Demon on a Distant Shore (30 page)

Why did Fowler murder his neighbors? What did Peter Cooper know for which he had to die? Why did Pickins kill Fowler? When Fowler refused to tell me more than that Pickins killed him, he said, “I have a family.” Did he fear for their safety if he blabbed?

Did Fowler have a beef with the Nortons, reason enough to kill them, and killed Cooper and Johnny because they could point the police in his direction? Of did someone hire him?

Suppose they
were
hired to kill the Nortons. Large sums of money had not been deposited in Fowler’s or Pickins’ bank accounts, but they could have cash squirreled away someplace. No large deposits in Clarke’s account either, and it seemed to me a professional criminal of his ilk would at least demand something upfront. There again, he could have agreed to payment on completion and Fowler and Pickins knew that would not happen, because they planned to kill him all along.

If the murders were not part of a personal vendetta, and Pickins and Fowler
did
work for hire, where was the money? Maybe whoever hired the dirty duo promised they would take care of their families if the cops kept their lips sealed. When Fowler mentioned his family, he meant they would get the blood money if he kept quiet. The same could apply to Pickins’ wife.

Maybe Pickins killed Fowler because he wanted it all.

Devizes police returned our passports, booked us a US flight and would give us a ride to the airport. We would have to return for the trial, but it could be a long time down the road.

A plaque etched with tiny script beside St. Thomas’ front door tells you the church first appeared in history in 1086, but nothing of that church survived. Built in 1124, rebuilt in 1332, the new church retained the twelfth century octagonal font with sixteen blind arches, placed on what is probably a reused Norman capital. The graveyard was consecrated in 1402.

Extensive rebuilding, easily distinguished by being brick, took place in 1812. Further restoration took place in 1873 when the chancel roof was remodeled.

Most of the graves are gentle mounds, the markers long gone. Does anyone still know who lies beneath, or care?

We walked among the remaining granite and marble stones and those like tiny crypts with lids a-tilt.I flinched when Royal’s hand came to rest on my shoulder.

We found Johnny’s grave easily enough, the pale gray marble stone still sleek, the lettering in stark black jumping out at us. Seventeen years old. Poor kid, wrong place, wrong time. How would his life have unfolded had he not gone to the Norton’s house that night?

I cast my gaze at the church. Darnel Fowler lingered behind it, but I would not walk around back for anything.

“I give you this, one thought to keep.”

We turned, both shocked someone managed to come up behind us unawares.

“I am with you still, I do not sleep.”

Sally gently smiled at Johnny’s headstone. “I think that came from your part of the country.”

I swallowed before I found my voice. “Yes, I believe it does. I’ve heard several versions.”

“I hope, now everything is as it should be, you will destroy the note,” Greg said, his smile identical to his mother’s.

“
You
sent it?”

“I did not say that.”

“The police have it, and the obituary.”

“No matter. It will not be traced to who wrote it.”

“Why the obituary?”

Greg’s smile widened to a grin. “The Internet is a wonderful tool. You can discover almost everything about anyone, even when they live in America.”

My brain clicked back in gear. Sally and Greg researched us; they knew what I could do. They hoped Johnny’s shade lingered and I talked to him.

I tipped my head to one side and eyed them quizzically. “And had I not talked to Johnny?”

“Then we would have given you another nudge in the right direction,” Sally said.

“Why couldn’t you come right out and tell us?”

“We have to live here, dear. Suppose we spoke to you and you went to Fowler?”

“We had our suspicions when the young Nortons left as they did, it was not true to their nature. And then Johnny was run down,” from Greg. “But as you can imagine, we dare not approach our local constabulary.”

“They do not call it that anymore, dear,” Sally corrected. “It is a police station.”

“Ah, right you are, Mother. I forgot.”

I clamped my upper lip between my teeth, considering, then said, “You didn’t know the Nortons were dead until their bodies were discovered in Scotland, but you suspected foul play, especially with what happened to Johnny.” And she didn’t know the Nortons died in the church, or no doubt she would have sent me here.

“And Peter Cooper made enquiries about the Nortons. But what about his body? How did you know where to find it and why didn’t you tell anyone?” I continued.

She looked over toward a stand of elms just inside the stone wall. “Oh, I did not know, dear. I had a sense you should go to Avebury Woods, but not what you would find there.”

“A sense?” I remembered what Carrie had said. “Are you a witch, Sally?”

She stared at me for an instant before a deep chuckle burst from her bosom. “A witch? No.”

“Then what are you?”

She smiled gently. “What do you think? Perhaps I am a guardian. You could say the bones of this land make use of me.”

“But the
bones of this land
didn’t tell you the Nortons were under Saint Thomas until Fowler killed them there?”

The smile froze on her face. I think she stopped breathing. Then tears welled in her eyes. “It is consecrated ground and as such hides its secrets from those who do not bow to the Church.”

Her gaze drifted to the church. “The police do not know, else this place would be covered in yellow tape.”

“I couldn’t tell them I spoke to two dead people.”

She nodded; her voice became brisk as she turned to Greg. “We must be going. The Hart and Garter does not run itself.”

But I had so many questions! “We deserve more than that. Perhaps - ”

“No, dear.” Sally smiled again, but with steel in it. “You have questions, that is understandable, but we can tell you nothing more. You know all you need to. You must be on your way now.”

She indicated the graveyard with a sweep of her arm. “But if you can spare a few minutes, you might take a look. Can you imagine the age of this place? And it was built on the ruins of something far older. Look at these gravestones. Why, the oldest date back to the twelfth century and there are resting places far older beneath those. Generations of Shorts lie here. They are over in the corner, near the elms.” She nodded in that direction. “You cannot miss them. Every one of them is a Short. We do not marry, you see; not the ladies, only the men. Greg will give me a granddaughter one of these days.”

With another smile from each of them, they turned and walked to the gate. I watched them disappear, knowing I should go after them, ask my questions and demand answers. But my gut said I’d get nothing more from them and Sally Short was not a woman I should anger.

I exhaled an almighty breath. Royal grabbed my hand. “Come on. She had a reason, telling us to look at her family’s burial plots.”

I had a thought as he towed me over there. “The breakfasts, the laundry . . . she wanted to keep us happy, keep us here.”

Gravestones in differing degrees of wear huddled close together beneath the elms and a little beyond. Some were so old, although they’d been kept free of lichen the inscriptions were indecipherable. We walked among them; not easy, as closely planted as they were.

I squatted. “She said the bones of this land let their wishes be known. Look.”

Royal squatted next to me as I ran the fingertips of one hand over a tiny etching on the top of the stone marker. We exchanged a look, then stood and carefully stepped between burial plots, finding the same engraving here and there. It presided over the resting place of every female Short.

A crude, medieval depiction of a creature with huge round eyes and curling horns.

Carrie sagged forlornly, dejection in every line of her body as Royal stowed our cases in the rental. “I can’t believe you’re leaving when I just found you,” she said with sincere misery.

If I did have a therapist, who believed I see the dead, you know what she would say? That I am closer to them than to living people because they’re convenient. I can escape them when I want, dismiss them just like that, ignore them when I don’t like what they say. Because they can’t touch me, physically or emotionally.

She would be wrong. I have always anguished over the dead who cannot go onward, who are stuck here, watching the living from the sidelines. And although, perhaps, the rest was true years ago, I would disagree with her diagnosis now. Jack and Mel touch me, deep in my heart and soul. Sure, they exasperate me at times, but that happens even between friends. You don’t unconditionally adore your friends every moment of every day. They can unintentionally hurt your feelings, or make you mad, or upset you by doing something you consider totally inappropriate. You take what they dish out because accepting they’re not perfect is part of a true friendship.

Despite annoying me with her chatter, I couldn’t help liking Carrie. There was no artificiality to her. No pretense, no posturing, no self-pity or anger. Perhaps I would have grown as close to her as I was to Jack and Mel if I lived in Little Barrow. Shades are real to me, and right then I wanted nothing more than to give her a consoling pat on the shoulder.

Her voice caught. “I wish I could come with you.”

I envisioned a shade with Carrie’s talent, whom we could plant where we wanted a listening ear and nobody the wiser.

“I can’t cry, but I feel the tears inside,” she added.

I don’t know what made me blurt, “You’ll see me again.”

“You’ll come back?”

I took a moment to think it over. Yes, I would, on a real vacation in an England not discolored by death and deceit.

“I’ll be back for Pickins’ trial, and I’d like a real vacation here one of these years. We’ll travel together, see the sights.”

“Do you mean it? I don’t want lies. I don’t want to spend years thinking you’ll walk through the door of The Hart and Garter.”

“I mean it. Good-bye for now, Carrie.”

I tried not to make our parting worse by looking back as we got in the car, but I gave in to a compulsion to wave through the window as we drove away from the inn. She seemed so despondent, standing in the middle of the parking lot. I hoped someone would come by soon so she could go back inside.

We pulled up at the side of The Hart and Garter and stopped to let a few cars by, then drove on. Early morning sunlight gleamed on the damp road and the old granite bollards fronting the inn. One of them unfolded, and the little Elemental straightened up. Perhaps wishful thinking got the better of me, but I swear I saw a creature with clear eyes and a glossy green pelt. It lifted one arm in a very human gesture of farewell.

What had changed? The dead were still dead. Perhaps justice balanced the scales.

Chapter Sixteen

The airport shuttle let us off in the long-term parking lot at nine. We wearily trudged to Royal’s truck, or I should say I trudged, because Royal fairly strutted. Me? I didn’t sleep the entire flight. We didn’t fly first-class either, and the cramped conditions made the trip tedious in the extreme.