Dark Melodies (The Black Combe Doms Book 1)

by Ashe Barker

  I’m astonished. “Will that work?” I ask. “I mean, won’t the hen…er, won’t Beaker notice?”

  “Should be fine,” says Tom. “Chickens aren’t the brightest things on two legs. If one or two of these hatch out, she’ll be happy enough, and no questions asked.”

  Apparently deciding that explanations and pleasantries are at an end, Mr. Darke interrupts my flow of questioning on the intricacies of poultry husbandry. “Thanks for the eggs. Rosie will be delighted. Now, we’re busy, so are you staying long?”

  I just gape at him, cringing at his bluntness. My mother would be horrified. Tom is unimpressed, however, sitting easily at the table with his coffee in one hand and bacon in the other, and a wide smile across his face. Clearly, he has more to say and is going nowhere just yet.

  “So, city slicker—I saw Jack Barlow earlier this morning towing your Porsche down the lane. Looked a bit bent. What’s the story on that then?”

  “Don’t ask.” He glowers at me, and I cringe. I had hoped that was all behind us now, but apparently, he still harbors a grudge.

  “I am asking.” Tom is persistent, worse luck.

  “Fucking hell, you yokels miss nothing, do you?” Striding to the sink to throw the dregs of his coffee away, Mr. Darke flings the explanation back over his shoulder. “I pranged it last night, in the rain. I called Jack first thing to get up here with his tow-truck.”

  “That’s not like you, bending your precious car. Anyone hurt?”

  “Not yet.” His voice is soft, not quite menacing but getting on that way. He turns and leans back against the sink, watching me intently, and that butterfly thing starts up again, the clenching deep down. And the wetness between my legs is back. I lean forward so that neither of these overly perceptive men can stare at my breasts as my nipples swell and harden. Christ, this is getting awkward.

  “Ah, I see.” Tom obviously recognizes the signs and can apparently make sense of what is going on here.

  I wish I could.

  It seems he’s satisfied that he’s got me, my employer and the bent car sorted in his head, so Tom moves on. “Well, I found Rosie and that bloody mutt of yours on my top meadow. Rosie said you were here, that you turned up late last night, and Eva, of course”—a nod in my direction—”so I offered them a lift back. I thought I’d pop over for a chat, drop off those eggs while they’re still fresh enough to do the job, say hello to Eva. And I need to borrow your field again. And your quad bike.”

  “For the festival?”

  “Yup, second weekend in September, next year. Same deal as before, okay?”

  “Fine. Email the details over to me, if you can get any sense out of that old steam-driven contraption you call a PC. And what’s up with your quad?” Coming back to the table, Mr. Darke picks up my empty cup and Tom’s—which I notice is still half full—then takes them over to the sink and drops them in.

  “Busted clutch. Jack’s working on it but I need yours for a few days. Okay?”

  “Yeah, no problem.” Mr. Darke wanders over to the kitchen unit and opens a drawer, then pulls out a set of keys that he tosses to Tom. “You know where to find it. And you’ll find Rosie, and the hen-run, out the back. Can you see yourself out? I need to show Eva round before I go.”

  He turns to me, holding out his hand. “Time for your grand tour, Eva. Shall we begin?”

  * * * *

  “What was all that about a festival?” Tom long gone, the three of us—four, if you count Barney—are strolling across the meadow below the house, toward a stream at the bottom where Rosie insists a troll lives under the bridge. The stream is fast-flowing and full, swollen by all the water running off the surrounding hills and I suspect any trolls have long since been washed away. Rosie seems happy enough when we reach it, though, splashing around in her wellies, assisted by a very wet Barney.

  “Every couple of years, Tom holds a music festival on his land. It’s a big draw, attracts thousands of people over the course of the weekend. But the council health and safety folk insist on there being at least three exit routes to manage the traffic, so he needs to send some of the vehicles across my land.”

  “Oh, that’s kind of you. To help him out, I mean… And you lent him your quad bike, as well.”

  “Not kind—good business. Tom’s a business partner. I have shares in Greystones so it’s in my interest to help him, make this venture profitable. But you’re right, Tom’s my best friend as well. Even if he is the village idiot most of the time.”

  Calling to Rosie and Barney, he turns back toward the house, booted feet swishing through the long, still-wet meadow grass. From this distance I can see that Black Combe is more than just the converted farmhouse I had first thought it was when we arrived last night. It looks to have originally been a substantial house, one or two cottages and a large barn, now all integrated into one huge conversion. There are six bedrooms, at least two bathrooms as well as whatever en suite facilities there might be, the huge kitchen I’m already very familiar with plus three other rooms downstairs. Mr. Darke has an impressive home office housed in a corner room on the ground floor, with two walls made entirely of glass. He obviously likes to be able to see out.

  I have learned on my ‘grand tour’ that the house stands in thirty acres of farmland, and the property includes several outbuildings. Most of the other buildings are still derelict, as Black Combe itself was until Mr. Darke bought the place four years ago. He undertook the repairs and conversion to create this beautiful home for himself and his family. An architect himself, Mr. Darke designed the house and supervised the conversion personally to make sure he got exactly what he wanted. I suspect he usually does.

  One smaller barn, possibly a stable block in a previous life, has been refurbished for use as a garage, and is home to a Land Rover Discovery, an Audi A3 and a fire engine red MG Midget. An empty space is obviously the usual berth for the Porsche, now conspicuously missing. And I saw no sign of Miranda when he showed me the garage earlier.

  As we stroll back across the gravel toward the back door we can hear the sound of an approaching car, and moments later Mrs. Richardson’s stylish little Renault Clio comes into view. After pulling to a stop by the kitchen door, she hops out and pops the boot lid, then starts to unload bags of shopping. Obviously, she’s taken the opportunity to pay a visit to Sainsbury’s and looks to have bought enough to withstand a siege.

  After waving her inside to put the kettle on, Mr. Darke grabs a couple of bags in each hand and starts toward the kitchen door. I decide to help out as well, and follow the pair of them inside, a bag of shopping dangling from each of my hands. I dump mine next to Mr. Darke’s on the kitchen table as he heads back outside for the rest. I turn to follow him, but by the time I reach the door he’s already coming back in.

  “That’s the lot,” he announces as these last bags join the others on the table. “I need to get back to Leeds,” he continues. “I’ve got meetings this afternoon. Wasn’t really intending to come home last night—sort of spur of the moment thing. Still”—his inscrutable gaze fixes on me—“it gave us time to get acquainted. So, I’ll be getting off soon. I’ll take the Audi.”

  Turning to me, he holds out his hand. “It’s been interesting, Miss Byrne. I’ll leave you in Mrs. Richardson’s safe hands. You can get better acquainted with Rosie and her violin. And stay out of the rain. Don’t want you getting your hair wet again.” Leaning in so that his words are murmured directly into my ear, he continues, for me alone, “Or anywhere else.”

  He strolls out of the kitchen, then reappears a few minutes later dressed for work. The casual jeans and sports shirt are gone, replaced by a smart, black and gray pinstriped suit, pale gray shirt, dark gray tie and highly polished leather shoes. His hair, which had been loose and waving attractively around his neck, is now pulled back into the severe ponytail I saw last night when he leaped out of his battered Porsche. With a glance and a nod in my direction, he heads for the back door. His hand on the doorknob, he stops, then t
urns, comes back to stand beside my chair. I look up at him, puzzled.

  He smiles and reaches down to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind my ear. I jump, flinching involuntarily under his hand.

  “Relax, enjoy yourself. I look forward to hearing all about your progress at the weekend.” Ignoring my obvious nervousness, he places his left forefinger between my eyebrows and gently smooths the skin there. “You frown too much, Miss Byrne,” he murmurs. “That’s a bad habit of yours. We’ll have to work on it. Till Friday, then.”

  And he’s gone.

  * * * *

  It’s Thursday morning and I find myself at something of a loose end. Rosie was due her annual check-up at the dentist, so the routine established over the last two days of practicing in the morning and free time in the afternoon is disrupted. One seriously protesting small girl has been bundled into Mrs. Richardson’s Clio ready to be taken down into Keighley, our nearest town, where the ordeal awaits. I sympathise but find myself in agreement with Grace. It pays to look after your teeth. I lean into the back seat of the car to promise Rosie we’ll still have time to practice Bolero when she gets back, and she insists we link our little fingers to seal the deal. Thus bound, I retreat to stand on the doorstep to wave them off.

  The car disappears around the bend in the driveway. Now, it’s just me and Barney.

  My canine companion seems content to snooze the day away beside the Aga. I can’t summon up the same enthusiasm for inactivity, perhaps because I’ve had so much of it of late. I decide to take advantage of the thin, watery sunshine and see if I can find my way into the nearest village. There’s a library there which I’d quite like to join, a little tea room and a village shop. Apart from feeding my love of books I could do with some shampoo, and maybe some chewing gum so the trip is justified. As I pull on my trainers ready to face the great outdoors. I’m surprised to realise I quite fancy the adventure.

  The library is run by local volunteers and only opens two half days a week, but this morning is one of those days. I’ve checked on Nathan’s iPad and worked out that I should be able to get there before the current window of opportunity closes. Oakworth is perhaps a mile and half away from Black Combe, a fair hike but I convince myself the exercise will do me good. My mother’s influence is never far away.

  I peer up into the sky. Plenty of gray cloud billowing around, and it may well rain again. I can borrow Mrs. Richardson’s umbrella, though, and my hoodie should keep me warm enough. Thus fortified, I set out at a cracking pace.

  I am half way down the steep lane leading to the village by the time I remember I never picked up the umbrella. I got it out of the utility room and put it on the kitchen table ready, then just marched off without it. I never used to be so absentminded, but these days I do find it difficult to concentrate the way I used to. I halt, turn and contemplate going back for it.

  No, I’ll manage. I’ll be in the village in less than half an hour, and if it comes on to rain again I’ll hide out in the tea room until it passes. I quicken my pace and press on.

  I manage to reach the first dwellings in just twenty three minutes, somewhat out of breath but I’ve beaten the rain. I stride down the main street – correction, only street – in search of uplifting literature.

  The library is lovely. It’s small, as I imagined it would be, but the two women staffing the desk are smily and welcoming. I get the impression new members are rare, especially anyone under pension age, and they can’t do enough to encourage me.

  “We just need to fill in this form. Could I take your name please?” The older of the two women picks up a pen and peers at me over her glasses.

  “Eva Byrne. Evangelica, actually.”

  She writes it down, using the full form of my name, then glances back up at me. “Address?”

  “Black Combe. It’s a house, up the hill a bit. I’m not sure what the road’s called though. I think I have the post code somewhere…”

  I pull out my phone to try to find the original email from the Little Maestro’s agency, only to remember that Natasha phoned me with the job offer.

  The woman smiles at me, her expression puzzled. “That’s fine. I know where you mean. That’s where Grace lives, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. She’s our housekeeper.”

  “Right, of course. And, how is she? I haven’t seen her for a couple of weeks. Mind you, we don’t see hardly anyone in all this rain. Is she keeping well?”

  “She’s fine, thank you.”

  “Good. Well, tell her I was asking after her. Oh, and if you could remind her that we still need her entry form for the cake contest at the summer gala…?”

  “Right, yes, I will. What else do you need from me?”

  “Just a few more details. Date of birth?”

  The rest of the form is quickly completed as the younger woman prepares my temporary card.

  She hands it to me, smiling. “I’m Heather. Heather Hollins. I know Black Combe, it’s where little Rosie lives. She’s in the same class as my Rhianna. I’ve seen her father a few times at the school, when he comes down to pick her up. He’s always very polite and drives a flash car.

  Not right now he doesn’t. Not since the Porsche’s close encounter with Miranda. And polite would not be the first word to spring to my mind.

  I leave the library, my temporary membership card tucked into my pocket, and wander down the main street. The tea room and shop are part of the same enterprise, in fact it’s probably more accurate to say that the shop has a thriving sideline offering tea and cakes. Two tables are crammed into a corner at one end and a third is located outside for the benefit of the more intrepid patrons. I ask at the counter for a cup of tea and am pleasantly surprised to find they do Earl Grey. I order a pot, and some ginger fingers to go with it, then take a seat at the table closest to the door. I’m not pushing my luck by taking my tea al fresco.

  I enjoy the aromatic brew, and the biscuits are home made so they are something of a treat too. I even contemplate splashing out on a round of cheese sandwiches for lunch but decide against it. The sky is looking ominous and I really would prefer to head back and avoid a drenching if I can.

  I wish I’d remembered that brolly.

  I settle my bill then head off back up the winding lane. I’m five minutes out of the village before I remember I intended to buy some chewing gum and shampoo as well. I pause, contemplate trotting back down but I take one glance at the darkening sky and think better of it.

  It’s much harder going uphill, a fact I really should have remembered from my ill-fated drive up here not two days ago. I hunch my shoulders, turn up my collar and stride out.

  Within minutes, the rain starts, light at first but gathering strength fast. Soon it is lashing down. I peer under my eyebrows for any form of shelter in the neighboring fields, but there is nothing, not so much as a tree or derelict barn.

  I break into a trot, my trainers splashing through the rivulets streaming across the road. I soon slow to a gentler pace, gripping my side as a stitch creases me. What’s the point anyway? I’m already soaked and with any luck I won’t melt.

  Ten minutes later, and I am utterly miserable as I trudge upward through the torrential downpour. What was I thinking? I’ll be lucky not to bloody drown, let alone melt.

  “Miss Byrne. You seem to be dripping. Again.”

  I swivel at the unexpected voice. Frowning – my reaction a mix of embarrassed horror and sheer delight -- peer through my soaked, spiky eyelashes at Nathan Darke, all dry and warm and looking perfect as ever in the cozy cocoon of his Audi. He has stopped alongside me and wound down the window on the driver’s side. He smiles up at me, his expression amused. But there’s something else there too. Concern? Annoyance even?

  “What are you doing here?” My question is curt, rude even.

  He appears not to notice, or perhaps he chooses to ignore my ill manners.

  “More to the point, Miss Byrne, what are you doing here? Have you not been quite wet enough for one week?”
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  It is on the tip of my tongue to suggest he engage in a most unwholesome act of self-abuse but instead I settle for turning on my heel and marching on up the lane.

  “Miss Byrne, get in.”

  He is creeping forward to keep pace with me, the long bonnet of the Audi remaining beside me as I splash forward. The rapid thump of his windscreen wipers is still loud above the pounding of the rain on the tarmac.

  “Miss Byrne, get in the bloody car. Now.” Neither the wipers nor the rain manage to drown out his voice, sterner now, more insistent.

  “No thanks. I’m fine,” I mutter.

  He accelerates to pass me, then stops a few feet ahead. He opens the driver’s door.

  “Miss Byrne, if I have to come out there in the bloody rain and get you that will really piss me off. Stop being so stubborn and get in before we both get washed away.”

  “I said, I’m fine. I don’t want to ruin your posh seats.”

  “Fuck the seats.” He lowers his tone, gentling a little, “Miss Byrne, get in. Please.”

  I lift my gaze to connect with his. His expression is still amused, but warmer now. Despite my embarrassment to be caught looking like a drowned rat—again—I can’t deny I’m pleased to see him. And not just because he has a warm, dry car which he seems ready to place at my disposal.

  I shrug and dash around to the passenger side. The door is opened before I reach it.

  I lean down to peer inside. “Do you have a coat or something?”

  “I’m offering you a lift home, not a bloody raincoat. For Christ’s sake just get in.”

  “I meant to put over the seat. Or a blanket, or…”