by Candace Camp
He headed across the small clearing to the trees beyond, walking uncertainly back and forth. Finally he let out a low cry. “I think I came out here. Look.”
Priscilla hurried toward him and looked at the trunk of the birch tree, where he was pointing. A brownish smear decorated its white trunk.
“I remember leaning against a tree, listening for their pursuit. This is blood. Remember the scratches on my arms and shoulders? I must have gotten blood on the bark when I leaned against it.”
“Good. Then…straight ahead?”
“Let’s try it.”
They moved through the trees, looking for other signs of John’s precipitate dash through the area the other night, but they found nothing else. After an hour’s fruitless search, they moved northward for a while, then angled back toward where they had entered, hoping to find another mark, or something that looked familiar to John. They continued in this way, tracking out from the marked tree like spokes in a wheel, but finally gave up when it became too dark, as it did early in the woods. They headed home in the twilight, agreeing to start again the next morning.
THERE WAS NO INTERRUPTION from their midnight visitors that night, though Priscilla lay awake for a long time, worrying about them. Despite the short sleep, she woke up early the following morning, excited by the continuing search and the possibility of solving John Wolfe’s mystery—or at least part of it. She hurried through her dressing routine and breakfast, and skipped the morning’s writing. The lure of a real adventure was far too strong to allow her to spend her day at a desk writing about an imaginary one.
They tramped along the path they had taken the day before, John cheerfully whistling and twirling the walking stick he held in one hand. Priscilla smiled, glancing at him, and said, “You seem well on your way to recovery.”
“What? Oh. Yes, I am. Except for an occasional headache, I feel up to full strength.” He grinned sideways at her. “Between your doctoring and Mrs. Smithson’s food, I have recovered nicely.” He nodded toward the picnic basket he carried. “Though I do think I could do with a little less of Mrs. Smithson’s cooking today. It feels like she packed a roast in here.”
Priscilla chuckled. “Mrs. Smithson believes in eating heartily. She’s been thrilled to have you here. ‘Someone who eats like a man, not like a bird,’” she said imitating the cook’s low, accented voice.
“Is that what makes her like me—my appetite? Here I thought it was my charm.”
“That, too,” Priscilla assured him gravely. “She likes to be flirted with.”
They reached the marked tree, and John set the food basket on a rock in the shade to wait while they explored farther. They struck out again, altering their course a little each time, as they had the day before. But this time, as they walked along, off to one side Priscilla noticed a small tree branch, broken and dangling, at about the height of Wolfe’s chest.
“Look at this,” she cried softly, going over to it, and Wolfe followed.
He lifted the branch and considered it. “It certainly looks as if something—or someone—barged through here.” He glanced around. “It doesn’t seem familiar. But these woods look so much the same. The only thing I remember that was unusual was a downward slope that led to a stream. I splashed through that. Well, let’s veer off in this direction, then.”
Priscilla marked the tree with a piece of yarn she had brought, taken from Miss Pennybaker’s knitting bag. They had decided this morning that it would be wise for them to mark their trail today, in order to keep from getting lost or retracing their own steps. They continued to walk, going deeper and deeper into the woods.
“I wish we had Gid or Alec with us,” Priscilla remarked, sighing, as they stopped once again and surveyed their surroundings. “They know these woods better than anyone. They always used to play in them. Maybe we should tell Alec the truth and get his help.”
John shook his head. He was strangely reluctant to seek Alec’s aid. It was related, he thought, to that unaccustomed spurt of jealousy he had experienced upon watching Alec’s easy interaction with Priscilla, but he did not like to think about that. “We will find it eventually.”
Priscilla shrugged and sat down on a large, moss-cushioned rock. “It wasn’t far from here, you know, where they found Rose.”
“Who?” He looked at her, puzzled, then his face cleared. “Oh, you mean the girl in your story? The one who was murdered by the heir?”
Priscilla nodded. “It was over in that direction. I’ll show you.”
She stood and began walking through the trees, curving around a rise in the ground. The ground sloped downward to a small clearing. Light filtered through the leaves, and vines surrounding the clearing, making it dim even in broad daylight and tinted faintly with green. A rock, half covered with lichen, formed a barrier on one side of the little glade, and the trees spreading over the clearing reminded one of a ceiling. But instead of seeming snug, the enclosed area, utterly silent, had an eerie quality to it.
Wolfe’s eyebrow rose and he turned toward Priscilla. “This is it?”
Priscilla nodded, unable to suppress a shiver. “Yes. It seems a perfect spot for a murder, doesn’t it?”
“But hardly what one would choose for a trysting place since it would be black as the pits of hell in here at night.”
Involuntarily Priscilla looked behind her.
He grinned. “That is what I mean.”
“Well, it is not what I would choose, certainly,” Priscilla agreed. “But then, I don’t suppose either of them was terribly sensitive to atmosphere. And it was far away from prying eyes. The sort of place where they would not be discovered.”
“It’s a wonder they ever discovered her body.”
“He probably hoped for that. But she had told one of her girlfriends, apparently, that they met in Lady’s Woods, which narrowed it down to this area.”
He looked around him again, shaking his head. “It’s a lonely place, that’s for sure.” He started to turn away, holding out his hand to her. “Come. Let’s get out of here.”
Priscilla slipped her hand in his, as naturally as if it belonged there, and they left the clearing. He turned to the left, holding up a branch for them to pass under. Priscilla started to point out that they were heading in the wrong direction, but something about the intent expression on his face stopped her.
“I hear water,” he said, stopping and listening.
“Yes. There is a small brook over there.” She pointed ahead of him and to the left.
He looked down at her. “I crossed a stream when I escaped.”
“There’s more than one. You remember, we came upon another this morning.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t right. It was too sunny, too open.”
He strode in the direction of the water, and a few moments later they emerged at the edge of a brook. It ran clearly over mossy stones, and beyond it the land sloped upward slightly, thick with trees.
“This is more like the one I remember.” He looked up and down the stream, frowning.
“The woods thin out in that direction,” Priscilla noted. “Why don’t we walk down this way?”
They did so, crossing the stream when they came to a natural bridge of stepping-stones. They continued to walk in the same direction the brook flowed, stopping to rest in a larger, more open clearing, where they sat upon a fallen tree trunk. They walked for a few more minutes after that, then Wolfe stopped suddenly.
“I think this is it. This looks familiar—that big rock there, with all the moss. I think I crossed right below it.”
They hurried forward, and there, beside the mossy rock at the edge of the stream, was a footprint in the mud.
“Barefoot,” Priscilla said excitedly, looking at him. “And large.”
“The size of my foot,” he agreed, and his eyes were sparkling with excitement. “Come on.”
He hurried up the incline, towing her along as he followed the footprints until they disappeared in the leaves. They crested the ri
se, where the trees grew less thickly.
“There!” His voice was quick with excitement. “I went around that thick stand of trees. I wanted speed more than secrecy.”
Priscilla squeezed his hand, excitement pounding through her, as well, and they hurried forward. They skirted the trees, and there, off to the right, ahead of them, stood a small brown hut. Priscilla started toward it, but Wolfe stopped, holding her back.
“Wait,” he said in a low voice. “It’s possible they might be here.”
They stepped back into the cover of a low-hanging tree, and Wolfe scanned the area carefully. They waited, hearing and seeing nothing but the twittering of birds and the occasion rustle of an animal among the trees. Wolfe started forward quietly, pushing Priscilla behind him protectively. She gave him a poke in the back hard enough to make him grunt and moved around to his side again.
He gave her a sideways glance of irritation but did not try to make her follow safely behind him again. The hut and the land around it showed no signs of habitation as they approached, and they sped up as they came closer. With a final look around at the woods surrounding them, John reached out and pulled open the door. They peered inside.
The hut was quite small, barely long enough for a man of John’s height to lie down in, and not tall enough for him to stand unless he was a little stooped over. It was dim inside, the only light provided by cracks between the boards and an occasional knothole; there was no window. The floor was hard-packed earth, and there was absolutely nothing inside the shack. But, despite the weathered look of the boards, it was solid and well put together. With the door barred from the outside, it would have been impossible for even a strong man to pound his way out of it.
“Oh, John!” Priscilla exclaimed feelingly. “You must have gone crazy in here.”
“Just about,” he agreed, eyeing the place with disfavor. “It is not a place I would want to visit again.” He walked in, stooping over, and moved carefully around the small room, checking out the walls and floor. “There’s nothing here,” he said in disgust. “Not even a button or a piece of paper.” He sighed and left the shack. “Not a clue as to who I am.”
“Perhaps there is something out there,” Priscilla suggested, making a wide gesture that encompassed all the trees around them.
“Perhaps,” he agreed, though without much enthusiasm.
They began to circle the shack, moving in ever-larger orbits as they searched for anything unusual. There were a few scuffed footprints, this time obviously shod, but that told them little except the size of the men’s feet.
Priscilla glanced to the side and stopped abruptly. “John! Look.”
She pointed to a spot beneath a tree several feet away, where a small mound of freshly turned earth lay, darker than the land around it and rising in a hump.
“Something is buried there.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THEY HURRIED TO THE SMALL MOUND and dropped down on their knees beside it. The mound looked very much like a grave, except that it was far too short to be that of a person, only three feet in length and less in width.
“This has been dug recently,” John said positively.
“I suppose someone could have buried an animal here.”
“Why would anyone come all the way out here to bury an animal? Or who, walking through the woods and finding a dead creature, would have stopped to bury it? No, I don’t think it’s an animal.”
He began to shove the earth away with his hands, then stopped and looked around for a better tool. He picked up a flattish rock to use, but paused and turned it from side to side.
“Look at this. I think someone’s used it for the exact same thing. There’s earth clinging to it on this end. I would say that means burying this was a hasty thing.”
He began to dig. The earth was soft and moist, and the flat, wide surface of the rock made it a good tool. It was not long before the rock struck something besides earth.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure,” John said as he scooped dirt away in a wider area. “It isn’t hard.”
Priscilla joined him in scooping away the dirt, careless of her nails and hands. She was almost as caught up in the excitement of the moment as he was. Quickly the surface of the buried object emerged.
“It—it’s leather,” Priscilla said, puzzlement tinging her voice.
John plunged his hands into the hole, pulling and tugging, and the thing shifted and pulled free. It was a large brown leather bag.
“It’s a traveling bag!” she exclaimed, and looked wide-eyed at John. “Is it yours, do you think?”
“I don’t know. I don’t recognize it. But it makes sense. They might have figured that burying it was the best way of hiding it.” He stroked a hand across the side of the large bag. “It’s good-quality.”
He set it upright and reached for the clasp. It had a lock that had once required a key, but now it dangled uselessly, obviously broken.
“John, look!” Priscilla was peering into the hole left by the bag. “There’s something else in here.” She reached down and pulled up a shoe.
“My God.” John forgot the bag and its clasp for the moment and grabbed the shoe. He brushed the clinging dirt away from its soft leather surface and held it beside his foot. It was the same size. He raised his eyes, and he and Priscilla gazed at each other for a long, silent moment.
He pulled off the shoe Lady Chalcomb had lent him and slipped on the one Priscilla had found. It fit perfectly.
“It must be mine,” he said in a faintly awed voice. “It fits my foot as if it were made for it.”
Priscilla dug into the hole again, pulling out the other shoe and a tied bundle of clothes. She tore at the knot, and the bundle separated, a wallet falling from it and bouncing on the ground. John pounced on it eagerly.
“Empty,” he said in disgust.
Priscilla shook out the clothes, holding the various garments up one by one. There was a white shirt and trousers and a jacket. Even though they were muddied and crumpled now, the clothes were made of excellent materials and were extremely well cut. A silk handkerchief was still tucked into the pocket of the jacket. Priscilla pulled it out. In one corner was an elegant embroidered monogram.
She smoothed her thumb across the thread. A, she read. “There’s an A initialed on your handkerchief.”
He reached across and took the handkerchief in his hand, studying it thoughtfully. “A. Well, that’s something, I guess. If these things are indeed mine, then my last name should begin with an A.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Leaves quite a bit open, doesn’t it? What do you suppose I am, Adams? Aherne? Abernathy?”
“Abercrombie,” Priscilla suggested. “Alden. Anderson. Aiken. Abbot.”
“Allen. Lord, the list is endless. I wish one of them rang a bell.” He pulled the sides of the bag apart and peered into it. “More clothes.” He pulled out a small leather case and opened it. “A shaving kit.” He pulled out brush, razor and mug, examining each in turn. “Nothing. Not even another monogram.”
With a sigh, he closed the shaving kit and returned it to the bag. “It is obvious they took off with anything of value that was in there—and anything that might identify me.”
“Do you suppose they meant to take what could identify you? Or were they just after the money and valuables?”
“I have no idea. Why would anyone want to hide my identity? And they could hardly count on my not being able to remember who I was.”
“Yes, but if you had not escaped, you would not be able to tell anyone who you were, even if you did remember.”
“And why did they go to the trouble of burying my bag? Why not just toss it aside somewhere after they’d stripped it?”
“Perhaps they were afraid someone might see it and wonder about it, might even begin hunting around to see to whom the bag belonged.”
He shrugged. “I suppose so. Damn! It’s so frustrating not being able to remember anything. I feel completely useless.”
“Not at all!” Priscilla protested stoutly. “You are not useless. You found your way back here, didn’t you? And discovered this bag?”
“Which doesn’t lead us anywhere.”
“It might. You can’t know for sure. Maybe when you dress in these clothes, you will start remembering. You haven’t gone through every single thing in that bag. There might be something in one of the pockets of some garment that will tell us who you are. We know more than we did—we know that your name begins with an A. And at least you have clothes and shoes that fit now.”
He smiled faintly. “That’s true. That will be a major improvement, believe me. I have grown quite tired of hearing threads rip every time I move. You are, as always, correct.” He took her hand, lifting it toward his mouth as if to kiss it, but he stopped at the sight of her narrow fingers, liberally covered with moist earth, the fingernails broken and grimy. He chuckled. “My dear lady, I can see that you have made a supreme sacrifice in our pursuit.” He made a show of twisting her hand this way and that until he found a clean spot on the back of it to press his lips against.
Despite the joking way he did it, Priscilla found that the touch of his lips upon her bare skin sent shivers through her. She could tell from the way his eyes darkened that the kiss had not left him unaffected, either. He held her hand for a moment longer as he looked at her. Their fingers twined together. Priscilla remembered the way he had taken her hand earlier as they walked, and how right and natural it had seemed to be hand in hand with him. She remembered their kisses the other night in her father’s study.
“Priscilla…” He leaned forward, at the same time pulling her gently toward him. Their lips met and clung. They did not touch anywhere except their joined hands and mouths, but that contact alone was dizzying. It was as if their passion were so strong that they dared not press their bodies together. Their fingers gripped each other; their breath mingled hotly. Priscilla was aware of an ache deep in her abdomen, a pulsing, heated yearning that she had never felt before, a feeling so unaccustomed and stunning that it scared her.