Deadly Thyme

by R. L. Nolen

  30

  Tuesday morning

  Day ten

  A cool breeze blew in from the sea to where Jon and Trewe sat at breakfast in the Hasten Inn B&B’s terraced garden. Jon smoothed his hair down and faced Trewe, whose grizzled head-mat never moved, and not for the first time Jon wondered if it might be a wig or a bad hairpiece.

  Beside them the garden glowed in lazy terra cotta colors reminiscent of a far-off Italian garden of distant happy memory. Across the courtyard they had a view of the village and the beach cove partly hidden by a curve of cliff. The village looked brilliant and peaceful, the roads empty of traffic.

  The sun warmed the skin, but the air was brilliantly cold and carried the faint scent of briny fish. Jon leaned forward to stir his tea while watching Trewe’s narrow face. Something was amiss. He was angry.

  Tiny sparrows flew back and forth, tittering and chattering as they fought over crumbs under the table.

  Mrs. McFarland brought tea and chatted pleasantly about the weather. She asked if they needed anything and said she would be more than happy to set out a fresh pot. She slapped her oven mitts together before her ample bosom like she was giving the poor mitts an airing.

  “This is more than lovely, Mrs. McFarland,” Trewe told her with a smile.

  In Mrs. McFarland’s presence Trewe seemed amiable enough, but as soon as she had gone back inside, he became glaringly quiet. Jon could provoke nothing but monosyllabic responses from him. This does not bode well, Jon thought. A quiet dog is a dog that attacks.

  Jon split his scone and spread upon it the contents of the little condiment pots on the table. The strawberry jam and clotted cream slid in clumps off the scone, dripping onto the blue-and-white china plate, a hodge-podge of red, white, and blue. He bit into his scone, and then noticed Trewe hadn’t touched his tea.

  Trewe, his voice low, spit out the words, “You seem such a pleasant liar.”

  Jon dropped his butter knife. “What?”

  “I cannot get around what was discovered in your caravan. And the cameras.”

  “The home office directed me in an investigation here, and I was told to stand down and follow whatever orders I’m given by you, and you did ask me to work on translation.”

  “Trust,” Trewe said flatly. “Trust is the key to work with here.”

  “When I’m able to divulge the nature of my investigation, you’ll be made aware of everything. Meanwhile, the subject is off-limits.” He paused to stir.

  Trewe looked as if he’d swallowed a pigeon and it still fluttered. “Tell me one thing. How many cameras are there?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “I see. Have any of them contributed to the murder investigation?”

  “Only so far as the footage that you received. None of it shows anything, at least not that I could see. There were some old cameras at the beach that record to VHS tapes. I didn’t have a VCR, so I sent them to London. Bakewell never received them. I had copies, but they were stolen by the person who set the fire.”

  Trewe took another swallow of his tea and cleared his throat. He spoke carefully, as if he held back strong emotion. “The camera my team found, so well hidden above the road, was an extremely sophisticated piece of equipment—an extremely sophisticated machine, indeed. I’ve never personally seen anything like it.”

  “Most use micro- or macro-cards these days.”

  Trewe clawed at his scone with a finger. “So everything else is off topic?”

  Jon kept his silence. The man was dying of curiosity—why was that? Was it because he did have something to hide?

  Trewe eyed him. “So there was footage beyond the videos which were handed me?” He stuffed the last bit of scone into his mouth and talked around it. “I’m assuming your investigation had been in full swing that morning.”

  “Yes.”

  Trewe leaned forward pointing a finger alternately between Jon’s face and the sky. “If you had gotten the footage to me, I would have taken the bloody time to have every pixel dissected.”

  “They were the ones stolen.”

  Trewe stood. His voice rose a notch. “If I could, I’d have your guts for garters! You seem at the center of every mistake in the investigation, sir.”

  Mrs. McFarland came out of the house carrying her broom. “Mr. Graham?”

  Trewe waved her away. “Mr. Graham, you’re either with me or you’re not.”

  Mrs. McFarland went back inside, but Jon noticed the curtain move. He wouldn’t put it past her to jump out with the broom.

  “I apologize. It was truly careless on my part,” Jon said.

  “When would you have filled me in?”

  “We would have reviewed the footage together and straightened things out.”

  “What with?” Trewe growled. “More lies?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Jon sat upright.

  Trewe remained standing, gripping the table. Then his face went white and he began to sway.

  Jon reached, thinking he would topple over.

  Trewe shook him off. “I’m fine.”

  This extreme emotionalism was not a virtue for a chief inspector. But it could be there was something else. Trewe looked like a sick man. Jon indicated the chair Trewe had vacated. “Please. We really should discuss the other abductions and murders.”

  Trewe said, “I don’t understand your obsession with that. The perpetrators were found and convicted.”

  “There’s DNA.”

  “Pixie dust!” Trewe shouted.

  “Get with the times, man. You said a DNA profile is being run on the girl’s body.”

  “Standard procedure doesn’t make it foolproof.”

  The bees found the strawberry jam. Jon brushed his hand across the table. “At the very least get a forensic profile and a psychological profile of what type of person this could be. Mary Shelly wrote ‘Our creature will be waiting in the shadows, waiting to view our slow and painful departure.’ You see, Peter, I think he is watching us. I think he is laughing at us.”

  Trewe took out a small vial from his pocket and emptied a white tablet into his hand. He used his tea to swallow the pill down as if there were nothing more natural. He pulled out some sheets of paper from a folder he had brought with him, muttering, “I bloody well would have wanted to see the other videos.”

  “Might we move on to the notes left on Mrs. Butler’s doorstep?”

  Trewe sat down. He put the paper on the table, disturbing the bees. “I read the emails to Mrs. Butler as threats towards her. At best, cyber stalking.”

  “How did he get her email address?”

  “The various neighborhood associations have address books. If she volunteers for anything, her email would be posted for the other volunteers.”

  “And you’ve followed up?”

  “Yes.” Trewe looked tired. The bees found his hair interesting. He waved them away. “She volunteers at the church with keeping up the grounds. The author of these emails is writing from various public access computers, not only in Perrin’s Point, but in other villages and towns, as well. We’re working to trace them to a central user, but there are different addresses for each email. Not an impossible problem, but it’ll take time.”

  “Why didn’t he send the emails to the police at the station?”

  Trewe stared hard at Jon. “How many times a year do they let you out?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Have you seen our computers? Hand-me-downs. We only just graduated to color monitors. Our email is sporadic at the smaller stations; there’s no budget for the online-all-the-time services. It’s not been so many years since we received bulletproof vests. All around us they have things like the new Adams metal-detecting gloves. They handed them out like candy just south of us but do we have any? No.” He paused to wave his hand at an errant bee. “Our crime may not be as terrible in quantity as it may be in the big city, granted. But the summers bring in the bad with the good, you know. It is crowded here then. We get our share.”

&nbs
p; “I just assumed your police stations were online.” The pace here was definitely slower than London. Were the head-office technology people not aware that the southwest of England needed attention? He was certain they were aware, but budgets lately had taken even the London Met’s expectations down a notch or two.

  “Not in Perrin’s Point,” Trewe said. “Between four police stations in our area, there are two computers online at any given time. The server’s down more than it is up.”

  “If I have anything to say about it when I return …”

  “Don’t trouble yourself.”

  “This isn’t pretty.” Jon shifted papers and scanned through a few of the emails. One bee still clung to the side of the jam pot. “Here’s the email to the police. I suppose this one is for me. It’s called ‘An Ode to the Stupid Police’:

  Come thou fount of blathering wisdom,

  Fount of misguided direction.

  So you slip and slide with Pete Trewe,

  A toast! Follies of combined detection!

  We spin our wheels on grounds

  of understandings, the wheels slip.

  Such a waste, I find you take up space,

  an inner place our history dictates.

  Death won’t come too soon.”

  “Well?” Trewe asked.

  “Scary devil. Spinning our wheels?”

  “None of it makes sense and he isn’t a poet. If we spend too much time on this, we are spinning our wheels.”

  “True, but I’m going to think about this. There may be clues in what he says.”

  “Let’s move on to the scraps of paper tied to the flowers.” Trewe waved the bees away again, as he slid the emails back into his case. “Damned bees.”

  “It’s early. They aren’t finding enough flowers.” Jon pulled his notes from his pocket. “The notes—written in Welsh—are condolences to Mrs. Butler. And something more.”

  “Condolences! He should have written in bloody plain English.” He waved his hand again. “Is it my imagination, or are there more bees than crumbs?”

  As if on cue, the bustling Mrs. McFarland appeared. “My busy bees have found the sweets. Here, Mr. Graham, let me take that away.”

  “Bless you, Mrs. McFarland.” Jon noticed at least one bee follow her into the house. He began lining the strips of paper one after the other across the white wrought iron table, securing them with the salt and pepper shakers, the cream pitcher, and the covered butter dish so they wouldn’t blow away. “If they’re placed in order of the days they were sent, as per the notation on the outside of the evidence bag, they look like … this. What was Mrs. Butler supposed to do with the notes, not being able to read them?”

  “Save them for us—as she has done?” Butter dripped down Trewe’s chin. He wiped it with his napkin, then bent forward to stare at the scraps of paper.

  “Used the dictionary’s translation as best I could,” Jon said, “The first one—‘Gyda phob cydymdeimlad dwys,’ with every sympathy deep—doesn’t look suspicious.”

  “Everything’s suspicious,” Trewe muttered.

  “This one, in English, warns her to be careful—be vigilant— which indicates he was dead serious about getting the message across,” Jon said. “Then in Welsh, ‘Fel neidr yn y ddaear’. Like a snake in the earth. There’s a quote from Virgil that is similar, ‘Latet anguis in herba,’ a snake lurks in the grass.”

  “Warning her of someone who is sneaking around.”

  The way Trewe said it brought something else to mind. He’d have to give it more thought. He leaned back to catch the full warmth of the sun across his chest. “The next one, ‘gofalwch gofala,’ means watch out.”

  Trewe nodded. “That’s plainly a warning.”

  “Who would know to warn her–” he caught himself and stopped.

  “What is it?”

  “I know who wrote these.”

  “Who is it?” Trewe swept crumbs into a neat pile and absent-mindedly waved away a bee or two circling his head. “Why’d he do it?”

  Jon shook his head, baffled. “The deep depression of the pencil shows he meant it. He was writing these things as he walked to her house. He didn’t plan it.”

  “Who is it then?

  “Gareth Wren Tavish.”

  31

  When Jon and Trewe entered the Perrin’s Point police station, Jon recognized Harold Sonders, the barman from the Spider’s Web, by his flame-red hair and familiar apron. In the light, the yellowed cloth looked as if its better days were long past. He reeked of cigarette smoke and fried fish as he intercepted Trewe, almost jumping in his path.

  “Sir! Have you seen Tavy?” he asked.

  “No. But we were on our way to see him.”

  Jon could see the man was near panic. “Why are you concerned, Mr. Sonders?”

  “Chelsea, Tavy’s Newfoundland. Sech a loyal, smart dog. Watches out fer him, if you were t’ ask me.” He leaned toward Jon and whispered, “Sump’n’s happened to Tavy!” The man wrung his hands and rocked back and forth on his feet.

  “Explain yourself, man!” Trewe demanded.

  “Chelsea comes to the pub. When I comes close, her takes off,” Harold swung his arm in an arch, “higgledy-piggledy.”

  “Look! Not biting anyone, is she?”

  “Nae.” The man shook his head, clearly put off by Trewe’s impatience. “But he’s not answerin’ my texts.”

  “Dogs don’t use mobiles,” Trewe said, then waved a dismissive hand at Harold. “Yes, yes, you meant Tavy. What has that to do with a dog showing up at the pub?”

  Harold’s agitation increased. “It’s the time he does, sir.” He directed his words to Jon, “The time.”

  Trewe growled, “Time?”

  “’Tis at the regular time Tavy comes to the pub, the dog shows up. Tavy shows up rain or shine, like clockwork, but not Saturday past, nor Sunday, nor Monday. Those days, the dog showed up without the man.”

  “Now, Harold, he’s probably just under the weather. It’s only been three days,” Trewe told the man. Then he sent Harold off with assurances they were just on their way to check on the old gent.

  “Harold is overly emotional,” Trewe growled. “The girl’s death has everyone on edge. We’ll drop in at the Spider’s Web and see if anyone else has seen him then.”

  Clouds tinted the late afternoon sky gray. In search of a dog’s man, they entered the pub. Conversation stopped dead, and the patrons stared at Jon and Trewe in a smoky still life.

  Jon asked the blond, busty girl at the bar, “Seen Mr. Tavish?”

  She waved her hand at the patrons. “No. We were all wondering about him, really.”

  The man at Jon’s right looked up from his drink. His glasses sat crooked on his face. “Might be ill. Not like ’im.” He went back to contemplating the bottom of his tankard.

  Jon started to speak but the bald, fat man on his left nudged his arm with an elbow. “Go over ’is ’ome, be the quickest way.”

  “Am I to understand you are all concerned about Mr. Tavish,” Jon said, “but none of you has gone to check on him?”

  Three other people started to speak at once in protest, but Jon heard the girl above the men.

  “Tavy likes his privacy.” There was a round of general agreement. “We would not be worried a bit but for the dog comin’ here an’ all. He keeps himself to himself, does Tavy. Besides that, sometimes he goes away for days on end. Course, he would take his dog with him, wouldn’ ’e?” She was drying tankards and arranging them on a tray. The men nodded in agreement with her. She said, “Harold is the one worried half to death.”

  “Where is Mr. Sonders?” Trewe asked. “We just saw him.”

  “Off, isn’t ’e? Likely gorne lookin’ for him again.”

  The two men at the bar nodded.

  “So, if we want Mr. Tavish …” Jon started.

  “… go see him,” the bald man muttered.

  Jon shook his head. “Right. We’ll be back.”

  Trewe said, “I
’ve summoned Perstow to join us. He knows Tavy better than we do.”

  A crowd stood outside the pub’s door. Chelsea appeared and received a grand welcome which included a plate full of sausage and chips. She lapped up the food scraps.

  Jon watched and wondered. When the dog kept him from entering the library, had she been trying to tell him something? “Regular as clockwork?” he said to Trewe.

  “And no sign of Tavy.” Trewe’s face paled. Jon wondered again if Trewe was ill.

  A few minutes later, Perstow joined them with a plastic carrier bag. He held up the bag saying, “Best be prepared; never know what we’ll be needing.”

  “Regular Boy Scout is our Mr. Perstow,” Trewe announced.

  Perstow snickered, his round belly jiggling with his mirth. What a household his must be, Jon reflected. The jester and the shrew.

  “Should we invite the dog to go with us?” Jon asked.

  “I’m not sitting in a car with a dog,” Trewe gruffed. They took Jon’s car. Perstow squeezed into the back seat. They drove past shops and even Ruth Butler’s cottage.

  Jon said, “Things look quiet at Mrs. Butler’s house.”

  “Don’t blame her really,” Trewe said.

  At the end of the road, the street took an abrupt turn left. They took a lane shooting to the right and then bumped along until they were forced to park and walk.

  Tavy’s home had been named “The Combe.” Its front door hung partly open.

  The three men moved toward it.

  “This isn’t like Tavy a-tall,” Perstow said as they neared.

  A huffing sound and a sudden movement sprang at Jon from behind. He pivoted into a defensive posture as Perstow shouted, “Chelsea, heel!”

  Jon breathed in relief that his frightener was the dog. “She beat us here from the pub.”

  “Chelsea’s path over the hills would be quicker,” Perstow remarked. “In fact, anyone walking along the cliff could ’ave beaten us here. The coastal path is a rough walk, but short.”

  The stout police sergeant pulled a ham bone from his carrier bag. The canine grabbed it out of his hand, tail sailing back and forth. She lay down. While she chewed and gnawed hungrily on the bone, holding it down with one massive paw, Jon ran a hand along her back. “She’s bone thin.”