren't abraded, they're sharp, so it's possible that fragment was buried soon after deposit. In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if we didn't find a few more sherds, nearby—parts of the same shattered pot." Bending over the three buckets of excavated soil that David had brought indoors yesterday, when the rain began, Quinnell poked about in one, experimentally.
"Would you like me to help you look?" I offered.
But before I could lift a finger, a firmly feminine voice spoke out in no uncertain terms from the open doorway of the finds room, telling me that I'd do no such thing. "It's your day off," said Jeannie McMorran, turning her maternally reproachful gaze on Quinnell. "Peter, I'm that surprised at you."
He held his ground admirably. "My dear, she offered."
"Aye. Well, whatever she was going to help you with, I'm afraid you'll have to manage on your own. I've something more exciting planned for Verity. You ken that Robbie's got his piano lesson in half an hour..."