Deadly Thyme

by R. L. Nolen

  Malone and Ruth were locked in a fierce struggle on the path just ahead. Ruth twisted in Malone’s grip. She fell backward and hung toward the water for a second longer than eternity until Malone pulled her toward the cliff.

  Jon crouched down. The cliff top was still a bit too high up to lift Annie to it so she could run to safety. The marginal ledge narrowed as they crept forward.

  Lightning flashed.

  Ruth screamed, “Annie!”

  “Damned interfering police,” Malone screamed. The rain glistened off his bald pate, strings of hair fell across one shoulder.

  Ruth shoved from his grasp. Malone grappled for her.

  “Malone!” Jon shouted.

  With a roar Malone swung a fist. Jon ducked and grabbed Malone’s belt. They grappled nose to nose for an instant. Jon muttered, “Stand still, old man.”

  Annie pushed past Malone and rushed into her mother’s arms.

  Malone crashed to the wet path. In a last-second lunge, he grabbed Jon’s leg and slid over the ledge. Jon floundered until he flipped onto his stomach and dug his fingers into the dirt, mud, and stone path.

  “No!” Annie cried. She reached toward him but Ruth pulled her back.

  “Mother!” Malone screeched. “Your fault!”

  A dog barked. A dark shape ambled toward them along the cliff ledge.

  “Chelsea,” Jon called. “Get help!”

  “Bloody hell.” Malone’s curses became incoherent as he continued a steady descent, pulling Jon with him. Malone dangled over the ledge. Jon’s fingers were slipping. He was losing ground.

  “Hold on, Jon.” Ruth knelt and reached for Jon, but Jon grabbed her bandaged hand. She cried out in pain, instinctively grabbing him with her good hand. Their hands were slippery wet.

  Lying on his stomach, Jon dug into the muddy path with his elbows, one knee and the toe of his shoe and held onto Ruth. Buffeted by the wind, he was losing his grasp. He tried to kick loose of the screeching weight clinging to his other leg.

  The dark sky and churning sea would engulf them the moment they lost their tenuous hold. He was face to face with Ruth.

  “Let go!” he yelled. The wind flung his words back.

  Instead, from the corner of his eye he saw Annie crawling to the edge. “Annie! No! Get back!” he screamed.

  Ruth, holding onto Jon and leaning back away from the ledge, cried, “Annie, no!”

  Annie leaned over Malone. “Hey! I’ve got something for you!”

  Malone made a strangling sound, grabbed for his throat with both hands. He fell away, silent.

  Jon pulled his knees to the ledge and got entirely onto the ledge. He leaned into the cliff. He saw Annie scoot up the path behind the dark shape of Chelsea. Next to him, Ruth’s foot slipped on the rock path. He lunged to grab her before she slid to the edge.

  Like a restless monster jarred awake from a long nap, the sea rose up with an angry roar, spit and foam without end. Wind and water joined forces. Waves, as big as houses, surged up to the cliffs.

  With a ruined mine house shielding them from the gale-force wind, Trewe had gathered half a dozen officers to map out how to proceed in finding the outside entrance to the tunnel that Jon—and presumably, Malone and Ruth—were in. Perstow was directing a group of men to search along the cliffs when a shout sent his group scrambling. Most had fanned out along the cliff top, but Trewe had a feeling about how the mine’s shaft ran perpendicular to the cliff. There would be long, narrow shafts called adits in the rock, fashioned to let fresh air into the mine. But when he heard the shouting he didn’t hesitate. He ran, his electric torch swinging from side to side.

  Allison Craig caught up to him. “Sir, the men saw something this way.”

  A wet child and the big black dog were making their way toward their lights in the rain. “My God! It’s Annie Butler,” he managed to say.

  Annie stumbled toward him. Her leg was bleeding. She cried, “My mum! Save my mum!”

  Trewe nodded and yelled over the wind, “Which way?”

  The girl pointed back the way she had come and almost fell over, but Allison Craig caught her. Trewe yelled, “We’ll figure it out. Allison, get her dry. Annie, you stay here.”

  “No,” Annie yelled. “I’ll show you.”

  Trewe hesitated. He couldn’t risk the girl, not after what she must have been through. Perstow ran up. “I hear shouting! Over the side of the cliff.”

  Allison pushed a wave of rain-sopped hair out of her eyes and waved an arm, “We can’t waste time, sir.”

  Trewe started forward. “Carry on.”

  When Annie led them to the ridge, he noted the windswept land with a group of woody shrubs clustered and bent to hide the area where they would have to make their way down. It didn’t look any different than any other part of the cliffs along the coast. He wondered how long it would have taken them to find it without help. Didn’t bear thinking. Trewe stepped down the slope but had to use his hands, scratching at the rock and grit to remain upright in the wind. Rainwater streamed around his feet. He stared into the endless rain. It made it almost impossible to see three feet in any direction. “Line the men up to shine their torches across this way, and another group over that direction. Work across with the beams of light.”

  “Do you see anything?” Perstow shouted.

  “Not a bloody thing.” Trewe waved his torch all around.

  Silver rain fell in blankets across the beam of light.

  “Someone take the child to safety.”

  Annie yelled, “I’m not leaving without my mother.”

  A wave reached up and drenched Jon with freezing water. Salt spray stung his eyes. Wind pushed rain into his mouth. But he no longer slid, and he was able to pull Ruth a bit more and a bit more up the path.

  Ruth gasped, “I’m okay. It’s okay. Where’s Annie?”

  “She went up ahead of us.” He helped her the last few feet. It was slippery going, but they finally tumbled onto the turf away from the cliff’s edge. Annie was at the top of the cliff with Chelsea.

  Clutching her daughter, Ruth bawled, “Thank you, Lord. She’s alive. Thank you.”

  With a subtlety antithetical to the storm’s emergence on this stage, the wind and thunder subsided with hardly a murmur, leaving only a steady rain in its wake. There were shouts and police sirens.

  Jon wrapped his arms around Ruth to help her up. “Let’s get somewhere dry.”

  “Wait,” Annie said. She launched herself against Jon with a hug. “Thank you.”

  Jon asked Annie, “You shouted at Malone—something about ‘I’ve got something for you.’ What was it?”

  “A button. I dropped it in his mouth.”

  There was a crashing sound as Trewe barreled toward them, flushing two magpies from a clump of gorse. “We’ve found ’em.”

  55

  Two months later

  Ruth-Ann, someone’s at the door. It’s for you.” Her mother patted her shoulder and took Ruth’s place at the sink.

  “Oh Momma, don’t bother with dishes.”

  “No, really, there’s someone at the door for you. Go!”

  “All right, already.” Ruth watched her mother bend over the washing up, her face turned away. She’s up to something, she decided. Who would be at the door at this time in the morning? “There’s a dishwasher, you know.”

  “Go!”

  She jerked the door open. She was startled to see Jon Graham standing on her stoop.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “You’re here? I thought you were working on some project?”

  “Project finished. By the way, I’ve been commended for exemplary service, so you’re now in the company of Detective Chief Inspector Jon Graham.”

  “A promotion? That’s nice.”

  “That’s nice? Is that it? And without even inviting me in?”

  “I haven’t heard from you in three weeks.”

  “And I knew a phone call wouldn’t do.”

  “Texts? Short and swe
et, no bother?”

  “Not good enough. I’m fully prepared to give you an explanation.” Jon gave an exaggerated bow.

  Ruth leaned against the door’s frame. “Oh? And where shall you begin, hmm? Certainly not in my living room.”

  “Walk? It’s summer and promises to be a gorgeous day.”

  “Ya never know.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Jon’s smile appeased her. She hadn’t forgotten how disappointed she had been when he left, promising to keep in touch, and then his messages by email and text had been sporadic at best. The last she’d heard from him he had an assignment in Scotland, then intensive training at Bramshill.

  “Right.” Ruth leaned away from him and pulled a jacket from the back of the big chair by her door. “Mom, don’t miss me. Going for a walk with a mysterious stranger!”

  They traipsed up the road towards the sea and the top of the cliffs.

  “How’s Annie?” Jon asked.

  “The cuts are healing. She still cries out at night, still afraid of the dark. She has a tutor. Her teachers have been great.” She tightened her jacket around her middle. “What did he expect to get from her?”

  “Annie was the stepping stone to you. The writing we found in his study indicated that his scheme was to rid the world of you.”

  She shivered.

  “He hated his mother, but his family was twisted. His mother apparently murdered his father for insurance money. Charles had only been about eight at the time.”

  The lane took a turn, the air held a brighter quality. She nodded. “Speaking of money and good old Captain Perrin, The Portable Antiquities Scheme at the British Museum was very intrigued. There was actually a formal inquest to determine how to treat the find. I’ve heard that the Perrin’s Point Council has voted most of the money will go to the National Trust to use in conservation of the coastline, and the rest will be used to restore the village common areas.”

  “What about your immigration status?”

  “That was a rough patch for a few weeks. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.” Her voice held sarcasm. “I’m still Ruth Butler. The name change wasn’t as difficult as I imagined. Under the circumstances I was granted some leniency, being a model citizen and all. Both sets of grandparents emigrated from Scotland, so I was granted ancestry entry clearance and my application for residency is being considered favorably, Sam tells me. So I’m more or less a permanent fixture.”

  “Are you? That’s brilliant. And you’re well? I mean, you’ve talked about Annie, but what about you? How are you?”

  “The whole ordeal … like a nightmare still. I wake up with the shivers some nights. It helps having my mother and friends close by.” She studied his reaction, wondering if he picked up her sarcasm.

  “I see. I hope I can be a better friend.”

  She broke a twig from a bush as they passed. “Mom’s only here for a few more weeks. She’s having lunch with Peter Trewe. A regular event with them.”

  “So I’ve heard. Interesting, that.”

  “He’s pensioned.”

  “I know.”

  They walked in silence for a while.

  “They never found Malone’s body,” she said. “Don’t you think that’s strange? Bodies usually wash up don’t they?”

  “That was a serious storm that evening. Chances are the body was washed out to sea and eventually sank or was eaten.”

  She closed her eyes. “Change of subject.”

  Jon held up both hands. “As God is my witness. From now on.”

  They had reached the top of the cliffs. White crested waves crashed against the rocks below them. Far out across the dark blue of the water could be seen cresting white horses, the tumbling foam-topped waves.

  Sunlight peeked through layers of clouds and bounced across the water. The sea breeze brought the sounds of laughter from the harbor beach. There was a couple with small children. Seagulls wheeled in the air above them.

  Ruth laughed. “The gulls look like they want to land on them.”

  “Gulls are crazy for crisps.” Jon stood next to her. “It’s a normal, summer morning in Cornwall, full of tourists, isn’t it?”

  She shook her head. She had to say it. “After what we’d been through, why did you just stop communicating?”

  “Last I checked the phone lines work both ways.”

  She sucked in a breath. “What?”

  “You’re right. I have no excuse. I admit it.”

  “And you’ve been busy.” Ruth turned to go back home. “You just don’t get it, do you? I don’t know why you bothered to stop.”

  “I’ve thought of you all of the time.”

  “Poor you.” She walked farther back down the trail. It was dry and slippery in places.

  “I’ve wanted to call,” Jon said, catching up, “but the things I want to say I couldn’t say on the phone. I couldn’t text or email; in print it looked stupid.”

  “Okay.” She turned toward him feet planted, and pointed to her face. “Here it is. Say it and go. Because that’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it? Say it and go. That’s the way it will always be with us. Won’t it? I can’t take that, Jon Graham. I don’t—”

  “I’ve been transferred here.”

  That stopped her with her mouth open. “Transferred?”

  “Someone had to fill Peter Trewe’s place.”

  “I see.” She pursed her lips, and with a tiny shrug, kept walking. “So, I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

  “I certainly hope so”—he kept up with her, his face turning a nice shade of pink under his tan—“and I hope more! … than just seeing you around, I mean.”

  “Is that what you wanted to tell me to my face?”

  “Could I tell you over dinner?”

  She sighed and crossed her arms. “Look, here’s the deal. The Dev’lish Pipes will be at the Nap this evening, and well, I wouldn’t mind seeing them.”

  “Could you hear me over them?”

  “You might have to shout.” She leaned closer. “Perhaps you’d better tell me what you were going to say now, so that you don’t have to—shout, I mean.”

  “You win. I was going to ask if you would let me see you, you know, on a regular basis.” He stepped in front of her and took hold of her shoulders. “Blast it, woman! I’ve loved you since I first laid eyes on you.”

  She covered her mouth with a hand to stop the wave of joy that bubbled up.

  He stuttered, “So … um … I know I haven’t proven myself to you.”

  “What’s to prove?” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his gorgeous lips.

  Jon noticed a half-dozen people gathered around a skiff waiting to board for a ride to the nearby fishing boat moored in deeper water. Taking tourists out to see the Auks nesting on the islands was more profitable than fishing this time of year. The road above the beach was crowded with people visiting the shops. Even at this distance he could hear cars honking. A procession of cars twisted from the beach up through the village like a shiny-scaled snake basking in sun.

  Jon and Ruth joined the lines for the boat ride around Gull Island. She held his hand and it gave him no end of pleasure to watch her smile. He pulled his eyes away on occasion to watch what they had come to watch. The tiny Auks were amazing as they squabbled over nest sites. Looking inland across the sparkling azure water, it surprised Jon to see a number of caves pitting the dark cliffs.

  Because they were so far out, he didn’t see the blooms along the base of the caves—flowers fertilized with blood.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A long time ago, a critique group led by Roger Paulding told me that my five-page short story needed to be a novel. That was the beginning.

  There are so many people I have in my life who made Deadly Thyme a possibility. My family allowed me the solitude to write. My wonderful copy editor Rhonda Erb knew just what she was doing. She was so patient with me, which was needed with all those redundant hyphens.
This book is so much better because of her! I want to also thank her brother, Darren Doyle, the linguistics magician! Meghan Pinson helped make the story hang together better. Heidi Dorey created an amazing book cover that fits perfectly.

  I wrote the story, but then the location found me. It is a fictional location created from several small seaside villages along the northwest coast of Cornwall, one of which is featured in Doc Martin. On my research trip there I found the perfect bed and breakfast called The Old Rectory in St. Juliet outside Boscastle. It is run by a charming couple, Chris and Sally Searle. Everyone must be sure to set their vacation plans and make reservations. They serve the best food in the south of England. Also, I want to thank an unforgettable woman who helped me with so much of my research. Thank you, Sharon Bates!

  I met a young man on the train who gave me some super pointers as I shared my cheese crackers with him. Thank you, Jaimie Atallah, friend for life.

  Whatever does not ring true in this book is the fault of this author. I had the most amazing helpers sorting out fact from fiction for me. Thank you to Inspector Graham Clark of the London Metropolitan Police for police facts, a tour, and a delightful tea. Thank you, Constable Michael in Camelford, for your insights and humor and artwork. Sergeant Suggs of the Devon-Cornwall Constabulary helped me with my inquiries. Retired Detective Sergeant Jim Bakewell was most helpful with some pertinent facts that I would have gotten wrong were it not for him.

  My critique groups fueled my passion for the completion of the story. I’m grateful for the advanced writing course I took with teacher and writer Chris Rogers.

  Thank you also to so many people who read early drafts that were full of holes. They helped me plug them. These include Graham Clark, Chris and Sally Searle, Kimberly Morris, Maria Durham, Carnie Littlefield, and Amy Nolen.

  If I've missed someone I should have mentioned, I'm sorry. It's late and I'm old.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR