Deadly Thyme

by R. L. Nolen

  She stared at the ceiling. It was too much to bear. She wanted one more chance to spend time—to untie her life, wrap up all her moments, and invest everything in her daughter.

  Today dredged up the very worst parts of her life, especially those days spent with her ex-husband. Before he had come along there had been good times: her mother’s laughter at her jolly father, childhood trips to Galveston, the hot brown sand, the warm brown water. They would stop to eat at Gaido’s where she always ordered the crab au gratin.

  In the dim light, swirls in the ceiling plaster formed into shapes in her imagination. She saw through the mists that ceiling plaster swirls had become a face. As an artist, she could always see extra things in ordinary places. As she watched, the ridged, wild forms became a Dali mustache across a broad face. Tiny flecks of plaster shadowed crazed eyes. The face morphed from a human face into that of a monster. Anger? She wanted to show him what anger looked like. What gave him the right to take her daughter? Where was Annie?

  A car rumbled slowly up the hill. The car’s lights flashed across the curtains and slowed. She sat up and looked out the window. Was it the postmistress’s old beat up Mercedes? The car drove away.

  The night called her. She pulled on a warm coat and went outside. The bracing air was damp, but warmer than it had been the past few days. She set out to listen to the surf. She walked past Perstow’s cottage, Frog’s Turn.

  Perstow’s house was nestled firmly into a hill. The stone drive leading to the rear garden wound around between the house and a single car garage. A garden shed attached to the garage had been transformed into part greenhouse. It occurred to her that the upper windows must command a decent view of the shore, and she wondered how much of it she could see from up there.

  She went to the rear of the house. What was this? Who was staying in the camper trailer? She could just hear Annie admonish, “They are called caravans here.” It sat next to the greenhouse/shed. There was a low light coming from inside. She should leave. Some might find her presence here really strange. She hesitated, thinking that now would be a good time to turn back, and then she heard it. A shrill keening that turned to sobs like a child crying. It came from the trailer. She would just peek in the window.

  She lifted the latch to a short picket fence. The gate creaked. The crying from the trailer ceased. She stopped to listen. There was a tiny whimpering. It sounded like a dog.

  She crept forward and had only just reached the trailer’s door when it swung open barely missing her. She took a step back as a chemical smell hit her with a blast of foul air. Something dark rushed at her. She flung her hands out and up to shield herself. Sharp words—“You stupid policeman!”—were followed by a terrible screech. Something heavy shoved against her. She twisted to avoid falling. Pain stabbed her skull above her ear. Bright light and heat washed across her.

  As Jon neared his caravan, he caught a whiff of ammonia and saw some movement near the door. With a flash of light the far side of the caravan whooshed into flames. In front of the open door a man stooped and drew back a fist to hit a prone figure.

  “Hey!” Jon shouted.

  With an inhuman growl, the person swung around to face him. The man clutched at several scarves encasing his face, before taking off across the garden and disappearing into the dark.

  By then the fire had engulfed most of the caravan. Jon ran to the person on the ground, grabbed him under the arms, and dragged him away from the heat and flames.

  As he set the person down it registered that the “him” was Mrs. Butler. The realization set him back in shock. At the same time a flush of terror seized him. He fell to his knees beside her and touched her face. “Mrs. Butler, Mrs. Butler, can you hear me?”

  24

  Jon flipped open his mobile, punched in 999, and explained what had happened and where he was and what was needed. Then he punched in another number. At the first ring Peter Trewe answered and Jon said, “Jon Graham at Sergeant Perstow’s house. At the rear in the garden. The caravan. Mrs. Butler—”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve called emergency services. Someone’s set fire to my caravan and Mrs. Butler’s hurt.”

  “I’m on my way. Is Perstow there?”

  “I’ll check.” Jon banged on the Perstow’s rear door. The door jerked open as if Perstow had been standing all this time on the other side.

  “Mr. Graham?”

  Jon yelled into the phone, “Yes, he’s here.”

  Trewe’s voice sputtered from the mobile. “Detective Inspector, have you any idea why Mrs. Butler is there?” A car’s wheels ground to a halt on the gravel drive. A disheveled Trewe raced around the corner and knelt beside Mrs. Butler.

  Jon wondered how Trewe had arrived so quickly. The backyard became a surreal scene recorded in slow motion and lit by the flames. He called out, “Here!”

  Trewe was trying to bring Mrs. Butler around. He muttered loud enough that Jon could hear, “Perstow didn’t tell me he was going into the tourist business, keeping caravans in the garden. A true holiday spot in the making.”

  “Sar!” Perstow careened from his house to where Mrs. Butler lay near his patio.

  Trewe yelled to Perstow, “Ambulance, man! Where’s the ambulance?!”

  With an exclamation, Trewe knelt to pick up Mrs. Butler.

  “Don’t touch her.” Jon grabbed Trewe’s arm.

  “Don’t tell me what to do.” Trewe yanked his arm away. “We need to move her farther from the flame. If there’s compressed gas canisters, there’s danger of explosion.”

  “But we’ve got to do it right.” Jon looked down at Ruth’s face bright in the light from the fire. Her breathing was shallow. There was blood coming from her ear. “And no, I have no idea why she is here. She was being attacked.”

  Perstow huffed toward them. “Sar! The ambulance will take her to a clearing so she can be airlifted.”

  Trewe checked the pulse at her neck. “I hope they hurry. Look, you brace her neck the best you can and I’ll pick up the rest of her. We’ll move her around to the front of Perstow’s house, away from the flames.”

  Jon noted the contusions on Ruth Butler’s hand. The flesh was beginning to turn dark where blood seeped close to the surface of the skin. He ever so gently laid her hand across her stomach to keep it from further damage. Working together, the two men picked her up. As they came around the cottage, a fire crew passed them dragging water hoses. An ambulance drew near, the crew already scrambling out. The emergency team crowded around, bending over her, blocking his view until she was whisked away.

  Jon overheard Perstow’s wife yelling, “If this is what one must put up with having a caravan in the rear garden, then someone best remove the caravan!”

  A disheveled Trewe lurched toward him. “Mr. Graham, there must be a reason Mrs. Butler was at your caravan.”

  “I can’t think of one.”

  “The fire’s out now. Take a look, make sure nothing is amiss aside from the obvious fire damage, if you would.”

  It took him a moment to observe his heavily scorched personal effects, his ruined books, and what was left of his tattered clothing. The monitors were melted or smashed. Damn, and Trewe had seen them. The copies of the VHS tapes he hadn’t reviewed, the flash drives, and the DVDs were gone.

  When he descended the two steps to the ground, Trewe said, “Come with me, Mr. Graham. We’ll make sure nothing else befalls Mrs. Butler.”

  The hospital was an uncomfortably silent one hour and six minutes’ drive.

  Inside the hospital Jon leaned against a wall, staring at the swinging metal doors which led to A and E. “Accident and Emergency is busy for this time of night.”

  Next to him, Trewe crossed his arms. “Not necessarily.”

  Somewhere close by, a phone rang. Metal trolleys loaded with boxes rolled down the hallway. Despite a cheerful demeanor of pastel-colored wallpapers and framed watercolors, the cavernous corridor gave Jon a dread feeling of being swallowed up. He hummed
a tune to himself.

  “My caravan is wrecked.”

  “I was there.”

  “The other person, who was in fact going to beat Mrs. Butler more before I interrupted him, must have set the fire. You’ll be coordinating an action team to investigate?”

  “In process of being assembled as we speak.”

  “Area’s cordoned off?”

  “Have done.”

  The phone did not stop ringing. Why did no one answer? Jon jingled coins in his pocket. The noise wasn’t helping jangled nerves. The cracks in the granite floor spelled “do” in crooked capital letters. He wondered if it were irrational to think the imperative was meant for him. The phone went quiet. He glanced at Trewe. “Coffee? I’ll get it.”

  “Machine’s over here.” Trewe led Jon to an automatic dispenser.

  Coffee, tea or hot chocolate? Too bad the answers to all of life’s question weren’t in multiple-choice format. Jon put his coins in the machine and pressed the selection button. “Seems you have everything lined up.”

  “Seems some things are out of my hands.” Trewe mashed the button for his choice while Jon fed in more coins.

  Jon saw his investigation slowly sink into the oblivion of the lost causes file, which would in this case be located beneath the rubbish bin. Trewe would suspect that all was not kosher with Jon Graham and his holiday in Cornwall story.

  With disposable cups of black coffee in hand, Jon pointed out that he would like to wait where they could watch when Ruth would be wheeled out. He resumed his former spot against the wall. “I’m assuming Perstow told you I followed Mrs. Butler the other night. She has a habit of wandering at night.”

  “He failed to mention it.”

  “Apparently, someone else was following her, too.”

  “Do say.”

  Jon couldn’t tell if the man was being sarcastic or actually wanted him to report his movements. Surely Trewe wished to know. He repeated his story of taking Tavy for a drink and learning of the woman’s nocturnal rambling. The more he thought about the shadow figure, the more convinced he became that the shadow figure did not have Mrs. Butler’s best interest in mind.

  When he finished, Trewe glared and pouted without a word for some minutes before finally saying, “Sounds as if Annie Butler wasn’t the only intended victim, or because of her daughter, someone has targeted Mrs. Butler. I don’t know, but I’m taking no chances. She will be guarded now.”

  A rolling cart burst through the door to A and E. Mrs. Butler was trussed from head to toe in bandages and sheets. Her golden brown hair was splayed across the pillow. Her cheeks were as pale as the bedding.

  Coming along behind, a short, red-headed man brushed past, intent on his chart.

  Jon stepped forward. “Excuse me, you were attending Mrs. Butler?”

  “Yes.” The man’s eyes finally left his chart as if noticing Jon for the first time. “Family should be notified.”

  “Her mother is on the way. It’s bad then? Dr.—”

  “Mr. Matzelle.”

  A Mister? A rank above god in heaven. What was he doing making hospital rounds?

  The doctor closed the chart with a metallic click and eyed Jon. “And you are—”

  “Detective Inspector Jon Graham. This is Detective Chief Inspector Peter Trewe, Devon-Cornwall CID.”

  The doctor sighed. “There’s been a serious injury to the woman’s hand. But the main concern is her head. With an injury of this nature …” His expression was grim.

  Trewe asked, “Her injury is consistent with being hit with a heavy object?”

  “The injury to the head, yes. The hand was crushed possibly with a boot.” The doctor paused, staring at them over his glasses. “Now, if you will excuse me.” He started down the hall away from them.

  Jon did a quick sidestep to block the doctor’s path. “There was a lot of blood.”

  “The cut was superficial, but head wounds bleed copiously. Why CID? Is there a criminal investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then is this official? This questioning?”

  Trewe stepped forward. “You said other injuries?”

  The doctor held up one hand. “Nothing of a sexual nature. She was likely unconscious when the contusions occurred.”

  Jon was shaken by that. “You mean she was unconscious before the beating?”

  “That’s what we believe. As I said, the head injury is what we need to watch. She’s not responding as well as we had hoped. When the brain gets knocked about in the skull, there’s risk of closed head injury—bruises to the brain. But there’s also the hand; one bone may require surgery as soon as she comes around.” He craned his neck to look around Jon. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  This time Trewe stopped him, “Is she able to answer questions yet?”

  “We can’t be sure she’ll ever be able to speak again,” the doctor snapped. “People die from this type of head injury. You might want to save your questions.” With that, he nodded curtly and sidestepped past them and into the next room.

  Jon shook his head. “What could she have ever done to have this happen to her?”

  Huffing, Perstow joined them. “Mrs. Butler’s mother is here. She’ll be spending the night with her.”

  Trewe sighed and turned to Jon. “It’s late. We’ll discuss this tomorrow. There is one thing I think you should be aware of.”

  “Yes?”

  Trewe glanced at Perstow with something like hatred, and then the icy glare fell back upon Jon. “I was given video footage and still photos of the scene of the crime and told they came through natural channels which were presumed at the time to be CCTV footage. Now I discover a caravan loaded with monitors I assume were not smashed before this evening. Yesterday I asked about a photo Mrs. Butler found taped to her door, which I suspect came from you.”

  “It did.”

  “I want to see you in my office at noon tomorrow, Mr. Graham. You can rest assured a call will be put in to Superintendent Bakewell this evening.”

  “Yes! in the sea of life enisled,

  With echoing straits between us thrown,

  Dotting the shoreless watery wild,

  We mortal millions live alone.”

  – Matthew Arnold –

  25

  Sunday morning, 9:13 a.m.

  Day eight

  Charles made his way down the hospital’s corridor carrying geraniums from his hothouse. He moved to within a few doors of the room where the American woman was. He’d had his chance and didn’t know it until it was too late.

  The hissing sound in his ear pulled him aside into the shadow of another room’s doorway. “Can you not see the room is guarded?”

  “Yes!”

  “Well? What are you going to do about it?”

  “All I can do: keep walking as if I am visiting someone else.”

  “Fool!”

  The man shoved off from the doorway, just as it opened, and an old woman stuck her head out. With his head lowered, Charles marched down the hall without turning. Through clenched teeth, he said, “I’ve been successful in some things, mother.”

  “Not in the important things!”

  “There’s not enough time in a day.”

  “What is time?”

  “I know.” He sighed. “I love you.”

  He paused, listening. He said again, more insistently, “I love you.”

  Silence.

  His eyes burned. Would she never say it? He found an exit door and left the hospital more upset than when he entered. As he stepped into the cool morning air, he slammed the flowers down into a privet hedge. Driving up the road, he counted slowly to calm himself. His mind filled with conflicting thoughts and feelings: one, he should have stayed there, two, he could have waited for his opportunity, three, he did the right thing.

  “No, you never did anything right.”

  In the privet hedge outside the hospital, a young wasp, wings still untried, fell dead—then another, and another. The liquid
cyanide slowly evaporated from the broken vial. An empty syringe lay on the ground amongst broken flower stems. Fourteen wasps, just beginning their insect life on this earth, jerked spasmodically in the last throes of insect death.

  In the hospital room, Jon timed Mrs. Butler’s breathing—in, out, in, out. Beneath the blanket, her chest rose and fell as the wall clock ticked. The machine clicked in rhythm to the red light blinking—off, on, off, on. It was maddening.

  He stood and stretched, checking her mother who was sleeping sitting up in another chair. She stirred and mumbled something. He bent over her and whispered, “Mrs. Thompson, do you want tea? Coffee?”

  “What? Oh no! I’m fine. Thanks, such a dear.” She went back to sleep.

  He left the room to find something approaching caffeine that might be drinkable, and wondered for the millionth time why Mrs. Butler had been near his caravan the night before. What connection did she have to whoever had torn through his things? Video equipment, video footage, and all the archived copies of everything were gone. And just as importantly, the files of the other missing girls had disappeared.

  Another thought made his blood run cold. What was his own connection? Why had he been the one to find objects connected with the child’s disappearance? Was it merely coincidence or was it someone else’s plan? Had he in some way been led to the body and the shoe? If so, why had the victim’s mother ended up battered nearly to death at his caravan?

  Was some psycho toying with them all, as a cat does a mouse before the fatal blow?

  Had Mrs. Butler been in danger all along, the killer following her until he could corner her in Perstow’s rear garden? Or what if the killer knew the caravan was his? Perhaps in the dark the attacker thought Mrs. Butler was Jon. She’d been dressed in jeans and a heavy coat. Had he seen the killer on the cliff Thursday night, and had the killer seen him clearly enough to want to make sure Jon wouldn’t recognize him again? And if so, was there some identifying mark or mannerism to give him away?