Cecil settled into the corner of the tearoom, and unrolled Tuesday morning’s Times.

“The War,” he murmured. “Always the blasted War.”

And yet the War was why he was here. With the Antrobus heir tragically killed, the Estate was being auctioned off in lots. Mary fancied some dining chairs.

A teapot arrived, with milk jug.

Then he realised he was not alone at the table.

“Can I help you?”

The newcomers made a queer pair. One a bearded man in white robes, the other an elderly woman. Both little more than tramps.

“Cecil Chubb, of Salisbury?”

Cecil replaced the tea-cup on the saucer.

“If you are enquiring about my legal services .…”

The bearded man smiled. “You are attending the 2 p.m. auction at the Palace Theatre?”

“How the devil did you know that?”

“Mr Chubb, you are our only hope. Your wife seeks chairs. We seek survival.”

“If this is Morris’ idea of a joke, tell him it is in poor taste.”

“No joke. You must buy Lot 15.”

Cecil reached for his pocket handkerchief, and dabbed his forehead. Damned queer business, this. “Lot 15?”

“Stonehenge, Mr Chubb. The ancient standing stones of Salisbury Plain.”

“What on earth would I want with Stonehenge? I’ve picnicked there, and those stones make very poor dining chairs.”

Neither laughed.

“You are a local man,” said the white-haired woman. “We too are from this land, though we remember when there was neither Salisbury nor Wiltshire. Stonehenge is old, even to us, and must remain upon its ancient soil. Else…”

“Else what?”

“Else the spirits of the countryside shall perish, and great calamity shall rain down upon the people of this island.”

Cecil blinked. “Spirits? Standing stones? Balderdash! Find some other fellow to babble at. Good day, to the pair of you.”

He reached for his tea-cup.

“Then be accursed for all time.”

The strangers vanished.

***

Cecil hurried down the street, towards the Palace Theatre. Lunchtime crowds darted around. Motor cars, too.

He knew he was being watched.

“Come out, cowards.”

No-one answered.

He was passing a tavern, when a solitary drunk – eye-patched and grey – called out. “Ho there, Mr Chubb! Danger awaits!”

Cecil stopped, and approached him. “What now? How do you know me?”

“Old Jones can see things others can’t. You have a great black dog on your tail, Mr Chubb. It is getting ever-closer.”

“A … black dog?”

“Aye, a mighty hound, black as night, and I see by the terror in your eyes, you understand your peril.”

“I … have heard stories. Wiltshire children’s tales.”

Cecil looked over his shoulder. He saw nothing.

“No idle stories, Mr Chubb. A Salisbury man like yourself should know better. But why might a black dog curse you so?”

Cecil turned, and shouted into the crowd. “Very well! I shall buy Stonehenge! Leave me alone!”

People stared for a moment, and walked on.

“Aye,” said Old Jones. “It’s gone. Thank goodness.”

Cecil drew a deep breath. “I have an auction to win, and not for chairs.”  

[Written by Daniel Stride.]