Demon on a Distant Shore (24 page)

Right. I did not tell her much. While Royal and I ran all over the place in search of clues, Carrie’s fuzzy head could hold a wealth of useful information. I just had to ask the right questions. But later. Right now I really wanted to get out of this fog.

The fog became denser. Tiny beads glittered on Royal’s hair as we passed beneath a streetlamp. Glad of his hand holding mine, I tugged him to my side. He let go of my hand and cradled my shoulders. Carrie came a few paces behind us.

The fog damped down sound, making the village eerily silent but for our footfalls. Knowing Royal, wary of danger, strained his senses to the max, I let my thoughts range over what we knew.

Scott Norton gets sick and knows it’s fatal. He wants reconciliation with his brother, tries to find him and discovers his brother died, but had a son. Scott is in a decline by then, so asks Patty to find Paul. She hires us on the recommendation of Gertrude Hackenbacher. We arrive in Little Barrow - their last known place of residence - and when I ask after the Nortons our room is searched. Connection? Maybe. Or the inn could have a dishonest employee who rifles guests’ rooms for small valuables, but didn’t see anything in ours worth taking, and dared not steal Royal’s laptop because the theft would be too obvious.

The note about Peter Cooper, just his name. Peter Cooper the investigator. What could he have to do with anything? Is he looking for the Nortons too? Where is he? Why, and who, trashed his office?

Then there’s Johnny. Johnny sees men clearing out the Norton’s house and suspects they are up to no good. Local Darnel Fowler, a police officer no less, runs the kid down.

Clarke tries to kill us and ends up murdered, doubtless by whoever hired him. Was it Fowler? Why did Clarke try to run us down? What did we do apart from ask Greg about the Nortons?

We check out Cooper’s office and Pegasus Van Lines, and stop by Mrs. Marsh’s house, but nobody sees us. Royal would know if. . . .

My hand bunched the back of Royal’s jacket. “Mrs. Marsh. She saw us.”

Royal didn’t break stride. “True. But why suspect us, of anything? Because we are staying in Little Barrow?”

I dug in my feet, bringing us to a stop. “A woman on the edge would be suspicious of almost everything. She could have made a phone call to check up on us.”

“Hm. If she is in that bad a shape, she must have reason.”

“Like knowing Johnny’s death wasn’t an accident? His kid brother said as much.”

“Surely a mother would do everything in her power to bring her son’s killer to justice,” Carrie said.

“Unless she has a damn good reason not to.”

“Which would be?”

“No idea.”

We walked on. Trying to hash out the twists in this case made my head ache.

We should tell the Norton’s attorneys what happened to Paul and Sylvia, go home, collect our paycheck and get on with our lives. We couldn’t do anything to help Johnny. We would have to take on the British police force and convince them one of their cops was a murderer. Right. As if that would fly. They would not look at the evidence, but they would look at us.

We sat in our room doing nothing. By we, I mean Royal and I. Thank the powers-that-be Carrie didn’t follow us in.

Fred Sturgis told us to go home on the next available flight, the day after tomorrow, but I didn’t want to leave yet. Sure, I looked forward to getting home, but I also wanted justice for Johnny. I wanted to know why Clarke tried to kill us. And how was Peter Cooper involved?

“Enough of this,” Royal suddenly announced in the heavy silence, making me twitch. “We should get out of here and go see the sights.”

I gave him a twisted smile and nodded at the fog which pressed at the windows, condensed and drizzled down in thin rivulets. “You are kidding, right?”

He got to his feet and presented his hand. “It’s not that bad.”

I let him pull me to my feet. “Where are we going?”

“Shall we ask Sally to recommend somewhere?”

I grabbed my jacket as protection from the moisture-laden air. We went downstairs to the bar hand in hand.

Sally stood behind the desk. “Bit of a dismal day.”

“It is, Sally.” Royal bestowed his smile. “But we are tired of being cooped up. We thought we would take in a local attraction, something not too far away. Any suggestions?”

“As a matter of fact I do. This is a fine day for Avebury.”

Her definition of a fine day differed from mine.

“It is world famous and not far from Little Barrow. Not much of the circles remain, but hundreds of stones are still standing. And there is the village and manor house. Lovely place.”

By “stones” she meant the Neolithic and Bronze Age monuments all over Great Britain, Stonehenge being the most famous.

She turned her gaze to me. “Avebury is thought to be one of the most spiritual sites in England, and on a day like this . . . you really should go.”

Like I wanted to go anyplace
spiritual
, but Royal nodded his agreement. “Interesting.”

Traipsing around outside in the fog didn’t sound like a fun excursion to me. There had to be other places we could visit on a day like this, places inside, warm and dry. I picked up one of the small brochures which fanned over the desk. “Look. Salisbury Cathedral!”

Her gaze narrowed on me. She took the brochure from my hand between thumb and forefinger. “This is the perfect day for Avebury. And while you are there you must walk through the woods. They are dense and beautiful at this time of year.”

She plucked a different brochure from the desk and passed it to Royal. “There you are. You will not get lost.”

He took the brochure. “Thank you, Sally.”

A small exasperated
huh
escaped me. Personally, I thought Royal had to be just a
little
bit crazy, wanting to drive the English countryside in a
pea-souper
.

We went through the backdoor. The fog looked alive as it rolled across the meadow, advancing on the courtyard. I searched the shadows for a humped shape, but no little creature squatted there.

In the car park, the fog had weight to it, clinging like thick, dank spider webs. The cars were shadowy shapes. Royal used the automatic opener; we followed the beep and flashing headlights to our rental.

We drove away from The Hart and Garter through muffled streets, the cottages by the road looming shapes which came in focus when we passed a streetlamp. Royal turned on the wipers as moisture condensed on the windshield. As we left Little Barrow, the little oases of light from windows and lamps dropped behind us and we entered a gray, haunted world. I grew edgy, hoping a bus would not come from the other direction, wondering if Royal would see a roadside bank, hedge or fence before we hit it.

The fog lifted past Little Barrow; perhaps the rain chased it away. Raindrops spattered the windshield. Lulled by the drone of the engine and rhythmic
whump-whump
of the wipers, I relaxed to the extent I almost dozed off.

“Agh!” I yelled, grabbing the seat as the car swerved, startling me from my comfortable stupor. Then we bumped and juddered over an uneven surface for what seemed far too long. I tried to stutter a question and noticed the edge of Royal’s perfectly serene expression. We slid to a stop.

“What. . . ? What are you
doing
?” I managed to gasp out, wondering if my fingers were permanently fixed to the seat cushion.

The dashboard clock said four-fifteen. I peered through the wet windshield. A tree with a small car parked beneath. Another car. Another.

Royal turned off the engine. “This is the parking area.”

“It’s a field.”

A brief nod. “A parking field, then.”

“No such thing.” I opened my door so I could see better.

We were indeed parked on the edge of a field. Trees and clumps of long grass marched a line ahead of us, a tall unruly hedge just beyond. A dozen cars difficult to see in the pelting rain shared the area with us. “This is it?”

“Ready?”

“Why does Sally think today’s a good day to see this?”

“I think she meant the fog gives it an eerie atmosphere as it would if you came at dusk.”

I already felt a creepy atmosphere. No dead people to annoy me, but a weird uneasiness. But I didn’t tell Royal, he likes nothing better than to tease me. “No fog, but plenty of rain. Let’s go back.”

“Come on, Tiff. Or do you want to sit in our room the rest of the afternoon?”

I slammed back in my seat. “Fine.”

He turned on the dome light so we could read the brochure. ‘
These Downes looke as if they were Sown with great Stones, very thicke; and in a dusky evening they looke like a flock of Sheep: from whence it takes its name. One might fancy it to have been the Scene where the Giants fought with stones against the Gods. . . . I was wonderfully surprised at the sight of these vast stones, of which I’d never heard before; as also at the mighty Banke and Graffe [ditch] about it. I observed in the Inclosures some segments of rude circles, made with these stones, whence I concluded, they had been in old time complete.’
Some guy named John Aubrey wrote that in 1648.

I remembered the look in Sally’s eyes, how she focused on me. “She was awful insistent we came here.”

“Sally? I’m sure she is familiar with Avebury and often recommends it to guests.”

Fine.

We scooted from the car, slammed the doors and dashed for the tree-line. Royal caught my hand and pulled me to a break between trees.

We were on a narrow path, the right side flanked by Horse Chestnut trees. On our left, an ancient brick wall with moss growing in the crevices surrounded a large brick house with symmetrically placed flower beds and expanses of lush lawn. “Is that the manor house?”

“I do not think so. The manor house is older.”

I felt soggy, and moisture gleamed on Royal’s hair and jacket.

“Help me help me help me!”

I was a hair away from freaking out. But Royal laughed at me the last time a peacock’s cry made me jump out of my skin. “They have peacocks here,” I said calmly. “This place is
full
of atmosphere.”

We came to an open tract of land. Open, apart from the massive stones dotted around on green turf, the ground gently rising and falling. The path led between high wooden fences with the stones either side. Low buildings clustered ahead, but I couldn’t see them clearly with the rain coming down.

“Anywhere here we can get coffee?”

“Up ahead, in the village.” He stepped to one side, to a gate in the fence, lifted the latch and pushed it open.

I put one hand on the gate. “Is it okay to go in there?”

“According to the brochure, the fence is to keep animals out, not people.” He yanked on my hand and towed me through the opening.

The stones were impressive in their setting of smooth green dips and mounds. We walked over sodden grass to the nearest one, a behemoth which rose ten feet above our heads. Royal splayed his hand on the pitted surface. “It’s thought construction began around five thousand years ago.” He removed his hand to indicate the village. “Some of those homes are built of materials quarried in 3,000 BC.”

I should have been awed, but I was wet and cold and miserable. I didn’t want to be here. Even the temptation of a cup of hot coffee couldn’t dispel my bad mood. I made a face and snuffled. “Well that was fun. Real educational too. I’m drowning. Can we go now?”