by Morgana Best
I grimaced and tried to take small comfort from the fact that Strabo didn’t actually say that the Druids themselves did the sacrificing. Strabo also mentioned the wicker man: a huge figure made from straw and wood, into which the Gauls placed wild animals and cattle as well as human beings. They then burnt them all to death. He also said that they killed victims with arrows and impaled them in the Druid temples.
I hardly dared read any more, but I forced myself to go on. There actually wasn’t much else. I found that less than two thousand words had been written by ancient authors, and that of these, Caesar was the earliest. Some historians even considered that Strabo had copied Caesar. That cheered me up. If Caesar was the only actual account of the alleged human sacrifices, perhaps they hadn’t happened, after all. I didn’t fancy being the Keeper of a society that was into human sacrifices.
I got up and peered around the door of my cupboard-office. No sign of Skinny. I couldn’t hear her yelling at anyone, so I figured she was out. I hurriedly walked to the staff room and poured myself a coffee, and then quickly walked back to my desk. I sat at the computer and stared at the screen for inspiration.
By the time I got home that afternoon, I was pretty miserable, even though on the way home I’d bought three tubs of caramel and butterscotch ice cream and a large amount of chocolate. Comfort food works for me. I could always diet, or perhaps even exercise if I got really desperate, later.
I threw my car keys on the table, put the ice cream in the freezer, ate some chocolate to keep me going, and then ran a hot bath into which I poured an over supply of caramel and vanilla bubble bath. I didn’t linger in the bath as I was too tense to enjoy it. I was in the process of lathering on copious amounts of Vineyard Peach Body Butter when there was a loud, insistent knocking at the door. I so hoped it wasn’t Douglas.
I ran to my bedroom and threw on the first pair of jeans I could find, the first bra I could find, and the first shirt I could find, and then hurried to the front door. I was secretly hoping it would be John, but it was not to be.
I threw the front door open, only to see the two MI6-ish type guys I had met on my Morpeth adventure standing there.
Chapter 8
“Bill and Ben!” I exclaimed.
To my horror, I realised I’d said that aloud. I had given the two guys the nicknames back in Morpeth as I’d had no idea of their real names.
They exchanged glances, and the taller one (the one I called Bill) raised his eyebrows. “May we come in?” he asked in a tone that had very little sound of request in it.
The two men barely waited for me to agree before walking into my house. I have what’s known in Australia as a Victorian miner’s cottage. These houses are typically over a hundred years old and the front door opens onto a long hallway. The men immediately turned right into my living room. How did they already know that it wasn’t the bedroom, as was the case in many of these houses? I felt a little ill at ease. Had I been under surveillance?
The two men sat down on the sofa without being invited. So much for the myth of Englishmen having impeccable manners. Ben had a large blue folder, which he opened with a flourish and then set down on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
I sat down opposite them. I was hoping like crazy that they were here about the job offer, and more so, that the job offer was a desk job which would not have me swinging by a rope from a high rooftop, or anything else James Bond-like.
Bill spoke first. “Ms Friday, we’re here about the position that we spoke about some time earlier.”
Thank goodness! My mortgage was looking safe after all. I nodded, trying not to look overly keen.
Ben thrust some papers and a silver pen at me. “You will need to read this and then sign in the places so marked.”
Here we go again, the Official Secrets Act. I skimmed the first four pages which were mostly full of boring legalese, but I did note that the fifth page was a waiver stating that they would not be held responsible for death or injury. That was a little alarming. I duly signed and handed the papers back.
Just as I did so, my cat Merlin ran into the room, arched her back, hissed at Bill and Ben, swiped viciously at Bill’s leg, and then turned and ran out of the room.
“Err, sorry. Merlin can be unfriendly at times.”
Bill and Ben ignored me. “This pays full time wages,” Bill said, “but we want you to keep working at the magazine as a cover.”
I was in two minds. Firstly, I was overjoyed that my money worries appeared to be over. The bank wouldn’t evict me from my house, and the credit card companies wouldn’t be phoning me constantly, demanding to know when I intended to pay, and charging me fees because I couldn’t pay, like that made sense! On the other hand, I would have to continue to work for Skinny, who surely had to be the world’s meanest employer.
“Do I have to keep working at the magazine?” I knew that my voice came out whining and childlike, but I couldn’t help it.
Bill and Ben merely looked at me.
Bill leant forward. “From time to time, we will ask you to do something for us, although as you read in the contract, you will be paid a good wage on a monthly basis.”
I didn’t remember reading that. Surely, I would have noticed anything with dollar signs? “Would you mind if I have a quick look at the papers again?”
Ben opened his folder and handed them back. My hands were shaking. The wage was noted on the third page. I gasped when I saw the figure; it was far more than I’d been paid as a journalist. I plastered what I hoped was a calm, reserved look on my face and handed the papers back to Ben. My hands were shaking.
“Your first assignment is to go back to Hillgrove and nearby Bakers Creek Falls,” Ben said in his clipped Oxbridge accent. “The murdered man, whose body you discovered, was working for us.”
“Murdered man?” I exclaimed. “Working for you?”
“Yes,” Ben continued. “In fact, the murdered man was to be your contact at Hillgrove.”
“My contact?” I parroted. A worrying thought hit me. Perhaps this was dangerous after all, which would explain the decent wage. “But, but,” I stammered, “isn’t it a bit of a coincidence that I was the one to find his body, now that I’m working for you and especially since he was to be my contact? I don’t believe that there are such things as coincidences. What are the odds of me finding him? It makes no sense. Why would I find him, with him supposed to be my contact and all, even though I didn’t know that at the time?” I realised I was rambling, but I was frightened.
“Ms Friday, you will be in no danger whatsoever. You do not have to find the murderer.” Bill’s tone was level and serene and clearly intended to make me feel the same, but it wasn’t working. I felt the panic rising in my stomach.
I narrowed my eyes and wondered what they really wanted me to do. I suspected they had only cooked up this assignment after the man had been murdered. Otherwise, it was far too much of a coincidence.
Bill smiled at me. It was the first time I had seen either of them smile. He continued in the same even tone. “Your assignment requires you to go and find out everything you can about the evil entity at Hillgrove.”
“What evil entity? There’s an evil entity?” I gasped. “Do you think the evil entity pushed that poor man over the cliff?”
Bill and Ben exchanged glances. “Of course not,” Bill said, looking down his nose at me. “You’ve been watching too much TV. Obviously, someone, a human someone, murdered him, so you will be in no danger.”
I frowned and chewed on a fingernail, not quite catching the logic of that statement.
Bill pushed on. “Being a journalist for the paranormal magazine is the perfect cover. No one will suspect you. It’s all perfectly safe.”
“Besides,” Ben said, “it’s not as if we want you to solve the murder or anything like that. We just want you to go to Hillgrove to make notes on the evil entity.”
I was intrigued and puzzled at the same time. “What exactly do you want me to find out abo
ut it?”
Bill shook his head. “Nothing in particular, just make copious notes on it. You will need to delve into the history of Hillgrove as well as use your abilities to see ghosts.”
This sounded a little too easy to me. I figured there had to be more to it.
“Why are you so interested in some supposed evil entity at Hillgrove?” I rubbed my temples. “Oh, I mean, can you tell me? Or am I on a need-to-know basis?”
Bill and Ben exchanged glances again. This time, Bill spoke. “There have been several massacres at Hillgrove over the last two hundred years or so. It used to be a flourishing town too, but now barely anyone lives there.”
I nodded. “I’ve heard about the massacres that happened about a hundred years ago. They were pretty much common knowledge when I was at university in Armidale, which is only fifty minutes from Hillgrove. Oh, I suppose you know that.”
Both men nodded.
“There was at least one massacre at the adjoining Bakers Creek Falls,” I continued. “People were thrown over the cliffs, same as the Hillgrove massacres. It’s so steep out there. The whole area has one big gorge running straight through it. It’s half a mile straight down.”
The men nodded again. I could see they were getting bored, but I was on a roll. “A terrible thing, too. Over twenty years ago, three criminals escaped from jail in Queensland and travelled down through Hillgrove, which is, of course, well away from the normal route. They happened to come across three miners, and for no reason murdered them and threw them over the cliffs into the gorge. It’s strange how history repeated itself.”
“The evil entity,” both men said in unison.
“Our deceased colleague was researching the ancient evil and trying to ascertain whether it caused the massacres,” Ben said.
“But you’ll be safe,” Bill hastened to add, “because he wasn’t killed by the evil entity, which as far as we know, can’t kill anyone. We figure it whips those who are already criminally minded into a fury. As far as humans go, you have a good cover story, and it will look like you’ve gone back to Hillgrove only because of the recent murder.”
At that point, I realised I hadn’t offered the men anything to eat or drink. “Um, would you like tea or coffee? Or a cold drink?”
I expected them to refuse, but they both said they would like a coffee, black. I walked to the kitchen and looked at my De Longhi Nespresso machine. I only had a few coffee capsules left, and although I was now no longer in danger of being penniless, I had no idea how long it would be before I was paid.
I was almost out of my favourite capsules, Fortissio and Vivalto, and what’s more, I had to buy them online. What to do? It was the only coffee I had. Then I saw the red capsules, the Decaffeinato. What a relief. I could give the two men decaffeinated coffee; they’d never pick the difference. After all, I never touched decaffeinated. The stuff should be illegal. When Cordelia had given me the Nespresso machine as a gift, she’d given me a selection of capsules with it. At last, I had a use for the Decaffeinato.
Now, what to give them to eat? I searched in the back of the cupboard for cookies, but could only find noodles and brown rice. I sure wasn’t going to let them at any of my chocolate.
It was too late in the afternoon for me to have more coffee, so I spooned some ice cream into a coffee mug. I put the three coffee mugs onto a tray and carried them out to the living room.
“I don’t have any cookies, sorry, but would you like some ice cream?”
They looked at me as if I were mad and both declined, thankfully. I sat opposite them and ate my ice cream with a teaspoon. It seemed to last longer that way. I noticed they were looking at me strangely again, so said, “It’s an Australian tradition.” It wasn’t of course, but people think all Aussies say ‘G’day’ and have kangaroos hopping down city streets, so I thought it wasn’t too much of a stretch.
They simply nodded and sipped their coffees. Well, Ben sipped his coffee, while Bill downed his like a shot. “We need you to suggest to your magazine that you write the story on Hillgrove ghosts instead of your colleague, Cordelia, so that you going to Hillgrove will be your cover,” Bill said.
I shook my head. “Keith will never go for it. Cordelia’s already been assigned the story and has been working on it. Besides, Cordelia is a good friend. There’s no way I can do that.”
They completely ignored me. Bill continued, “We have arranged accommodation for you in Armidale. Tell your boss that you have relatives in Armidale and will not require any expenses from the magazine. You will be staying with Brandon, one of our agents who is infiltrating the international student scene at the local university.”
At that point, both men stood up, said their goodbyes, and left. As I shut the door, I saw the post lady, Julie, hurrying down my path. Too late; she had seen me, so I opened the door wider. “Hi, Julie.”
“Misty, sign here for this letter.”
I looked at the letter, which, as far as I could tell without opening it, was simply a bill and likely, an overdue one. “I don’t need to sign for it, Julie.”
She took the letter from me and looked at it, turning it over. “Oh. Anyway, I just saw two men leaving your house.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Visitors.”
Julie did not take the hint. “Who were they? Do you have a boyfriend at long last?” She giggled.
My shoulders sagged. “No, they’re friends of my mother’s.” It was the first thing that came into my head.
Julie peered into my face. “Are you a suspect in the murders?”
I stepped back. Julie was always invading my personal space.
“No? What are you talking about?”
“The Bakers Creek Falls murders. Everyone is saying that you and Cordelia found the bodies.”
“There was only one body, Julie.” I shook my head. How had news travelled so fast? My small town was a good four hours away from Bakers Creek Falls, and I hadn’t told a soul. “I didn’t think anyone knew,” I said aloud.
“Oh, you’re silly.” Julie giggled again. “It’s all over town. Anyway, Cordelia must be really upset about it.”
I knew I shouldn’t have asked, but I did. “Why is that?”
“I went to her house just now to get her to sign for a letter and she didn’t come to the door.”
“She must have been out.”
“No, silly. She was there. I saw her peeping through the curtains at me.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Julie loomed closer and peered in my face again. “Well, so long as you’re all right. See you later.”
I shut the door and latched it firmly. “Oh well, at least I don’t have a boring life any more,” I said to Merlin, who had poked her head around the door to make sure she and I now had the house to ourselves. I took the coffee mugs back to the kitchen and plugged in my iPhone to charge it.
Just as I did, I saw another message from Blocked Sender. Beware. Death awaits you in Hillgrove.
Chapter 9
I was sitting in Keith’s office. Keith was my boss, although Skinny basically ran the place. I had no idea why I’d been summoned, and I certainly wasn’t going to broach the subject of the Hillgrove ghost story. It had already been assigned to Cordelia. Besides, I had warned Bill and Ben that Keith wouldn’t like the idea.
Keith wasted no time in coming to the point. “Misty, I’ve changed my mind about the Hillgrove ghosts.”
“You have?” I interrupted, a little too shrilly. Had Bill and Ben somehow influenced Keith?
Keith tapped his pen on his desk. “Daisy thinks it’s a good idea to assign you to take over the story on the Hillgrove ghosts from Cordelia, to leave Cordelia free to write a series of articles on the hauntings at Maitland prison.”
For a minute I wondered who Daisy was, and then I remembered. Daisy was Skinny’s real name. Cordelia and I never referred to her as Daisy.
“She did?” That would be a first; Skinny had never approved of
me doing anything before.
Keith nodded. “How are you doing on your story about faeries? Did you research the reason why people left milk out for them, like I asked you to?”
I let out a long, slow breath. “Yes, the people back then in Ireland who used to leave milk out for the faeries believed that any milk that fell on the ground while milking a cow was taken by the faeries. They also thought that it was bad to scrape off any knife run through the butter after it was churned, because the bit that sticks to it belongs to the faeries too. One source I read said that out of three pounds of butter, an ounce or two would be left for the faeries.”
Keith looked blank and fidgeted with a paperweight on his desk. “At least you’ve made a start. Anyway, that story’s not due just yet, so concentrate on the Hillgrove story instead. We need to get this story out fast while the murder is still on people’s minds. We’ll sell more magazines this way.”
With that, I was dismissed, so I walked out to the coffee machine. Cordelia was already there, munching on chocolate chip cookies.
“Any chocolate chip cookies left?” I asked. “Hey, what about me having to write about Hillgrove and you writing about Maitland prison?”
Cordelia shrugged, and handed me the packet of cookies. “Suits me. I can’t ever go back to that ghastly place, not after the murder.”
I was on the point of remarking that Maitland prison would have seen its share of murders over the decades, but managed to stop myself in time. Instead I said, “Let’s go get lunch.”
Cordelia readily agreed. As I walked to my cupboard-office, my heel caught in a loop of carpet and I tripped and fell. “Ouch.” I looked up from my sprawled position on the carpet, to see Skinny standing over me.
