Dark Lake

by Clare Revell

  “He’s in there now, I assume?” She swung on her heel and started to walk away.

  Evan sped up. “Can I help you?”

  The woman spun to face him. Her eyes narrowed in what could be recognition, and her brow furrowed for an instant. “Only if you’re Mr. Steel, but I don’t think you are.”

  Evan held out a hand. He had to play it cool despite the way his heart was thumping and threatening to burst free from the confines of his chest. She was merely a woman, an obstacle to be dealt with. Nothing more. “No, I’m not. My name is Evan Close. I own the land and the dam. As well as the contracts for the upkeep of said dam. I run Xenon.”

  “Then perhaps you can help me.” She seized his hand; her fingers cool and her touch light. “Dr. Lou Fitzgerald, head archaeologist for the Sparrow Foundation. I’m here to check out your lake.”

  4

  Evan held her gaze. “I know who you are, Dr. Fitzgerald.”

  She raised her brows and dropped his hand as if it burned her. “Does my reputation precede me?”

  “Varian Sparrow and I go way back. He told me you were coming.”

  “I see. Well, then, as you know why I’m here, I’d like permission to dive in the lake. Explore the ruins. Take photos. That kind of thing.”

  “Why?”

  Lou frowned, confused. “You said you knew I was coming.”

  “Yes, but why the sudden interest in a lake that’s been there so long? After all, it was constructed before World War II.”

  “History is buried down there.” Dr. Fitzgerald spoke slowly as if explaining the basics to a small child. “Varian wants the ruins catalogued before they vanish for good. He insists that with the levels in the lake this low, now is the best time to do it.”

  “I’d say you’re several years too late for that. Everyone connected with the lake, the building of the dam, and flooding of the village is long dead.”

  “Ah, but in my line of work that’s always the case. It’s surprising what you can learn from what people left behind, Mr. Close.” She tugged a folder from the case in her hand and removed a sheaf of photos. “Look at these.”

  Evan snatched them and flicked through them. His stomach sank further with each photo. How had she gotten hold of these? And why was he only seeing them for the first time now? What kind of a game was Varian playing?

  He glanced up. “And this proves what?” Somehow, he managed to keep his voice on an even keel, despite the turmoil surging within him.

  “That something is still down there. Those photos are of items washed up along the shoreline over there. The church is proof some of the buildings are still intact. Three weeks is all I’m asking.”

  Evan paused as he considered the idea. Three weeks was an eternity. Three days would be too long. “I really don’t see—”

  “Mr. Close, that”—Dr. Fitzgerald interrupted him as she jabbed at a photo—“is the burned femur of a child.”

  “You don’t know that. It could be anything. An animal or…”

  “I can assure you it’s not an animal bone. It’s a child, aged around seven or eight.” She cut him off. “It’s my job to know that. I also happen to know that there are no death certificates for burn victims in the area in at least the last one hundred years. Now, either you let me dive or my office sends the photo and the bone to the police, and this whole area becomes a crime scene.” She stared him down, her face firm and her jaw set. “It’s your choice.”

  Choice? Yeah, right. What choice did he have? He narrowed his eyes. “It sounds more like blackmail to me, Dr. Fitzgerald.”

  She tilted her head, her gaze never leaving his face. “Not at all. Simply stating facts. Not to mention that the press would also have a field day with these photos.”

  Evan sucked in a deep breath. This woman had the means to be an irritating thorn in his flesh. “Ten days,” he said firmly.

  That would give him more than enough time to negotiate with the river authorities and tidal control and have water diverted long enough to refill the reservoir, essentially re-flooding the valley. The soonest he could organize that would be a just under a week. If it happened sooner, before she finished, it would hardly be his fault.

  Dr. Fitzgerald shook her head, her ponytail whipping from side to side. “That is nowhere near long enough.”

  “That is all the time you can have,” he reiterated firmly.

  “In that case I shall do as many dives as I see fit. Night time ones, too, if needed. I’ll also require unlimited access to the dam, lake, and surrounding land.”

  He hesitated before giving her a curt nod. “You’ve heard the rumours?”

  “That this place is haunted?” She rubbed the back of her neck, a smirk on her lips. “I don’t believe in ghosts, Mr. Close, nor am I afraid of them. I prefer working when no curious onlookers are around, so the ghost stories will be a great deterrent.” She held out her hand. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

  He captured her hand, only instead of shaking it, he raised it slowly to his lips and kissed it softly, never once breaking eye contact with her. He noted with satisfaction that her eyes glistened and her cheeks flushed. Her skin was as soft as he’d imagined. He’d thrown her off balance and that was exactly what he wanted. He smiled. “I’m sure we will meet again. Dark Lake is a small village.” He inclined his head. “Dr. Fitzgerald, Charlie.”

  He spun on his heel and headed towards the office to find Jasper. He had many things to put in motion and very little time to do it.

  ~*~

  Lou watched Mr. Close walk away, shockwaves rippling from the back of her hand to her core. She could still feel the imprint of his lips, fire burning there as much as on her cheeks.

  Talk about taking her by surprise. She hadn’t expected him to act like a gentleman. Kissing the back of one’s hand was so old fashioned. Only found in the Jane Austen novels she’d read, not that she’d admit to reading them if anyone asked. She also read contemporary romance, as well as some of the grittier ones—preferring the suspense genre to straightforward love stories. She read a lot for relaxation. She needed to in her line of work; otherwise, she’d never switch off.

  Plus, reading helped on those nights she couldn’t sleep. When the memories hit her head on, forcing her to relive over and over things she’d rather forget. And diving wouldn’t help that one little bit. In fact, it’d probably make things worse for a while. Not that she needed that on top of everything else.

  A touch on her arm brought her back to the here and now. She shook her head and sighed. “Sorry. My mind went off on a tangent for a moment.”

  “It’s fine. I asked if you wanted to go and hire the scuba gear,” Charlie asked.

  Lou nodded. “Yes. And I need to brief the rest of the team Varian said he’d arrange.”

  Charlie frowned. “What team?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “He said…”

  “You should know by now, girlie, what Varian says and what Varian does are two totally separate things. There is you and me and a couple of blokes from the pub who know how to dive. That’s it.”

  “Great,” she muttered, tempted to correct both his grammar and the use of the word girlie, but really couldn’t be bothered. For a second, she wondered if she should turn around and go home. Forget the whole thing. Then again, she’d just gone to bat with Mr. Close and fought for the right to do this. “Fine, OK. You ring them and get them here. I’ll call Varian and find out what game he thinks he’s playing.”

  As Charlie left, Lou leaned against the parapet, gazing out over the water at the church spire. The stone work at the base, right above the water level, appeared to be blackened. Had there been a fire at some point in its history? It would explain the burned bone, but not the lack of records anywhere.

  She tugged her phone from her pocket. Taking a deep, calming breath, she rang Varian.

  “This is Varian Sparrow. Leave a message.”

  The calming breath evaporated. She glowered. “It’s Lou. And I’m not
surprised you don’t have the guts to answer your phone. This is a shambles, Varian. Shambles with a capital S, H, A, M and every other letter in the word. There is no team. There is no permission to dive or anything else, for that matter. You are jolly lucky I’m not resigning on the spot. You send AJ and Clara up here on the double, or I am quitting. In fact, they’d better be here by morning, or I hand those photos to the cops and walk.”

  She shoved the phone into her pocket, spun around, and walked back to the car. Easing into the vehicle, she made several more calls, the first to the scuba diving company to arrange the equipment hire. She charged that and everything else to the company credit card without any hesitation.

  Finished with the remaining calls, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes for a few seconds, trying to regain her equilibrium. Every part of her was screaming to leave, let someone else do this. But she wasn’t a coward. If she were, she’d have given up long ago.

  Lou rubbed her hands over her face. She didn’t have time to sit here and let Varian wind her up further. She started the car and drove back into the village, parking once again in the small hotel car park.

  She wandered along the single street of shops. She checked the small estate agents in the hope there would be a holiday home or short term let she could rent as she was sick of hotels. But there was nothing. As she went back onto the cold, grey street, her phone rang.

  Lou grimaced as she read the name on the screen. At least he’d had the decency to return her call before the day was out for once. She stood to the side of the pavement, not wanting to either walk and talk, or get in the way of other pedestrians. “Varian, how lovely of you to call me back. How are you?” Somehow, she managed to inject a half-hearted attempt at sarcasm into her voice.

  “Busy. I’ve arranged for a supply of diving gear, tanks, valves, and so on to be delivered to the dam for you. You won’t need to order anymore off your own bat, so don’t even think about doing so. You can have AJ but that’s it. Clara stays here and works with Monty.” His terse tone annoyed Lou further.

  “Excuse me?” For a nanosecond, Lou wasn’t sure she’d heard Varian correctly. “I thought you said I could only have AJ.”

  “That’s because I did say that. I need Clara here.”

  “If you want Dark Lake excavated properly, then I need help to do it. A local know-it-all along with two blokes from the pub with questionable diving experience, does not an archaeological team make. It doesn’t cut it. I need people I can trust, especially under water with potentially hazardous debris all over the place, not to mention people who know what they’d be doing, and they certainly can’t know how I like things done. Mr. Close has given me ten days to do this, and that was grudgingly. I meant what I said about quitting. You can find someone—”

  The line went dead, and Lou growled in frustration. “Fine. Hang up on me. I’ll resign by e-mail.”

  “The service probably dropped.” A deep voice spoke behind her. She’d only heard it once, but she recognized it. “It does that quite often up here. Something to do with the weather or something.”

  Lou turned around to face him. “Hello, again, Mr. Close.”

  “You seem stressed, Dr. Fitzgerald. Is everything all right?”

  “Just peachy,” she murmured. Then she breathed out her frustrations and shoved her phone and hands into her pockets. This wasn’t Mr. Close’s fault, and she shouldn’t take it out on him. “No, not really. Everything is about as far from all right as it’s possible to get. But that is just par for the course, right now. You own all this land, right?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “I don’t suppose you could tell me some of the history, could you? Background information and so on.”

  Hesitation, or was that reluctance, flickered in Mr. Close’s eyes. “All right.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. I’ll buy you coffee. That is if I can find a coffee shop. I’m still finding my way around here.”

  “I can go better than coffee,” he said. “We’ll have lunch. It can be my treat for boring you rigid with the village history.” He waved a hand. “This way.”

  5

  Evan ordered the food at the bar and paid. Then he picked up the drinks and carried them back to the table where Lou sat. The Wolf Pack did decent food for a pub, and unless they were really busy, which hardly ever happened, the meals were always delivered quickly.

  Why had he agreed to this? Was he that desperate for company—for female company—that he’d put himself in danger of betraying everything? Or was it a simple desire to spend a little more time in the company of someone who wore her emotions on her sleeve and wasn’t afraid to make her feelings known about her boss, even if that could get her fired?

  Whatever his reasons for inviting her to lunch, the woman had calmed down considerably since she’d left the dam and that had to be a good thing.

  He set his pint down on the table and then placed Dr. Fitzgerald’s down in front of her. “I’ve never come across a woman who drinks beer before. At least not by the pint.”

  “Then you must not get out very often. Or gone to the same university I did. Although, I must admit I have picked up the American habit of drinking it cold.”

  He smiled. “Likewise.” He shrugged off his overcoat, laying it carefully on the back of his chair. “So, what can I tell you?”

  “I’d like to learn the history behind the village and the dam. Something to tell me why a dig here is so important to my boss that he yanks me off my project and sends me a couple hundred miles north at a moment’s notice.”

  She studied him, and he glanced down, wondering if he’d spilled something on his blue suit. Satisfied he hadn’t, he undid the jacket and eased back into the seat. “Can’t the Internet tell you that, Dr. Fitzgerald?” he asked.

  “It can, and it will, but only the bare facts, not the emotions or the little details that make a dig like this come alive. For example, the Internet can tell me that Joe Blogs lived at 54 Main Street and protested against the flooding of the village by chaining himself to the railings outside 10 Downing Street, but it won’t tell me what made him do it. Did he simply object because everyone else did, or was there more to it than that?”

  She winked. “Was he a mass murderer who hid all the bodies in the church crypt? Or was he a smuggler and stashed all the loot there? Or was he the local graffiti artist and didn’t want all his work lost forever. And yes, he probably kept his paint in the church crypt along with everything else.”

  Evan chuckled, despite the way her words needled. “In that case, I suggest you check out the church crypt for bodies, loot, and spray paint as soon as you can. Seriously though, I didn’t live through it. My great-grandparents died before I was born, and my grandfather never really talked about it. They lived in Abernay, about a stone’s throw from the church before they moved to the manor after the flooding.”

  “The church is the one we can see?”

  He nodded, running his finger along the rim of the glass. “Abernay was this end of the reservoir. Finley the other.”

  “Was your great-grandfather the man in charge of the project?” She glanced at the notebook. “David Close?”

  Evan nodded. When had she started taking notes? “Yes. Although that was in name only from what I learned. Other men built the dam.” He paused as the plates of food came. “Thank you.” He took a deep breath. “This is one of my favourites, a house specialty.”

  Dr. Fitzgerald picked up her knife and fork and freed them from the serviette. “Looks like Lancashire hot pot.”

  “Similar, but with a Cumbrian twist.” He added salt and pepper to his before opening his knife and fork. He laid the serviette on his lap. “My great-grandfather got a lot of stick for working on the project.”

  “I bet. Why did he do it? If you still own the land, then he can’t have sold it.”

  “Only part of the land was sold.” The whole topic made him uncomfortable. Why on earth had he agreed to this conversation? “The
y force sold the houses in both villages, evicted all the occupants, both tenants and owners alike, before rehousing them all in large towns elsewhere. The villagers even protested in London, but to no avail. My great-grandfather lost just as much when the flood came.”

  Dr. Fitzgerald ate hungrily. “This is good. Your great-grandfather didn’t live in the manor house at the time of the flooding then?”

  Evan’s stomach pitted. “I’m sorry?” he asked, somehow making his voice remain calm.

  “You said he lived by the church, yet your family have owned the manor house for eight generations, and it obviously wasn’t rebuilt or part of the deal to sell off the land.” She held his gaze. “Varian gave me a file with a few briefing notes. Brief being the operative word.”

  “Then why are we having this conversation?” He frowned. Personal family history wasn’t part of the deal.

  She paused, a forkful of meat part way to her mouth. “As I said, the public records only tell half the story.”

  Ain’t that the truth? His great-grandfather’s journal put a whole different slant on the entire affair. “His father was still alive and living there. Great-grandad never saw eye to eye with him.”

  He paused. How much should he tell her? Maybe he’d tell her enough to shut her up, to appease her curiosity, and no more. He chewed slowly then spoke. “His parents thought Great-grandma was beneath them. She was, how do I put this, the scullery maid.”

  Dr. Fitzgerald grinned and then chuckled. “Your great-grandfather married the scullery maid? It sounds like something from a book or a TV show.”

  He bristled, hackles rising and defences going up. “It’s no laughing matter, Dr. Fitzgerald. Things were different back in the nineteen twenties and thirties. Class mattered. There were certain lines you didn’t cross. Just like today, in some respects, but not quite so much. Anyway, going back to the subject of the dam, the protest failed. The dam was finished, everyone moved out, and the villages were flooded. Great-grandad oversaw the work and building of the new village. None of the original residents moved in. People didn’t stay long at first, but after the war, things were different. People needed housing, so they stayed. It’s taken a long time to build the place up to what it is today.”