The Wood Beyond

Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain in 1996 by HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Reginald Hill 1996

Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007313167

Ebook Edition © JULY 2015 ISBN 9780007386772 Version: 2015-06-22

And what may I deem now, but that this is a land of mere lies, & that there is nought real and alive therein save me. Yea, belike even these trees & the green grass will presently depart from me, & leave me falling down through the clouds.

WILLIAM MORRIS, The Wood Beyond the World

No evidence was found to lead us … to think that the convictions were unsound or that the accused were treated unfairly … we cannot rewrite history by substituting our latter-day judgement for that of contemporaries …

JOHN MAJOR, Response (Feb 1993) to request to reconsider cases of British soldiers executed during WW1

si canimus silvas, silvae sint consule dignae^>*.

VIRGIL, Eclogue IV

* If we must sing of woods, let them be woods that are worthy of a prime minister

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Prologue

Part One: Sanctuary

i

ii

iii

iv

v

vi

vii

viii

ix

x

xi

xii

xiii

xiv

xv

xvi

Part Two: Glencorse

i

ii

iii

iv

v

vi

vii

viii

ix

x

xi

Part Three: Polygon

i

ii

iii

iv

v

vi

vii

viii

ix

x

xi

xii

xiii

xiv

xv

xvi

xvii

Part Four: Wanwood

i

ii

iii

iv

v

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Keep Reading

About the Author

By Reginald Hill

About the Publisher

Monday morning, start of a new week, air bright as ice in a crystal glass, brandy-gold sun pouring from delft-blue sky, the old bracken glowing on the rolling moors, the trees still pied with their unblasted leaves, the pastures still green with their unmuddied grass, as October runs into November and thinks it’s September still.

Edgar Wield drove slowly out of Enscombe, slowly because on mornings like this what you were driving through was far more important than where you were driving to, and also because during the short time he’d been living in the village he’d learned that only a fool assumed that the narrow roads ran clear further than the next bend.

His caution was rewarded when he eased round a corner and found George Creed shepherding the stragglers of a flock of sheep through a gate into a field set up with holding pens. The sight made him smile at the echo of his first sighting of Creed doing much the same task on this very road. Since then they’d become both neighbours and friends.

‘’Morning, George, fine-looking beasts,’ he called through his open window.

Domicile entitled him to this pretension of expertise, though he wasn’t altogether sure whether the term beasts could legitimately be applied to sheep as well as cattle.

‘’Morning, Edgar,’ said Creed. ‘Happen they’ll do. Sounds daft, but I’ll be sorry to see them go.’

‘They’re off then?’ said Wield now taking in the significance of the pens.

‘Aye, folk have got to eat, that’s what farming’s all about. But the older I get, the more it bothers me, selling off what I’ve bred up. Don’t be saying owt of this down in the Morris else they’ll be thinking I’m going soft in the head!’

‘Which market are you taking them to?’

‘No market. I’ve always dealt man and boy with Haig’s of Wharfedale. They give me top price ’cos they know my stock, and I sell them my stock ’cos I know they’ll see them right. So watch out for their wagon on your way into town. Take up most of the road them things.’

‘I’ll be careful,’ said Wield. ‘No hurry on a morning like this. I’d as lief be staying here to give you a hand if you’d have me.’

‘I’m always willing to set on a likely lad,’ laughed Creed. ‘But I think you’d be wanting your cards afore the end of the day.’

He glanced upwards as he spoke and Wield followed his gaze into the unflawed bowl of blue sky.