Silver Ravens

by Jane Fletcher

  Fortunately, she did not have far to go. A hillside rose on the north side of the village. Set against the green backdrop, the steeple was visible over the nearest row of thatched roofs. A footpath between two houses clearly led to the church and would be quicker than the road.

  A ripple of nerves fluttered through her stomach. She was about to make a complete fool of herself. For a moment, Lori was on the point of getting back in the car and leaving. Then a door opened and an elderly man emerged with an equally elderly basset hound on a lead, the first sign of life in Dorstanley. It would look odd if she drove away now. Anyway, having got this far, she might as well go through with it.

  She exchanged a cursory good morning with the dog walker, checked that notepad and pen were in her shoulder bag, just in case things turned out better than expected, and headed off on the short walk.

  The footpath ended at a traditional style lychgate, complete with roof. The churchyard beyond was like thousands of others, with gravel paths and uneven rows of graves set amid neatly clipped grass. Yew trees lined the edges. The headstones came from the last two centuries, with some illegible ones that might be older. Most graves were small and plain, though the Victorians had left some over-extravagant tombs, complete with weeping cherubs. Several of the newer graves were decorated with fresh flowers.

  St. Benedict’s church and its square bell tower looked authentically medieval, with a few later additions. Gargoyles in the form of dragons and goblins projected from the roofline. As far as could be judged from the outside, the stained glass in the gothic windows dated to the nineteenth century. There was no sign of TV crews, secret service agents, or anyone else. The dog walker had gone in a different direction.

  Lori paused by the porch. The interior had a bench on either side and a notice board carrying details of a mother and baby morning group, the times of services, and another cake competition—or was the poster left over from the previous year? The church door was shut. A minor TV personality might be hiding inside, along with camera crews and sound guys. It would take her a moment to check, but just three minutes remained till noon, and she was yet to find the menhir.

  Luckily, it did not take much finding. Lori saw it as soon as she rounded the end of the church. The finger of granite stood alone in a corner. The grass around it was clear of gravestones.

  As she drew closer, a feeling of strangeness grew. A chill breeze carried a wisp of mist past her face. The stone was old, very old. The weight of centuries hung heavily on it. The rustle of the yew trees sounded like murmurs of a long forgotten language, and she could not shake the idea that the menhir knew she was there. Lori reached out, brushing her hand over the stone. Nothing other than time and the elements had sculpted the rough faces.

  Another wisp of mist coiled around her fingers. Was it a TV effect with dry ice or her imagination? Either way, the hair rose on her neck. She would have backed away, but a peal of bells rung out, harsh and loud, jerking her back to reality. It was midday. Lori straightened her shoulders. Time to forget the whimsical nonsense about sentient stones and talking trees. She would do what she came for, and when nothing happened, she would walk away, thankful nobody was around to laugh at her.

  The mist thickened and the temperature dropped a few degrees as she completed the first circuit. The abruptness of its onset was startling. One more thing to chalk up to climate change. The weather forecast had made no mention of it that morning. The hems of her trousers flapped wet around her ankles, picking up moisture from the grass.

  Another anticlockwise circuit, while still the church bell chimed. The mist turned to dense fog. Now she could no longer see the church. The freak weather would make driving to Devon a nightmare. Lori pulled her raincoat tight at her neck and hurried to finish the final circle. The echoes of the last chime faded away as she returned to her starting point.

  She had done it. So what now?

  Lori peered into the fog, hoping for a figure to emerge. Was anyone there? The conditions made it impossible for an observer to have seen her complete the circuits, but surely whoever it was would take the weather into account. Meanwhile, the fog was lifting, although not as quickly as it had arrived. St. Benedict’s church was a dim shape, seeming smaller and more distant than before.

  Still nobody came. It was all a joke after all, unless, rather than blunder around in the fog, the puzzle setters were waiting for her by the lychgate. Either way, hanging around was a waste of time. She should head back to her car and go in search of lunch.

  However, no one was under the small wooden roof when she reached it. Lori had not really expected otherwise. She clenched her teeth to bite back a selection of obscenities. The pranksters should have picked the first of April for the hoax. She looked back one last time, then pushed the gate open.

  Directly opposite the churchyard, no more than a dozen steps from where she stood, a pub sign hung outside a rustic building. Lori stared at it. Why had she not spotted the pub before? She was normally more observant, though admittedly, on her arrival, she had been too busy looking for TV cameras atop the bell tower, or MI5 agents hiding behind trees.

  Hopefully, the pub would do food. If the sudden change in weather had caused an accident, getting to Yeovil might take hours. Even an orange juice and packet of cheese and onion crisps would hold her over and give the fog the chance to lift.

  A breeze sprung up, tearing holes in the mist. Seen more clearly, the outside of the pub did not inspire confidence. Forget the rustic bit, decrepit is a better word. On second thoughts, did she really want to go in? But the smell of wood smoke cast the deciding vote. An open fire was unusual in May, but the weather definitely warranted it. The chill had etched through to her bones.

  As Lori approached the door, creaks from the swaying sign made her look up. The picture was weathered away, but the words were just legible, The Halfway House. Of course. The last part of the instructions. Maybe it was not a joke after all. Whoever set the puzzles might be inside. Her stomach tightened. The moment had come to discover whether she had been played as a fool.

  Lori pushed open the door.

  Chapter Four

  The gloom was the first thing to strike Lori. The windows were tiny and glazed with thick green glass. Only a watery haze filtered through to supplement the red glow of the fire. The area behind the service counter was without lights. No concealed spots sparkling on rows of multicoloured liqueurs and spirits, no illuminated handles, no glass-fronted fridge filled with bottles of fruit juice and foreign beer. Was the power out?

  Her eyes began to adjust. The Halfway House in Dorstanley had gone overboard on “ye olde worlde charm.” Blackened timbers supported the ceiling. The plaster between them was stained and pockmarked. Worn slate flagstones paved the floor. The furniture was made from dark wood, with no two chairs the same. There were no beer pumps at all, just three barrels on a shelf behind the bar and a wine rack to one side. The landlord was taking retro to a new level.

  Lori finally spotted the barman, lurking in a doorway to one side. He was easily six feet tall and two feet wide, with a build that spoke of muscle rather than fat. Taken with his squashed nose and cauliflower ears, he was either an ex-boxer or rugby player. Lank dark hair lay over his head like a pancake. His clothes were old, shapeless, and covered in grime. Had he just come from inspecting the fuse box in the cellar? That would explain the absence of lights.

  If the pub was experiencing electrical problems, a cooked lunch was unlikely. Then again, from the state of the barman, it might be wiser not to eat anything prepared on site. Fruit juice and a packet of crisps would have to do.

  She approached the bar, but before she could speak, the man pointed to the corner by the fire and growled, “Thems who you wanna be a-talking with.”

  How did he know why she was there? Although, given the pub’s ambience, what else would bring new customers in? “Right…thanks.”

  Lori took a deep breath to gather herself. Hold back on the crazy dreams. Be sensible. No ma
tter how this went, she did not want to be caught off-balance and come over as a gullible fool. She turned around.

  Three figures sat at a table with their backs against the wall. The set-up certainly made them look like an interviewing panel, which was a hopeful sign. They were the only other customers in the pub. Lori’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light, but shadows and the flickering firelight obscured the details until she reached the table.

  Not MI5 then.

  So much for trying to prepare herself for all scenarios. The two men and a woman were dressed like refugees from a Renaissance fair. All three sported oversized white shirts with billowing sleeves, constrained by form hugging, laced up, black leather waistcoats. Possibly, in the woman’s case, it functioned as an external bra. As far as could be seen with the table in the way, they wore identical black leather trousers. Around their throats were twisted metal hoops with Celtic knotwork on the open ends—torcs they were called, if Lori remembered correctly.

  The men glanced at their companion, who sat nearest the fire. The hint of a question was mirrored on their faces, while the woman’s eyes stayed fixed on Lori in calm appraisal. It left little doubt as to which of the three would be taking the lead.

  The woman was in her mid-thirties. Her hair was dark, almost black, and cropped short. A decision about eye colour would have to wait until the electricity was back on. Her firm jaw set the tone for the rest of her features. She had the sort of face that would be perfect for an army recruiting campaign. She would not even need to change her hairstyle.

  The large silver buckle on her black belt was in the form of a bird, possibly a crow or a raven. The metal glinted in the firelight. Her left leg was visible at the side of the table, encased in leather trousers and a laced-up boot reaching nearly to her knee. The style was more combat than kinky, and the colour was—surprise, surprise—black.

  The woman kicked a stool Lori’s way. “You decoded the clues. Congratulations. Take a seat.”

  “Thank you.” The fire was putting out enough heat for Lori to remove and fold her raincoat. She placed it with her shoulder bag on a spare seat and sat facing the trio. “I’m Lauren Cooper.”

  She leaned over the table, holding out her hand. After five long seconds, when nobody showed any intention of shaking it, she put it back in her lap. Not the most sociable group. Already Lori’s thoughts were shifting towards making a quick exit.

  “You can call me Tamsin.”

  So was this not her real name? Lori gave what she hoped was a polite smile. “Good to meet you at last.”

  “For sure. I was beginning to think nobody would ever decode the clues. This was our sixth attempt.” Tamsin’s smile revealed even white teeth, but nothing of her mood or intention. The trace of a West Country burr modulated her accent, though it was competing with something else. American? She jerked her thumb to indicate the man sitting beside her. “This is Finn, my lieutenant.”

  The unexpected paramilitary title was disconcerting. Lori worked at maintaining a bland smile. “Nice to meet you, Finn.”

  He gave a curt nod.

  Finn was older than Tamsin by a decade or so. His hair was thinning on top and just long enough to show the grey at his temples. The loose shirt did not disguise his wiry arms—the sort that looked as though they might snap in a gust of wind, but possessing as much strength as a bodybuilder’s bulging muscles. His narrow face emphasized his high cheek bones. Several days had passed since he last shaved. His skin was weathered and lined by scowl marks.

  He was scowling now. His lips opened in what was more sneer than smile. His teeth were small, shark-like. Finn. Lori had the image of a shark’s fin slicing through water, with a whole lot of danger hidden beneath.

  “And that’s Widget at the end,” Tamsin said. “He’s our techie. You can thank him for putting the puzzles together.”

  Did none of them use a last name—or a real one for that matter? Maybe she was not the only person put in mind of a shark when it came to Finn.

  Widget was the youngest, probably a few years short of Lori’s age. His hair was blond and close cropped around the sides, though it stood up an inch on top, trimmed flat like a cartoon character. He had well-balanced features, set in a youthful, square-cut face. In fact, all three were well above average in the looks department. Even Finn exuded the raw masculinity of an aging TV detective. Were they actors?

  Widget gave the first genuine smile she had seen so far. “Congrats. There was me thinking I’d have to make the clues easier, which would kind of defeat the point, you know.” His accent was easy to place. Welsh.

  “They were fun. And I’m pleased I made the grade.”

  The barman lumbered over and dumped four tankards on the table. “Here’s beer f’yer.”

  Lori looked up. “I’m driving. Do you have a fruit juice?”

  Ignoring her, the barman slumped back to his counter. Quite apart from her not ordering the drink, his customer service routine needed work.

  “Don’t worry. You won’t be driving anywhere else today,” Tamsin said.

  “Pardon?”

  “We’ve got an urgent task for you.”

  “A job?”

  “You could look at it that way.”

  “Um….” How did you interpret that?

  “You’ll be starting today.” Tamsin made it a statement of fact.

  I think I get a say in it. Lori put her hands in her lap, while doing her best to keep up a front of calm professionalism. Whatever they wanted her for, the certainty was growing that she had no interest in doing it. “Don’t you want to know my employment background?”

  “Do you want to tell us?”

  “You don’t think it might be relevant?”

  “You made it here. That’s all we need to know. Unless you want to confess to having someone help you with the puzzles.”

  “No. I did it all by myself.” Lori’s irritation level surged. Who did these people think they were?

  From their get-up, they could be a rock group—some sort of gothic/electric-folk crossover. Maybe they wanted their website updated. In which case they had gone down a ridiculous path to find a designer. Not only was puzzle solving no proof of HTML knowledge, but a simple job advert would have been far easier.

  Lori glanced at her watch. Would it be possible to escape before the pubs in Yeovil stopped serving lunch? She should act as though she was taking them seriously, nod and make suitable noises, then get out. She pulled the notebook from her bag. “What exactly does this job involve?” She held her pen hovering over the page, in the hope of nudging the interview along

  “You’ll find out.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It can wait.” Tamsin took a sip of beer and settled back in her chair. “The main thing now is to sort out the story. What have you told your friends and family?”

  “About what?”

  “The reason why you’re here. What did you say to them?”

  “Obviously, not a lot. I don’t know much, and you’re still not telling me anything.” Lori’s patience was at the point of giving out. “What is this all about?”

  “Did you mention Dorstanley?”

  “I doubt anyone would have recognised the name. But—”

  “You’re looking for work? You’re unemployed at the moment?”

  “Yes, but…” Wasn’t that the whole purpose of this charade?

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Living with someone?”

  “Is that any of your business?” That was it. She definitely did not want the job.

  Widget laughed. “Ooooh. Bit of bitterness there, I’d say. Just broke up, have we?”

  What the…? After a moment to compose herself, Lori put her notebook back in her bag and picked up her coat. “I’m sorry. I think we’re all wasting our time here.” She began to stand.

  “Sit down.” Tamsin snapped out the order.

  Lori obeyed, mainly out of surprise. “Look. I don’t know who you th
ink—”

  “I’m just trying to work out how long it’ll be before you’re missed.”

  A fist of ice grabbed Lori’s stomach. Tamsin was not joking. Stay calm. Act normally. Showing alarm would be a mistake. “Actually, my parents were expecting me an hour ago. The traffic getting here was appalling.” Lori fished her phone from her coat pocket. “I should call them.”

  “It won’t work. There’s no reception here.”

  Tamsin was right. Zero bars showed. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just pop outside. I don’t want them worrying.”

  “It won’t work out there either.” Tamsin smiled. “And you’re a bad liar. At midday you were due to be at Hobs Geat, not meeting your parents.” She tilted her head towards Widget. “Are you okay to lay a trail?”

  “Should be.” He reached over and plucked the phone from Lori’s fingers.

  “Hey!”

  Widget ignored her protest and batted her hand away. “Yep. It’s all here. Contacts. Mum and Dad.”

  “What do you think you’re—”

  “Your car’s parked by the memorial?” Widget glanced up, both his smile and his tone casually cheerful. “Keys in your bag?” He snatched it from the chair and peered inside. “Anything you want me to grab from the boot?”

  “You can’t just…” Lori’s throat tightened. Kidnap. She was being kidnapped by three leather clad goons—four, since the barman was clearly in on the conspiracy. “What do you want with me?”

  They ignored her.

  “The car will be there,” Tamsin said. “There’s nowhere else to park in Dorstanley.”

  “Right you are.” Widget stood and downed his beer. “See you back at Caersiddi, then.” He swung her bag over his shoulder and sauntered from the pub.

  Lori’s mouth was dry and her hands were shaking too much to risk picking up the tankard. “What do you want with me? We can’t pay you. We’re not rich. My parents might—”