“Never mind. I know who must have done it. Young hooligans. Just wait until I tell their mother.”
Liz added two eggs and some sliced mushrooms to the frying pan and four rashers of bacon to the grill. Her matter-of-fact manner reassured Cassie, and she pulled out a chair and sat down.
“So who was it?” Cassie rested her elbows on the kitchen table.
“The Scott twins, who else?” Liz set a place in front of Cassie. “Couple of tearaways, those two. Well, they’ve gone too far this time. I’ve called the police.” She popped sliced bread into the toaster.
“But why would they do such a thing?”
“For fun. They once emptied the contents of my rubbish sacks all over the garden.” Liz wiped her hands on her apron and began spooning hot fat over the eggs. “It’s going to make Tarian’s job harder too.”
The non sequitur puzzled Cassie. “What’s she got to do with it?”
“Oh didn’t you know?” The toaster pinged, and the toast popped up, nicely browned. “The vicar was called away at short notice. She’s judging the scarecrow contest.”
ARMITAGE SCOWLED AT the phone. “What do you mean: scarecrows attacked you? Have you been drinking?” He could have done with a drink himself. Last night had been a disturbed one. A prisoner further along the landing had spent it shouting obscenities and rattling his cell door.
The voice at the other end continued its bleating, and Armitage could feel his blood pressure rising.
“For God’s sake, Rigby! Enough excuses. Four hulking men against a girl? How hard can it be?” He realised he was shouting and lowered his voice. “Look, let me spell it out. I’m paying you to sort out this little problem, and you’re going to do it or find me someone who can. So get back up there now and bloody take care of the Lewis girl.”
He switched off the phone and flung it across the room. Not hard enough to damage it though. A new phone would cost, and he didn’t have money to burn.
TARIAN SHOVED DRYSI out of her way and opened the oven door. The casserole was on schedule, so she left it to finish cooking, moved to the window, and stared out at the darkening sky.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had invited a mortal to dinner. But there was something about Cassie she found appealing. Now she wondered if her invitation had been a wise one. Still, the opportunity to find out more about Cassie and her mysterious pursuers was too good to pass up.
The day had started unpromisingly. One of the vicar’s parishioners had slogged up the hill to tell Tarian what had happened overnight to the scarecrows and that the Scott boys were at the police station being given a good talking to. Tarian suppressed a twinge of guilt—the boys might be innocent this time, but punishment was long overdue for past misdeeds. Pretending to be as amazed and outraged at the news as her informant, she said she would be at Liz Hayward’s house in quarter of an hour to assess the situation.
The chaos that greeted her astounded her. She hadn’t expected her spell to result in this much destruction. The men pursuing Cassie must have put up quite a fight. With a rueful grimace, she set about retrieving the situation.
“There’s no time to return the scarecrows to their gardens,” she told the villagers gathered there, “so I’ll judge them here.” Some grumbled at that, claiming their scarecrows couldn’t be judged fairly unless they were in situ, but a look from her quietened them down.
Scarecrow heads had gone missing, and twiggy limbs had been snapped in two. On Tarian’s instructions, people scoured the village for scattered body parts and accessories, such as the pirate’s parrot and the burglar’s bag of swag, and reunited them with their owners, now laid out in a line on the pavement outside the B & B.
She gave the entrants an hour to repair the worst of the damage to their entries, an ultimatum that brought yet more complaints. But a tart reminder that the contest was just a bit of fun meant to raise funds for the church spire reduced the discontent to a manageable level.
But if the logistics of judging had become simpler, the rest of the process was no less problematic. She had no idea how the vicar went about it, but she had no intention of tossing a coin or of putting names in a hat.
It was at that point that Cassie, bright-eyed with curiosity, had emerged from the B & B’s front door, introduced herself, and offered to help. From that point on, Tarian’s day had improved, and the chore of judging had become almost enjoyable.
“The problem is, it’s like comparing apples with oranges,” she confided to Cassie, who was jotting down notes about each scarecrow and had asked what criteria Tarian was using. “There should be some points awarded for imagination and for choice of materials, I suppose. Other than that, I’m just going with my gut.”
“Well, why not? I’ve seen your paintings in the art gallery, by the way. I like them.”
“Thank you. They’re not to everyone’s taste.”
“Your figures are very stylised,” agreed Cassie, “but they look right for the setting, somehow.”
Which was perceptive of her, and just the first of many indications that Cassie was more than just a pretty face and shapely figure. She had a sense of humour too, and Tarian found herself smiling at the comments Cassie made as they progressed along the row of supine scarecrows.
In the end, it had come down to a toss-up between the Morris Dancer and the Pirate, and though Cassie tried to persuade her to change her mind, Tarian plumped for the Morris Dancer. She tore out a blank page from Cassie’s notebook, scribbled on it the name of the winner and runner up, signed and dated it, and pinned it to the notice board in the church hall.
Then, unwilling to cut such an enjoyable day short, she’d asked Cassie if she would like to come to dinner that evening. To the surprise of both of them, she suspected, Cassie accepted.
Drysi’s ears pricked up, and, tail wagging, she hurried to join Anwar who was waiting just inside the front door. Tarian checked the clock and smiled. She found Cassie on her doorstep, arm raised, about to knock.
“Oh!” Cassie pressed her hand to her heart. “You startled me.”
“Anwar and Drysi knew you were here,” said Tarian. “Come in.” She stepped back, a word of command keeping the dogs from pushing their noses into her visitor’s crotch.
“Let me take your coat.”
“Thanks.” Cassie unbuttoned her suede jacket and eased out of it. “Mm. Something smells nice.”
“It’s boar casserole.” Tarian hung up the jacket. “Thought it would make a change from pasta.”
Cassie chuckled. “I’d forgotten you stayed at the B & B. Liz does serve pasta rather a lot, doesn’t she? Um, boar, did you say?” Her brows drew together. “I can’t say I’ve ever had that.”
“You’ll like it. Kitchen’s through there.” Tarian pointed. “Let’s go through.”
“While I think, I was hoping you might show me around your studio later,” said Cassie, looking hopeful. “If that isn’t too cheeky.”
“Not cheeky at all.” Tarian checked her watch. “Dinner won’t be ready for another quarter of an hour. Why don’t I show you round now?” She ushered a pleased Cassie to the door at the far end of the hall and followed her through it, the dogs bringing up the rear.
“Wow!” Cassie stopped in front of the easel and admired her work in progress. “This is wonderful, Tarian.”
“It’s not quite right, but I’m getting there.”
“You certainly are. Where do you get your inspiration from?”
“The forest. My imagination. Anything and everything around me.”
Cassie smiled at that and nodded.
Tarian watched her walk round the studio, taking in every detail, even the labels on the tubes and jars of paint laid out on the trestle table. Cassie crouched next to the paintings stacked with their faces to the wall and turned to look up at her.
“May I?”
“Be my guest. They’re unfinished though,” warned Tarian. “Sketches and daubs I’ve given up on.”
Cassie thumbed through the canv
ases, stopping every now and then to make noises that, to Tarian’s ear at least, sounded genuinely interested or appreciative.
She’d give me a swelled head, if I let her. She was beginning to feel fond of Cassie.
The aroma drifting through from the kitchen told her the boar was cooked. “We should eat.”
Cassie stood up at once and came towards her. “I wish I could paint.”
“Have you ever tried?” Tarian ushered her out into the hall once more.
“It’s one of many things I plan to try one day.” Cassie’s eyes widened as she noticed the boar spear hanging on the hall wall. “That looks lethal. Is it real?”
Tarian urged her past it and into the kitchen. “‘One day’ may never come, you know.”
“I know.” Cassie sighed and took the chair that Tarian indicated, looking startled when the dogs plumped themselves down on either side of her and rested their chins on her shoes. “Are your dogs this friendly with everyone?”
No, was the short answer. “They like you.” She wondered whether to tell them to leave Cassie alone, but Cassie didn’t seem to mind their attentions. She couldn’t help but notice how at ease Cassie was. She had her elbows on the table and her chin propped on one hand. For some reason, Tarian found it gratifying.
“What breed are they?” asked Cassie.
“Wolfhounds.” She pulled on a pair of oven gloves and stooped to take the casserole out of the oven.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but they don’t look like any wolfhound I’ve ever seen.”
Tarian straightened and put the hot dish on a trivet. “That’s because the ones you’ve seen aren’t authentic.” She began to divide up the dinner.
“What do you mean?”
“They’re crosses.” Tarian had done her research. “With breeds like Tibetan Mastiff, Borzoi, Great Dane. Who knows what else?” She set a steaming plate in front of Cassie and took her own place at the table.
“Really?” Cassie picked up her knife and fork. “What did you say their names are: Dryser and An something?”
“Drysi and Anwar.” Tarian speared a piece of meat with her fork.
“So they’re rare, then?”
Mouth full, Tarian nodded.
“You should breed them. They must be worth a fortune.”
“I suppose they are.” Now there’s an idea. If demand for my paintings dries up, I can always mate you two and sell your pups.
At the thought, the dogs’ heads came up and they gave Tarian an indignant glance. She suppressed a snort. Point made, they settled their chins on Cassie’s feet once more.
Cassie chewed. “This is delicious. What’s in the sauce?”
“Mushrooms, redcurrants, red wine.”
“I haven’t seen boar on sale in Bourn’s Edge. Do you shop in Ludlow?”
“Sometimes.” Tarian thought it best not to mention that she had killed the boar herself. Mortals were surprisingly squeamish. “If I can get myself organised enough to catch the bus. There’s only one a day.”
“You don’t drive?”
Tarian shook her head. She could make a warhorse do whatever she wanted, but automobiles were another matter. She reached for the bottle. “Would you like some wine?”
“Please.”
She poured them both a glass and watched Cassie relax in her chair and take an appreciative sip.
“So, has anyone in the village argued with you about the results of the scarecrow contest yet?”
“To be honest,” said Tarian, “I’ve been avoiding them.”
Cassie laughed. “People are so competitive, aren’t they?”
“And another thing. Apparently the winner and runner up are supposed to receive certificates and rosettes.” She gave a helpless shrug.
“Didn’t the vicar leave you any?”
“No.” Tarian wondered if he had been too flustered to remember.
“Well, he’s back tomorrow, isn’t he? He can hand them out himself. Liz says you and he don’t see eye to eye.”
Tarian arched an eyebrow. “Does she?”
Cassie’s cheeks pinked. “I’ve been asking questions about you. I was curious. I’ve never met an artist before.”
Tarian sipped her wine and wondered whether to feel flattered or nervous at her obvious interest. “She’s right. The Reverend’s kind and mine don’t get on.”
Cassie blinked. “Vicars and artists, you mean?”
“Mm.” The wine must be going to her head, or maybe it was the company. She resolved to be more circumspect. “What do you do for a living?”
“Me? Oh.” Cassie fiddled with the stem of her glass. “I’m a librarian. I work in Birmingham.”
“What brings you to Bourn’s Edge? Apart from having to get your car repaired, I mean.” There, the question was out in the open at last.
The silence stretched as Cassie bit her lip and looked down. Tarian had resigned herself to not getting an answer when Cassie’s head came up, and she took a breath.
“This will seem unbelievable, but the truth is, I’m in hiding.”
Tarian leaned forward. “From who?”
“A man named Armitage. Or rather, his men. Armitage himself is in Winson Green prison.”
Tarian sat back. “You put him there?” Of course you did.
“In a way. I testified against him. He’s a property developer cum landlord, corrupt as they come.”
“And the police have given you no protection.” Tarian worked it out. “They think you’re exaggerating, but you aren’t. His men have made an attempt on your life already.”
Cassie gaped at her. “How—How did you know about that?”
Just then both dogs got to their feet, hackles rising, growling a low warning to Tarian in the back of their throats. She kicked back her chair and stood up.
“What is it?” Cassie looked at the dogs then at her.
She held up a hand for silence. The ward’s background buzz had risen to a shrill whine that was setting her teeth on edge. With a gesture she destroyed it—it had served its purpose. From the studio came the sound of glass breaking, followed by several dull thuds.
“Uninvited guests.”
At Tarian’s signal, the dogs bounded off to investigate. Moments later came sounds of snarling and scuffling, and a man’s voice raised in pain.
“Stay here.” Tarian went into the hall and reached for the boar spear and bow.
“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Cassie had followed her.
“It would take too long.” The snarling and scuffling intensified, then came what sounded like a shotgun blast. “Moon and stars!”
Her quiver over one shoulder, bow in one hand and spear in the other, Tarian set off along the hall. She had almost reached the studio when a figure spilled backwards through the open door. The man’s stocking mask couldn’t hide his terror, and even falling on his backside didn’t make him release his grip on a still smoking shotgun. The reason became apparent when a large brindled shape leaped through the doorway and sank its teeth into his throat. He let out a helpless gurgle.
Satisfied Anwar had the situation under control, Tarian leaped over the man’s weakly kicking legs and entered her studio. She took in the situation at a glance. Three masked intruders had cornered Drysi. From their bleeding hands, she had bitten them, but now she was trapped. They had used a chair, trestle table, and easel to pen her, and a gangly fellow was about to smash in her skull with a claw hammer.
Tarian pulled back her arm and threw. The boar spear cleared Drysi’s muzzle by a centimetre and took the dog’s attacker in the chest, pinning him to the wall like a butterfly. The hammer dropped from his slack fingers. His companions spat obscenities and turned to face Tarian. Drysi used the diversion to wriggle her way to freedom and returned to the attack.
As the wolfhound threw herself at his throat, the smaller of the men yelled, “Get this fucking dog off me!” Then he began to scream. His friend raised a wicked-looking hunting knife and went to his aid.
With the ease of long practice, Tarian pulled an arrow from her quiver, nocked it to her bowstring, aimed, and loosed. There was a surprised squawk and droplets of something hot spattered her cheek. The man dropped the knife, his hands reaching for the object now sprouting from either side of his neck. Then with a strangled, bubbling cry he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She wiped her face with the back of one hand, unsurprised when it came away bloody.
Drysi’s target had crumpled to the floor and lay unmoving in a pool of spreading crimson. The wolfhound spat out a gobbet of flesh and sneezed. It was silent in the studio apart from the padding of Anwar’s paws as he came to join them.
Tarian sat on her heels as both dogs, whining softly, pressed themselves against her. A quick examination reassured her that the blood on their coats wasn’t theirs. So what damage did the shotgun do? She scanned her surroundings and paused when she saw her work in progress lying on the floor, a huge hole blown in its centre.
“Good dogs.” She buried her face in Anwar’s rough coat. “Splendid dogs.”
A noise from the doorway made Tarian lift her head and turn to see what had caused it. Cassie stood there, eyes wide with horror and a hand covering her mouth.
CASSIE GAPED AT the carnage surrounding Tarian. How much force had it taken to pin a man to the wall with that ferocious spear?
“You killed them!”
Tarian straightened to her full height and looked at her. The red smears on her cheeks gave her a primal look, and Cassie took an involuntary step back.
Her heel banged against something—a shotgun. Her eyes tracked the arm holding it to the bloody mess that had been its owner’s throat then away again. Everywhere she looked were bodies, hands and limbs contorted in death, and blood—she could even smell it: a cloying, coppery tang. She was glad the stocking masks hid the faces. It was like a scene from a horror movie. She fought against the urge to be sick.
“You killed them,” she repeated, her voice a whisper. The ferocity, speed, and ruthlessness with which the artist and her dogs had despatched the intruders had left her stunned and afraid.
Tarian crossed to the studio’s enamel sink. She turned on the taps and washed her hands. The swirling water ran pink before disappearing down the plughole.
Bourn’s Edge Page 5