Strawberry darted to the edge of the balcony and hissed at the night. Her back arched, her ears drew back and her tail went as bristly as a pine.
We leapt up and leaned over the balcony, straining to see the shore.
“Perhaps it was just an enthusiastic merry maker,” I said.
“Perhaps.” Zinnia looked unconvinced.
We listened a bit longer but there were no more suspicious noises. The stillness returned. Strawberry reverted to her supine repose.
“I believe I shall retire, Harris, and leave those merry makers to their merry,” Zinnia said after a time. “Will you stay out?”
“A little longer. I find the evening air refreshing. Take the cat,” I said, and settled back into my chair.
Two mornings later, Zinnia woke me with a cup of tea and the day’s gossip.
“You’ll never guess what’s happened,” she said, handing me the cup and dropping onto the bed beside me.
“James proposed?” I asked.
“No, silly. There’s been a disappearance!”
“Here? Anyone we know?”
I was hoping it was Strawberry.
“It was Helen, that young lady who talked us around the resort the first day. She went for a walk the other night and was never heard from again.”
“Or at least by this morning.”
Zinnia made a face and went on.
“They’ve scoured the whole island. They’re getting up a search party to do it again, but it is not a large area, you know, so I expect if they didn’t find her then, they won’t find her now.”
I sighed.
“I suppose you want to be part of the search party?”
“Certainly not! It wouldn’t be appropriate. Imagine if we found the body!”
“But --”
“Besides, we have another appointment.”
“We do?”
Zinnia nodded.
“We are meeting James in his office on the hour. Remember the splash and scream we heard?”
“Yes -- do you think it was Helen?”
“Perhaps. It’s our duty to share any information that might be pertinent, isn’t it?”
I studied Zinnia. Her color was up and her eyes shone.
“A woman is missing,” I said. “Try to contain your glee.”
“Oh, very well. I will strive to be appropriately dour.” She flounced off the bed and threw open the wardrobe. “Hurry up, Harris. We’re going to be late.”
James seemed preoccupied when his secretary showed us into the office.
“I am quite busy, Zinnia. You think you have information about this missing girl?” he asked by way of welcome.
Seeing that he was not going to offer us tea or even seats, Zinnia took the courtesy of hostessing onto herself.
“It is a pleasure to see you this morning, Lord Brockton,” she said sweetly. “No need to stand, Harris, do take a seat. Lord Brockton, would you care for a cup of tea?”
She moved to the tray and began to pour three cups.
“Yes, thank you,” James said automatically. “Zinnia--”
“Lady Carmichael, please. Now, here is your tea, Harris, and I’m afraid I have forgotten how you take yours, Lord Brockton.”
This was a society insult that made James flush.
“One sugar and cream, please. Zinnia, I --”
“Lady Carmichael, please. There you are, then. Now, we’re all comfortable? Excellent. Lord Brockton, I must tell you, your resort is delightful.”
“Uh, thank you. Lady Carmichael, I apologize --”
“It is a shame about that poor girl, though. Missing, I believe? What a tragedy! How can they be sure she hasn’t just ensconced herself in the library or taken a boat excursion?”
“Helen gets seasick,” James said, giving in to Zinnia’s implacable command over the conversation. “Her roommate Mary was with her until late that night. Mary retired around eleven. Helen indicated that she was going to take a walk and then retire herself. There is no evidence that her bed was slept in, and we have already searched the island once with no results.”
“Poor girl.” Zinnia sipped her tea. “I can’t say I blame her for wishing to enjoy the evening. It was lovely that night. Harris and I took the air on our balcony. It was a beautiful, unspoiled evening -- well, until the scream.”
James looked as if he wanted to say something but wisely kept his mouth shut. Zinnia was in no mood for interruptions.
“Yes, it was a girl’s scream, wouldn’t you say, Harris? And it was followed by a rather large splash. Of course we were concerned but as there seemed to be revelers on the beach and no further disturbance we assumed there was no trouble and went in to bed. Well, there was no reason to assume there would be trouble, was there, Lord Brockton? Unukalhai is supposed to be safe.”
“Yes,” James said. “It is. But of course, accidents do happen.”
“Well, we can but pray she is found unharmed,” said Zinnia. “Lord Brockton, have any dragons been seen around Unukalhai?”
James choked on his tea.
“Dragons? No,” he said when he had apologized and set down his cup.
“I see. Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Brockton.”
Zinnia does a very good flounce when she has a mind to. I just stalk.
We left James behind in his office and entered the promenade that ringed the top floor of the main building. Zinnia’s face was flushed and while her expression remained pleasantly neutral, a familiar exultation illuminated her eyes. She leaned against the rail and stared blankly at the couples meandering past us.
“There is something happening here,” she said. “James is lying about something. What do you think, Harris?”
“I think we haven’t been here long enough to know anything about anything. We arrived only a few days ago. That does not make us experts on the oddness of the place. James is your paramour, but that does not necessarily make you an expert on his truthfulness.”
“He is hardly my paramour. But I have spent enough time with him that I can tell when he is lying.”
“You have not been exactly truthful with each other, it seems,” I pointed out. “As pertains to the nature of your relationship, for example.”
Zinnia gave me a look.
“Harris, darling, you know I don’t often bring up the difference in our stations. To me we are perfectly equal -- if anything, you are a better person than me, pedigree or not. But in this matter I’m afraid you lack familiarity with the way things are done by men like that. It may not seem like it but James and I have an understanding. We know that our relationship is just a game, just something to pass the time. Neither of us expects it to result in a permanent arrangement. That is just how things work among people like us.”
“She’s right -- the rich and titled do things their own way, and that way can make no sense to low folk like us.”
Mr. Bentley, perched on a bench opposite the door to James’s office, grinned up at us and doffed his hat but did not stand.
“Insufferably rude, I know,” he said. “But you were speaking rather loudly and your conversation was so interesting.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Waiting to see Lord Brockton. He does not seem too eager to see me, though. I’ve been kept out here all morning. I was just about to head to lunch. Join me, Miss Harris?”
“Thank you but no.”
“Just like that? I’m hurt.”
“You expected a different answer, given your profession?” Zinnia asked.
“Not really,” Bentley said, shrugging. “But I thought it worth a try.”
“And your boldness will be rewarded,” Zinnia said. “Would you accompany us both to lunch?”
Bentley looked genuinely surprised.
“That’s an offer I can’t refuse. And one that makes me wonder why it was extended.”
“You seem like a useful man to know,” said Zinnia.<
br />
“Even given my profession?”
“Especially given your profession.”
Bentley proved to be a pleasant luncheon companion. He refrained from asking any prying questions and answered all of ours frankly. He was, as we suspected, the author of all those articles detailing our expeditions. Once he had written for a more respectable publication, but some bit of unpleasantness had knocked him down the rungs until he landed at the Scientific Inquiry Quarterly. He did follow our movements carefully but coming to Unukalhai had not been his idea.
“I need money,” Bentley said matter-of-factly, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin that probably cost more than his suit. “Unsurprisingly, writing for a small publication does not pay very well. I accepted an offer from a disreputable publisher to come here and see what I could see. They paid my way in exchange for a series of articles.”
“About what?” I asked.
“Scandal,” Zinnia said flatly.
“You could put it that way.” Bentley saw our faces and put down his fork. “I know it isn’t the most respectable avenue of income, but I’m pretty down on my luck. I had no choice.”
“There is always a choice,” Zinnia said.
He shrugged.
“That’s an easy moral when you aren’t worried about where the next meal’s coming from. But not all of us inherited a fortune -- am I right, Miss Harris?”
I kept my mouth shut. I had seen hard times, too, before falling in with Zinnia, and if the only thing Bentley was forced to do in the lean days was become a gossip monger well, then, he could count himself lucky, indeed.
“I see,” Zinnia said, keeping a cool tone. But I could tell she had softened toward Mr. Bentley. “Have another biscuit. So what muck have you raked up?”
“Nothing much yet. I’m just keeping my eyes open.” He winked. “You ladies haven’t heard of anything exciting, have you?”
“Well, there’s the disappearing girl,” I said.
“And Miss Holsopple’s dragons,” said Zinnia.
Bentley dismissed the second idea.
“That’s not muck, that’s dreams and cotton wisp,” he said. “Some charlatan planted the idea in her head and now she sees the beasts everywhere.”
“And Helen?”
“Is that the girl? That has some promise. Perhaps she was running away with her married, titled lover, or some such nonsense. Lord Brockton’s the one with the information there, I expect, which is why I’ve been trying to get in to see him. No luck, though.”
“And if it turns out to be nothing? Would your readers be interested in a simple disappearance?” Zinnia asked.
“Ah, well,” he said, shrugging. “Maybe not. But I’m a reporter, remember. I’m drawn to follow a story even if my only audience is myself.”
We parted amiably, with mutual agreement to inform the other of anything odd that came to our attention.
“Of course we won’t,” Zinnia said once we were back in our rooms. “But it may be a good idea to keep Mr. Bentley agreeable. We can always use another source of information. Now, Harris, I believe we should split up and investigate this girl’s disappearance further. Would you like the hot springs or the beach?”
I chose the beach. I know my strengths and weaknesses, and people skills are among the latter. Investigating at the hot springs meant talking, asking questions without offending or accusing, teasing out bits of information. Investigating at the beach involved walking around and looking down.
Strawberry accompanied me in a tightly latched picnic basket. Zinnia had requested that I take the cat with me so it could enjoy some fresh air. The basket was not so tightly woven: undoubtedly enough air was getting in to fulfill my obligation. The scratches all along my forearms and hands made me disinclined to check and make sure.
“Miss Harris! Miss Harris, wait!”
Thornton Bentley jogged up and gave the briefest of nods in greeting.
“Out for a picnic, then?” he asked, indicating the basket hopefully.
“This is a cat,” I informed him. “If you are hungry, I suggest the dining room.”
“They don’t reopen for another few hours,” he said. “Oh well. Why do you have a cat in a basket?”
“I am exercising it.”
“Cats need to be exercised?”
“Apparently. Good day, Mr. Bentley.” I began to walk away.
“Hold up! I’ll come with.” He caught up and matched my pace, hands in his pockets, kicking at the surf, whistling a jaunty tune.
I shoved the basket at him.
“Carry this,” I said, “and no whistling.”
When not being aggressively annoying, Mr. Bentley was a pleasant companion and an interesting conversationalist. We walked together until we reached the heavy rope that marked one end of the beach. Large signs warned beachgoers that various dangers lay ahead, none of which the management of Unukalhai was responsible for.
“Shall we turn back?” Bentley asked.
“I often find, when barriers are in place, that the most interesting things are on the other side,” I replied, and slipped beneath the rope.
“Miss Harris,” Bentley said, “I think we shall be fast friends.”
A mile from the rope the shoreline took a sharp turn and was hidden from sight. On rounding the turn I faced a strange vision.
At first glance in the dying sunset light it appeared that victims of a terrible shipwreck had been washed ashore -- crumpled, vaguely human-like figures that made my heart clench. Even as we approached I could tell that my initial impression had been incorrect. It was with immeasurable relief that I kicked the bundle apart to reveal a black evening dress and a pair of stockings, sodden, ragged, and thankfully unoccupied.
“Doing laundry on the beach?” Bentley wondered, turning away to look for the culprit.
He did not have to look far. Some little ways down the beach, an old man worked at another bundle.
“Good afternoon, Mr…?” I said as Bentley and I approached.
“Natterly,” the man grunted, still working away.
“I see you are…” It was impossible to finish the statement, for I did not, in fact, see what he was doing. Mr. Natterly took a small length of thin wood or reed from the cart next to him and attached it to a structure that rested on the ground. Next he wrapped a piece of old cloth around the structure, like one creating a papier-mâché mask. Another piece of wood, another strip of cloth -- he completed a few iterations before I asked “I’m sorry, what are you doing?”
“Makin’ un scrarecraw, aye?” he replied, accent thick enough that I had to squint to make out what he’d said. He was a real old salt, skin creased by the waves and hands knotted as the netting he draped over the structure.
Something tugged at my mind as I watched him work.
“There are no crops here,” I pointed out. “And no birds in the sky to scare. And that doesn’t look much like a man, at any rate, though I know there is often some stylistic license in the matter of scarecrows.”
Natterly kept working, wood and cloth and wood and cloth.
“‘s kets,” he said.
“Kets?” Bentley asked.
“The scrarecrawn’s no men. ‘s kets.” He pointed to the basket, where Strawberry had begun to meow quite piteously. “Ket, aye?”
“Oh! I see. They’re supposed to be cats! Well, I can’t say they look much like cats, either.”
The form taking shape in front of the old man had something vaguely catlike about it, now that I knew what to look for, but the other completed -- I assumed -- shapes on the beach looked nothing like cats, unless they were felines more nightmarish than Strawberry. Some were even beginning to fall apart, cloth coming slowly away to reveal the hollow frame.
There was that thought again, worming at my mind. Something about the cloth…
“You from t’springs house?” the old man asked. Assuming he meant the resort, I answered in the affirmative. “Naw s
posed t’ be here. Dangerous for ‘en, off the springs house land.”
“I can take care of myself, thank you,” I replied. He had spoken more informatively than threateningly so I did not fear him. I was curious what he meant, though.
“Probab should no tell ye,” he said when I asked, “but sunnone from up there should ken wat happens ere whilst dances ‘n feasts opp ‘igh.”
The gist of his story, as best I could understand it, was that an ancient danger lurked in the waters off the island. To keep it away, large stone cat statues had been erected centuries ago. Lord Brockton and his people had destroyed the statues when they built the resort. Natterly, supposedly the only one who knew or cared about this danger, was making the scarecrows to ward off the danger, but it wasn’t working.
“Come ‘ere year ‘n’ year ‘n’ year, my mam did,” he said. “Mam ‘n’ ‘er mam and all back, come over to the island ev’ry week o’ the warm months to decorate the scrarecrawn. They had the knowing. No girlchillen for her, so my mam told my wife how ‘tis done, but both died o’ the sweat fever twenty year now. Didn’t think none o’ it when naught was here, but now with the spring house and rich folk and dying, I’s recalled o’ my duty and here tis I, do what I can.”
“People dying?”
“Oh aye, they no tellin’ oop at the spring house? That girl just t’other night, a handful ‘fore her, and some men came to death when the spring house were built.”
“Was it the danger in the water?” Bentley asked. “What is the danger?”
“‘s a serpent,” the old man said, “all long and scales that lurks in the dark caves in the water. Sleeps ‘o the day, but aught on the beach alone at night, well. Sneak oop to snatch ‘em in the dark. Only twa things beast don’t like: kets and fire.”
From her basket Strawberry hissed. My mind finally worked free the thought that had been tickling it, the grit of a notion coalescing into a brilliant pearl of terrible realization.
Natterly made his scarecrow cats from strips of clothing, piled in his cart already torn. But the first pile I encountered on the beach had been a dress and stockings, whole and untorn.
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