by Jill Jones
The stranger.
Who could he be? How did he know what had happened to Genevieve? Where had he come by the picture of her? Deeply troubled, Keely began to walk slowly back toward her own cottage, wishing she’d stayed to question him about Genny’s fate instead of losing her wits and running away. She doubted she’d have another opportunity. She was certain Erica had gone directly to alert Alyn of his presence.
Glancing at the sun that was now high in the sky, Keely quickened her pace. It was nearly opening time, and she hadn’t prepared anything for the noon meal at the pub. Forcing thoughts of the stranger to the back of her mind, she dashed through her garden door, donned her apron, and busied herself in the kitchen slicing bread, cheese and meats, arranging things on platters that would later make it easier to fill customers’ orders for sandwiches. Rote activity. Busywork to still her mind.
But it didn’t work. Her head was filled with questions and even more so, with the image of the man she’d encountered within the sacred circle of stones. She thought his face was the most handsome she’d ever seen, with strong, even features and a square jaw. His hair was blond, his skin tan, as if he spent a good deal of time in the sun. His eyes were blue as the summer sky over Keinadraig. His speech had been odd, however. His words were English, but strangely accented.
Keely bit her lip, trying to stop these disturbing, runaway thoughts, but they kept racing ahead of her, bringing to mind the outline of his broad shoulders, the obvious strength in the arms that were bare below his short sleeves. He was, she admitted reluctantly, the kind of man she and Genevieve had always dreamed of meeting.
Someday.
In the world outside.
Returning to the beach down the same path that had led him to the standing stones, Jack considered the look on the young woman’s face when she’d seen the sketch. Recognition had certainly registered there, alongside no small amount of fear. What was she afraid of? Why had she denied the dead woman was from here?
He hurried now, determined to get to the bottom of things quickly, as his presence was most likely known by now in the village. Cult or no cult, he must try to get answers to the questions that had brought him to this remote part of the world and let someone here know of the victim’s death. Regardless that they did not like strangers, surely the people of the village would want to know what had happened to one of their own.
Jack reached the end of the beach and stopped to slip on his jacket again. He walked up the steps that led to the top of an old stone quay that protectively embraced one side of a tiny harbor. A twin quay faced it from the other side, leaving a narrow passageway between them, large enough for only small craft to navigate. Above the harbor was an open square, and beyond that, a typical Cornish village, so quaint it belonged on a post card. Lining three cobblestone streets that led away from the square were sturdy stone houses, some of them whitewashed, with metal or slate roofs, narrow chimneys and tall windows to let in the fresh sea breezes. Surprisingly modern light fixtures ringed the square and the harbor. The square itself bloomed in a bright array of summer flowers.
The scene was perfect. Too perfect, in fact. Something was wrong with the picture. Then Jack realized there were no automobiles. Not a single car or truck anywhere to be seen. None needed, he supposed, in a tiny village on a remote island. The residents probably kept their cars on the mainland.
He walked along the quay until he reached the square, where he stopped to read something that was carved into the lintel of an ornamental gate:
Away, hide away, on this distant shore,
Let ne’er a stranger in thy door.
Keep your secret safe, hidden in the mist,
And let no one leave who be Dragon kiss’d.
Let ne’er a stranger in thy door? There was no mistaking that message. But what about the rest of it? He’d been warned that the so-called Dragoners didn’t welcome strangers, but clearly there was more to it than that. What secret did they keep hidden? And what did it mean—”Dragon kiss’d?”
Tearing his gaze from the ominous sign, Jack realized something else was wrong with the picture. There were no people in it. He became acutely and uncomfortably aware that he was the only person in sight, although he suspected he was being watched from behind the lace curtains of the houses on the square.
He considered what to do next. Normally, one of the first places to look for information in any given town was the local bar. The watering hole was always the center of gossip. Except Jack didn’t see any bar. He glanced up and down the streets, but there was not a single sign dangling from any of the buildings. No “Cock and Bull,” or “The Queen’s Head.” If fact, he realized with a start, neither did there appear to be other businesses. No bakery, no grocer, no news stand or flower stall. Nothing.
Where did these people go for goods and supplies? He remembered Kevin Spearman telling him that the Dragoners came to Penzance to buy what they needed, but still, Jack would have expected some kind of enterprise among them.
Suddenly, he heard someone shout. “Halt there!” He looked up the hill. Coming toward him was a large, and from the look on his face, very angry man. Jack squinted in the bright sunlight, and a movement behind the man caught his eye. A figure emerged from a house further up the street, the figure of a woman with lush dark hair, wearing a familiar long dark skirt. His heart unexpectedly jumped in his chest. Then the figure disappeared again.
Jack waited at the corner for the man to reach him. He appeared to be in his late sixties. He was wearing a flat cap that covered all but a low ridge of curly white hair just above each ear. His nose was bulbous, his eyes a piercing steel gray. He wasn’t smiling.
“Who goes there?”
Jack recognized the voice he had heard when he dialed the phone number he’d found in Brad’s room. Bingo. The number written on the scrap of paper just became evidence. Eyeing the man steadily, he handed him a business card. “The name’s Knight. Jackson Knight. I’m a private investigator.”
The man’s frown increased as he studied the card. Abruptly, he handed it back and glared at Jack. “What’re y’ here for?”
His unmistakable and unwarranted rancor suddenly irritated Jack. “I’m here to find out who nearly killed my best friend.”
From experience, Jack knew that blunt, startling statements such as this often produced surprising, telltale reactions before the questioned party had time to hide them. He was rewarded this time by a look of alarm that passed over the man’s expression before being hidden behind an even more ferocious frown.
“Na one’s been kilt here.”
“Not here. In London.”
“Then why’re y’ here?”
Jack produced the paper bearing the phone number he had dialed. “Because this was in the hotel room where my friend was seriously wounded and another person was killed. I called this number, and it was answered by someone on this island. I think perhaps,” he added slowly, “I spoke with you.”
He saw the man blanch and knew he had indeed been the one who answered the phone and claimed it was a wrong number. But the man recovered quickly and growled, “Are ye with th’ police?”
Jack hedged. “I’m working with Scotland Yard on the case.” He stuffed the paper into his pocket again. He must get it safely back to Inspector Sandringham and hope he wasn’t charged with withholding of evidence.
“I still do na know why ‘tis ye’re here.” The stocky man crossed his arms over his chest.
Jack gave him a measured stare, then took the sketch from the other pocket and handed it to him. “Because this is the other person who was shot in that room. I have reason to believe she was from your village.”
The man stared at the drawing for a long time, then looked up at Jack, as if trying to decide something. His shoulders seemed to slump, and he returned the sketch. “Come along,” he said at last in a heavy voice.
Wary that this might be a setup, Jack followed him up the street, where they entered a cottage that seemed as dark inside as the daylight o
utside was brilliant. Jack’s senses were keenly alert to possible danger, but when his eyes adjusted, there was no one in the room except the old man. Jack spotted an old-fashioned black telephone on a stand in the narrow hallway.
“Tha’s th’ phone,” the man said wearily, as if admitting a crime. “‘Tis th’ office of th’ Council. I’m Alyn Runyon, th’ Keeper of Keinadraig.”
Jack wasn’t certain what that meant, but he hoped the “Keeper” was a position like a mayor of the village and not some kind of hatchetman for a cult. Either way, it appeared he’d found the man in charge. Now if he could find out why the man had lied and claimed Jack had reached a wrong number.
The old man went into a room opposite the phone stand and turned on a lamp. “Here. Sit.” He pointed to a high-backed chair, as if Jack were a trained dog. Jack clenched his jaw at the man’s rude manner, but his anger was suddenly diffused when he caught a surprising look of sadness in his eyes. “Where did ye say that young girl was kilt?”
“You know her then?”
The old man sighed. “Aye. ‘Tis Genevieve Sloan. She ran away not even a week ago.”
“Why did you tell me I had reached a wrong number? Weren’t you alarmed when I called? I mean, didn’t it occur to you that she might have been the victim of the murder I referred to?”
The man raised his eyes, and Jack saw that they shone with unshed tears. “Aye. I knew it was her. But you see, in Keinadraig, when one of our own chooses t’ leave th’ Dragon’s back, as Genevieve did, she is considered dead t’ the rest of us. She betrayed her family and her village by leavin’, and she’d not be welcomed here if she tried t’ return. ‘Tis th’ law of Keinadraig. It matters not that she was murdered, for t’ us, she was already as if dead.”
Jack was both astounded and appalled. “It doesn’t matter that she was murdered?”
“Nay, it does not.”
Runyon offered no more, but Jack was far from finished with him. “Why did she run away? And who would have wanted to kill her?”
“She ran away because she was young and foolish.” Runyon’s voice took on a sharp edge. “She did na respect our laws. She thought she could escape, but th’ Dragon’s claw reaches far. Na one leaves the Dragon’s back, Mister Knight, and lives t’ tell about it. ‘Twas th’ Dragon that kilt her.”
Jack wondered wildly for a moment if he had stumbled into some kind of time warp, if somehow he had been thrust back into a medieval society that practiced a particularly morbid form of dragon worship.
“What do you mean, ‘the Dragon killed her?’”
“Being an outsider, I do na expect ye t’ understand it,” Runyon said confidentially, leaning toward him. “And ye may choose not t’ believe it, but from th’ time of th’ Dragon’s singing, death has been th’ fate of those who tried t’ leave Keinadraig. It comes in many ways—accidents, suicide, and now…even murder. Whatever form he chooses, the Dragon exacts his revenge. Genevieve would have died, one way or th’ other. Th’ Dragon is a jealous beast, y’see, Mr. Knight, and bad things happen t’ those who betray him.”
Runyon’s expression remained dead earnest, and he neither blinked nor looked away. Either the guy was a fearful, superstitious provincial who believed this line of bullshit or he was a very talented actor trying to cover his knowledge of the woman’s death. Jack was not sure which.
“So that’s why it doesn’t matter that Genevieve Sloan was murdered,” Jack repeated aloud, seeking to make sure he’d heard right. “She was going to die anyway, somehow.”
“Aye.”
“But her death wasn’t really the fault of whoever shot her. Her death was caused by the will of this…dragon.”
Runyon hesitated, then repeated, “Aye.”
“I see.” Jack started to point out that Scotland Yard might have a different opinion, then gave it up. He believed he’d learned all he was going to from this man. “Do you want me to ship her body here?”
The man who called himself the Keeper shook his head. “Nay. She is not of us any longer, living or dead. Do with her what ye will.”
“No!”
Jack jumped at the sound of a woman’s voice, and both men turned toward the hallway. The woman he’d encountered in the circle of stones was standing in the corridor, her face white against the profusion of her dark hair, her eyes wide with fury.
“Keely!” Alyn Runyon’s tone bespoke his displeasure. “What are ye thinkin’? How long have ye been listenin’ where ye should na be?”
“Ye can na do it, Uncle. Ye can na leave Genevieve out there. She belongs here, where she can be…where her body can be cleansed, and she can be honored as one of us.”
Alyn Runyon stood and went to the woman, who was apparently his niece. Jack saw no sign that she was afraid of him. “Now, Keely, ye know th’ law. ‘Twas Genny’s own fault for leavin’.”
“The Dragon can keep his laws,” she hissed. “Genevieve does na deserve this.”
Before Jack knew what happened, Alyn Runyon backhanded the woman on the cheek. “Ye’ll na speak of’t again.”
Jack jumped from his chair and inserted himself between Runyon and the woman. “Don’t you touch her again,” he ordered, his face hot and blood pounding heavily in his veins.
“Get out,” Runyon growled. “Ye know nothin’ of our affairs, and they are no business of yours. Leave, before th’ Dragon finds ye too.”
Jack turned to Keely and saw the astonishment in her eyes at what had just happened. “Are you all right, Miss? I won’t leave…”
“Nay,” she whispered, touching her cheek gingerly. “He’s right. Please leave.”
Runyon faced him with a scowl. “‘Tis my job as Keeper t’ make decisions for the island. Do not return th’ girl t’ us. Now, I’ve cooperated with ye th’ best I know how. Go now, and do na come back. I do na know who kilt Genevieve, and I do na want t’ know. ‘Tis a painful thing for us t’ lose a young one. Leave us, and let us grieve in our own way.”
Jack looked at Keely, but her eyes were now unreadable.
“Go,” she said, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “Please, just go.”
Chapter Five
Keely looked at her uncle in dismay, shocked beyond words that he had struck her. Alyn Runyon had never touched anyone in violence. At least, not that she knew of. Her mother’s brother had always had a gentle nature.
Something was terribly wrong here.
“Why?” The single word caught in her throat.
Alyn’s expression lost its fierceness as he turned from where he stood on the front steps watching the retreating figure of the stranger and went back inside the cottage. He gathered Keely into his arms and held her close. “I am sorry,” he uttered. “‘Twas the stranger. I did na mean to…”
But Keely stiffened and pulled away, her cheek still stinging. “Alyn, what is wrong with ye? What is wrong with all of us? We are acting like we still live in the ancient days.” She saw her uncle’s face harden once again.
“Ye be treadin’ on dangerous sand, girl. ‘Tis th’ laws of th’ Dragon that have kept us safe since those ancient days, and all who wear the kiss of the Dragon must never forget it.” He furrowed his brow and let his gaze bore into her. “All.”
Her skin prickled at his admonition, and her fingers unconsciously touched the small mark on her neck. But she was filled with warring emotions. She understood the importance of honoring their timeless laws, but…“What harm could there be in bringing Genny’s body home?” she cried, unable to stop herself.
“There is no Genny!” Alyn roared.
Keely stared at her uncle, stunned at what he was implying. Alyn Runyon was choosing to believe not just that Genevieve Sloan no longer existed, but rather that she never had existed. This was taking the excommunication rite beyond the extreme, and she didn’t understand why.
Sick at heart, Keely pushed past her uncle and dashed into the street, making for her own cottage up the hill. How could he? How could he hit her? And how could he deny G
enny’s existence?
A cloud passed across the sun, sending a dark shadow over the village, and the wind seemed suddenly chill.
Only a few customers were in the pub when she returned, most of whom had already helped themselves to the sandwich supplies, drawn their own drinks, and laid their money on the bar to pay for it. It was like that in Keinadraig. There was no crime. No mistrust. Everyone was like family and worked together for the common good.
What common good came of denying one of their own? Keely fumed to herself as she replenished the sandwich plate and wiped furiously at the bar. What had Genevieve ever done to deserve such ignominy?
An unwanted answer slapped her in the face as surely as Alyn had physically done only minutes before. Genevieve had deserted these people who were like her family, many of whom indeed were her family. In leaving, had not Genny denied her own?
Bewildered by this unwelcome thought, Keely went into the kitchen at the back of the cottage and gazed out the window. Genevieve would never have denied anyone, unless there had been good cause. What, she asked herself again, had caused Genny to run?
And what had happened to her? All Keely knew was that she had been murdered in London. How? And by whom?
Despair flooded her once again as she realized how vulnerable Genny had been. How vulnerable she would be out there. All that prating about making their way into the outside world had been the talk of foolish, unworldly girls. Neither of them had any business daydreaming of running away to the big city. Because they had, look at what had happened to dear little Genny. Choking on grief, Keely tore off her apron and reached for her cloak from the peg by the door.
She could not stay here a minute longer. She felt frightened and suffocated, more miserable than she had ever believed possible. Somehow, some way, she had to make peace with all this if she was ever to get on with her own life.
And to make peace, she needed some answers.
At first she thought of going to Ninian’s, in hopes of learning what had happened between mother and daughter that fateful night, but she guessed that Erica had already told Ninian about the stranger, and of Genevieve’s fate. Keely wasn’t up to facing that truth in the presence of Ninian, nor had she any wish to encounter Erica again so soon.