The Secluded Village Murders

by Shelly Frome

  Then Cyril was gone and she couldn’t say in what direction.

  She glimpsed into the cool stoniness of the vestry. In full view were stiff wooden pews and buckets and baskets of all sorts of flowers including multiple shades of scented English roses. Beyond the mass of flowers, the ancient wooden pews and, to the side, the honesty box where a donation of fifty pence was welcome.

  But there was no sign of Harriet.

  Emily searched here and there and finally caught sight of her ungainly form making her way back to the High Street. Harriet had no sooner turned the corner when she was stopped in her tracks by a swarm of ladies carrying more floral offerings. Despite her protests, they ushered Harriet back across to the church grounds. As far as Emily could tell, one of the members of the Parish Council had intercepted and was politely scolding her and outlining her duties. She was to be at her post to receive and arrange all the entries. An interval would follow where she was to tend to the judging and final prizes.

  After the council members left her to carry out her appointed tasks, there was a moment of calm until Pru popped out of nowhere wearing a storybook apron. She steered Emily over to the weathered tombstones by the church’s front walkway.

  “What is Harriet doing?” asked Pru. “I saw her trying to sneak out.”

  “All I know is she’s been told to remain at her post. And what about you?”

  “I was doing fine. I was a Devon pixie doing Ichabod Crane from Connecticut. You get the connection? Lydfield, in the Connecticut hills, linked with Lydfield-in-the-Moor. I did Ichabod by transforming myself into a gangly rubber band with a swiveling head like a weathervane, which the kids all giggled at. But out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Harriet scurrying around. I couldn’t go on, couldn’t concentrate. She is so-o-o obviously up to no good.”

  Grasping Pru’s tiny shoulders, Emily said, “I can’t do this.”

  “Can’t do what?”

  “Coddle you while trying to keep everyone in check.”

  Pru’s eyes flitted back and forth. “Everyone? Harriet, you mean.”

  “Look, do me a favor, will you? Just go back to what you were doing. I’m sure the kids are waiting for you.”

  The mist drifted in and the temperature dropped a few more degrees. Pru buttoned her topper partway and glanced at her watch. Then she scrunched her little face and gazed up at the sky. “So much to deal with, so little time. I’m counting on you, Emily.”

  Without another word, Pru turned and scooted off.

  Emily positioned herself between the long stretch of the church and the High Street some thirty yards behind. In this way, if she came across any difficulty, she could notify Hobbs who had stationed himself behind the church, close to the main marquee.

  More villagers passed to her right and left, adding to the holiday mood, oblivious of the inclement weather. A few lumbering farmers who looked to be already tipsy, tugged on a hand cart loaded with drums of various sizes, stopping every now and then to beat out a rhythm to announce their presence.

  More time passed. Two muscular men carrying a lopsided ring-toss booth moved past her, all the while arguing over a soccer match.

  “Mate, it was a clean header that won the day,” one said.

  “Nah, it was a twitchy rebound from a wide kick against the crossbar,” the other one countered.

  Emily stepped forward to catch more of the argument as the two rival fans dropped the cumbersome booth on its side. She was drawn in by a world she knew, one with a level playing field and referees who’d slap you with a yellow card if you flagrantly broke the rules. A world with boundaries and a time limit. A world you could follow that made perfect sense.

  “Bollocks,” said the one with the close-cropped blond hair. “You lost the bloody wager, Rob. And you’re clean forgetting how Dawes threaded it to Havers who settled the ball in full stride and sent it bang past the sweeper.”

  “Far back in the thirtieth minute, mind.”

  “And lovely all the same.”

  Apparently noting Emily’s presence, playing to her as both audience and referee, the two carried on and became more animated.

  “Brilliant,” said the darker-haired one. “Whilst our lads kept it up, attacking all the while, your lot sat on its heels.” “Keeping your lot at bay, controlling throughout. And what about Havers’s powerful header in the seventy-third minute from Morley’s spot-on corner kick?”

  “Who gives a toss? When it counted, who found the seams? A perfect touch, I’d say. Bloody perfect!”

  This went on for several more minutes. More talk about offense and defense, each and every maneuver out in the open. Something Emily would give anything for at this point.

  At an impasse, the bickering duo waved to Emily, hoisted their lopsided booth, and pressed on, circling around the church toward the burgeoning preparations.

  Shortly after, an agitated Silas worked his way toward her against the flow of the oncoming crowd. Grimacing and peering over his bifocals, he said, “Ah, Emily. How to put it? Safeguarding . . . keeping things safe . . .”

  At first, Emily paid no attention, assuming he was muttering about some papers he’d mislaid.

  Flustered, Silas spoke louder. “Look at the weather. You must catch up . . . yes, you must, you must, before it all goes too far.”

  “Okay, Silas, what are you saying?”

  He pointed somewhere into the distance up the High Street and then frantically peered back at her. “Go now,” Silas said, “while there’s still time.”

  Emily looked up the High Street, in the direction Silas had been pointing.

  Glancing back, Silas muttered, “Oh, my satchel, my things, must look after them. Must look after everything.”

  “Talk to me, Silas. For once, give it to me straight. What do you mean ‘go’? Go where?”

  “To the moor . . . by now, I suppose. Yes, yes, certainly by now. No good if something happens to Pru. No good, no good at all!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  By the time Emily reached Tom’s horse and cart at the crest of the High Street, the mist had come down and the fog had rolled in. It was far damper and cooler than down below on the church grounds, so much so that Emily had to zip up her windbreaker and fasten the hood.

  “I told her, miss,” said Tom, his beanpole frame above her gripping the reins. “Of the dangers, spongy turf, prickly gorse and bracken, and such.”

  Snatching the compass out of her side pocket, Emily figured that Pru had at least a fifteen-minute head start. By now, she was certain to be disoriented, unknowingly headed down a sharp-sided ravine. Or in the direction of rushing water. Or meandering close to a mire or sucking peat bog or whatever in the world she might be getting herself into.

  “But you see, miss,” said Tom, “she was turning her head.”

  “Looking back like she was being followed?”

  “Doing a runner, more like.”

  “Running from Cyril, or a stocky guy, or both?”

  “No telling.”

  “Okay, I get it, Tom. I’ll need you to stay put.”

  “That I will, my dray horse and me. Promised the little lady we’d be right handy, now didn’t I?”

  “That’s good,” said Emily, getting more and more concerned. “Now you’re sure the map she had was of the beaten path? Up over the stile, past the stone walls and old farm buildings, and then the open moorland?”

  “And a shepherd’s hut between, I tell her. But no witch person or hut hereabouts. Not on the map Mr. Trevor drew. None at all. So which is it, a witch hunt or doing a runner?”

  In too much of a rush to humor him, Emily poked around the back of the cart for some bright orange bags.

  “Did she take one?” Emily asked.

  “No, but I give fair warning. Those are signal bags if needs be, if the fog is too thick, I tell her. If you’re lost, if you go too far.”

  “Okay,” Emily said, snatching up two of the plastic bags in case. “You just sit tight.”

&n
bsp; Setting out, Emily hoped Pru had enough sense to hold still as soon as she realized no one was following her, not under these conditions. Whoever it may be had surely turned back. What’s more, after hearing from both Trevor and Tom, she must have realized that her witch hunt was totally foolish. Then again, knowing Pru . . .

  But Emily didn’t know Pru, not really. Only what she seemed to have become lately, only more so. As pixilated as can be. And Emily certainly had no idea what Pru was like under pressure. The most sensible thing to do under the circumstances was wait until the fog lifted. And assume Silas had alerted Emily to her flight and that Emily would guess Pru had enlisted Tom and his cart.

  However, it was also possible that Pru had panicked, still believing in a kindred spirit she could call upon, and gone off the beaten path in search of the witchy woman’s shelter. And was now floundering around, getting herself deeper in trouble. Despite her new walking shoes and adrenalin, frail Pru was not a hiker and completely unfamiliar with the terrain.

  Emily took the narrowing track in stride, climbed over the stile through the break in the stone wall, and turned left. Though she’d never attempted this trek in a dense fog, she was fit and an experienced hiker, and knew more or less where she was.

  She told herself that chances were good that Pru couldn’t have gotten very far.

  Able to make out the outline of the file of rock-pile fences, she pressed on, noticing the occasional tin roofs of the dilapidated farm buildings on her right. Her only immediate concern was tripping over the cattle grids, those gapped rusty bars dating back to the days of hauling and trundling.

  Next, with that hurdle passed, she gauged the probable distance between herself and Pru before the mist and fog had closed in.

  After a time, the ground rose and the silhouette of abandoned outbuildings fell away. Barely able to make out anything more than thirty feet ahead, Emily slackened her pace and tried to recall the lay of the land. In the near distance, there should be heather spreading out in all directions, sometimes as high as three feet, ordinarily edged in purple, but probably turning a grayish green at present. If memory served, the heather would merge with the moorland grasses. There would also be tangles of briars, head-high nettles, and lashes of brambles and thorns left and right of the beaten path, which would force Pru onto rocky hard going. Prickly gorse bushes and bracken would block her way like Tom had warned her, harboring green grass snakes with yellow markings behind their heads or an adder, with its zigzag stripe down its back and poisonous bite. An adder bite would do Pru in, leaving her writhing on the ground with no way to get her back in time.

  So much for the “she couldn’t have gotten very far” scenario but dismissing all thoughts of a snakebite, Emily pushed ahead.

  She checked her compass. As far as she could tell, she was still in or around the path and hoped Pru hadn’t strayed more than a hundred yards off course.

  She called out. She called out again. There was no response, which told her that Pru hadn’t at all done the sensible thing and stayed put and waited. With no other recourse, Emily picked up the pace and hurried on.

  Emily wondered what she should have done instead of racing out here into the moors. She might have consulted with Hobbs, but that would have meant threading through the crowds and losing precious time. She could have told Silas to tell Hobbs she was leaving and for Hobbs to be on the alert. But on the alert for what? Besides, Silas had turned on his heels, much too distracted to take in anything Emily might have called out.

  Just then, something caught her eye far up ahead. She couldn’t tell if it was a figure, a weird twisted shape, or her imagination working overtime. Whatever it was, it was accompanied by a rustling sound. Then another. It could have been a woodcock or a fox. Or some meadow pipits or rabbits venturing out of their warrens.

  Straining her eyes, all she could make out was a faint fluttering. Moving closer, she saw the grasses had been parted. A few yards closer and she came upon a stunted oak, twisted out of shape by seasons of untrammeled wind. As for the fluttering, a piece of Pru’s apron was caught on the far edge of a gorse bush as high as Pru’s waist.

  Emily called out. Still no answer.

  Checking her compass again, Emily’s mind drifted to another set of worrisome alternatives. Finding herself engulfed in fog, Pru might have veered off the track, become startled by the specter of the tree, and run off farther to the right. That would head her in the worst possible direction. Eventually she’d hear the sound of the river below, which would put her close to a steep bank by the spongy peat beds. It would also put her in the vicinity of stretches of sphagnum moss. Once you stepped into the featherbed covering and began to struggle, it was over. You would sink over your head in no time flat and be gone.

  A prospect equally as bad was skirting the bogs and mire, reaching the narrow riverbed, attempting to cross the rotting footbridge, and falling into the chilled, rushing water. Or, worse still, falling onto the slippery boulders below.

  More over-the-top scenarios as fodder for Pru’s campfire tales if she survived.

  Emily called out again and waited. There was still no response.

  She decided to drape one of the bright orange bags over the gorse bush and hang the other from a low-lying limb of the tree.

  Switching to a more positive mode, Emily hoped that the moment Pru realized she was well off the track, she’d try to double back, spot the bright bags once the fog lifted, and use them as a marker. Failing that, if Pru had continued past the gnarled tree and bushes, she’d run smack into the thrusts of prehistoric granite. At that point, she’d at least surely have the good sense to stop in her tracks.

  Opting for the latter, Emily adjusted her tack five degrees and headed for the stone circles.

  A breeze kicked up and the mist and fog began playing tricks. Visibility opened up, enabling Emily to cover more ground and skirt around the gorse and bracken. Suddenly, as though changing its mind, the murk poured back in and it was back to silhouettes and brambles snagging her khaki slacks from all sides. When it began to drizzle as well, she tightened the hood of her windbreaker and trudged on.

  She heard the bleat of sheep. Probably the ones with the light blue and crimson markings on their chests, stuck on a ledge somewhere. Or, due to their natural lameness, limping around bleating, as lost as scatter-brained Pru.

  When the vista opened up again, Emily could make out rocky outcrops and a row of jutting granite shards, dappled in shades of purple and gray. If Pru had run into one of these, which were at a foot or more over her head, she would definitely have come to a halt.

  But there was still no sign of her.

  Emily glanced at her watch. It was almost twenty to eleven. Though she hadn’t covered that much ground, she’d been tramping around for well over forty minutes. All the while, she’d kept Harriet’s threats and the prospect of something impending by noon in the back of her mind. Which meant she had to catch up with Pru in the next fifteen minutes and, depending on the visibility, work her way quickly back.

  Cutting through the stones, she immediately saw that she was surrounded by the symmetrical sites of prehistoric dwellings.

  A chill ran through her. Drizzle continued to drip off her hood and find its way inside the windbreaker collar, trickling down her neck. Adding to everything else, given Pru’s tiny frame, there was the danger of hypothermia. In all probability, it was only a few degrees above freezing.

  A breeze blew a dent in the fog. The granite markers gave way, leaving only the scrubby undergrowth.

  Then Emily finally heard it. It could have been a furry creature in dire straits. But as she drew nearer, it was more like a child’s whimper fading off and on.

  When the breeze kicked up again and the fog lifted, Emily could finally make out the scene in front of her. Inside a vast stone circle stood a shaggy Dartmoor pony, its eyes peering out through grayish-white forelocks, its long mane soaking wet, and its quarry, the tiny, flinching figure of Pru.

  “Ho
ld still!” Emily called out. “Don’t move!” She wanted to add that the pony might kick or bite, but that would only add to Pru’s panic.

  Emily fully expected Pru to say something, to at least call out in gratitude. But she covered her face with her hands and didn’t say a word.

  Reaching the edge of the stone circle, Emily said, “Listen to me. Take one step back and then another, slow and easy.”

  But Pru remained rooted to the spot.

  “Come on, Pru, you can’t just stand there. You’ll catch your death if you haven’t already.”

  Pru pulled her hands away from her face but did little else.

  “Look, there isn’t time to wait him out. He might stand like that forever.”

  Still no response. Judging from the last episode with Tinker, the loopy Irish setter, the only solution was for Emily to step through the opening, stand in front of Pru, and back her out.

  But Pru was so hesitant that even this simple maneuver seemed interminable. Emily had to back her away a few inches at a time. It was only when they had cleared the gap by a good four or five feet that Emily was able to shake Pru out of it and steer her away.

  Shortly after, as if some switch had been turned on in her brain, Pru began to chatter inanely about the fog and the frightening shapes and the shaggy, dark creature. Letting her jabber away, Emily started doubling back.

  “Do you think Tom might still be waiting with his cart?” Pru asked, scrambling to keep up. “Oh, my, what an adventure.”

  Still doing her best to put up with her, Emily pointed out that Pru was shivering, needed to dry off as soon as possible, and her jabbering was only slowing them down.

  Pru grew silent for a while then broke into another one of her flights of fancy.

  “Oh, this is so-o-o good for story time. Pixies leading you astray in the soupy fog. Leaving you inside a stone circle to face your fate. But if you’re strong of purpose, you won’t be swallowed up by the fog or stomped on by the shaggy beast or ripped apart by the wisht hound. You’ll be rescued by your trusty companion.”