by R. L. Nolen
“Could you recognize him again?”
Tavy looked up at him, and took his time to reply. “P’r’aps.”
Jon tapped his foot. “Were there no distinguishing mannerisms?”
A bell rang. Jon retrieved their food. Steam rose from the plates as he set them down at their table. The door to the outside opened. A well-dressed chap and a woman entered.
“That be Mr. Malone and his wife,” Tavy muttered in almost a growl. Chelsea took the growl up, a low rumble which stretched on and on until the old man made a noise with his tongue. The dog gave him a look and a nod and put her head down again.
The barman greeted the Malones with loud jocularity. Jon noticed Mrs. Malone wore slacks and a stylish jacket just below her waist—and that she had lovely hips.
Tavy stared too.
“He seems well known,” Jon said.
“Fact o’ bein’ gentry, innit? He’s the local magistrate, a volunteer position he takes serious.”
Jon changed the subject back to what he was most interested in. “Too bad you couldn’t tell who it was on the cliff.”
The old man gave a shrug and chewed noisily, not taking his squinting eyes from the two new customers. “Too dark.”
He coughed and a piece of fish spewed out of Tavy’s mouth to land on the table. He picked it up and tossed it to Chelsea. With an almost human groan, she scooted closer and the piece of fish disappeared. The dog moved closer to Tavy’s chair and sat upright as if to say, “Any more?”
They ate without further conversation. Jon enjoyed the fish, done to white, flaky perfection. The chips were not overly greasy. He added horseradish to the mayonnaise. The chunks of dry lettuce on the side he could have done without.
He couldn’t get away from the revelation that Mrs. Butler was walking late at night alone. He had no business getting so involved, but perhaps he should warn her to stop. Someone should.
18
Friday night
Jon settled into a wooded spot above Mrs. Butler’s house, wondering why the woman was coming out at night. It was dangerous, whatever the reason. Surely since the child’s body had been found, she wouldn’t be out wandering, but just in case, he’d sit there as an unofficial guard. With Trewe as suspicious as he was, Jon couldn’t be seen to be too involved.
That was a powerful drink he’d had with Tavy—a drink called scrumpy, a type of cider served straight from the barrel. After he took Tavy home, it hit him, and he didn’t trust himself to be able to navigate well. So, he had parked and taken a nap in the quiet lane by Tavy’s house. When he woke, he had driven to his caravan and taken a cold shower in the cramped, toilet-shower contraption before setting out again for a walk. The brisk night air would set him right.
He hadn’t been able keep from thinking about the woman walking at night. So into the little copse of wood above the slope to the road in front of Mrs. Butler’s cottage he’d gone.
Despite the cold, the rustling of something in the bushes, and the wet of the undergrowth seeping through his trousers, he fell asleep again.
Some barely-perceptible change penetrated his sleep state. There it was again, a sort of metallic jangling. He came fully awake. The sounds of the night diminished. He jumped to his feet. He heard it again, the jangling—like pocket change or a set of keys being shifted.
He peered up and down the road in front of the woman’s house in time to observe a figure in white flutter—like a spirit through the gathering mists—round the street corner and head up toward the cliffs. Cursing to himself, he followed. He turned the corner only to catch a brief glimpse of the person, just at the street entrance to the Nap. As yet he couldn’t tell if it was Mrs. Butler or not. Heart thudding, he ran after her.
By the time he rounded the last corner of civilization, she was hurrying into the fog. Pieces of gauzy white escaped her dressing gown and flapped behind her. He understood Tavy’s description of the lost waif. This must be Mrs. Butler.
They were close enough to the sea for him to hear the surf beat against the rock in a poorly timed rumble. He could just make out her form through the fog that crept up and enveloped the cliff. He was traipsing after her when, with a jolt, he saw another figure keeping up with Mrs. Butler, pace for pace. This person was not on the path but crept along above her. He heard it again—jingle keys. The figure was not as silent as Mrs. Butler. Was this the mysterious “other” Tavy mentioned? Or was it Tavy himself?
The woman had moved too close to the cliff top. The rock was unstable; she might slip and fall over. Jon closed in. The dark other slid closer to her. Jon’s mouth went dry. Was the other person going to push her?
“Stop! Police!” The surf deadened Jon’s voice, but the dark figure stepped into the mists with crablike movement.
The woman turned toward Jon. The darkness obscured her pale features. “Who are you?” she called out.
“I’m a police officer. Why are you here, in the dark?”
“Walking … looking for … What are you doing here?”
“You weren’t alone right before I came up. Did you see the other person?”
“What? No.”
“I don’t think his intentions were good.” Jon sensed rather than saw a massive dark object loom on his left. He turned, instinctively defensive.
“Oh!” Mrs. Butler reached a hand toward him. “Don’t come closer. The edge is tricky.”
The dog, Chelsea, dipped her huge head down, snuffling on Jon’s foot. She moved toward Mrs. Butler as if it were the most natural thing to meet humans at the top of the cliff in the night—and why was everyone so excited? Able to breathe again, Jon stepped aside.
Tavy appeared, wheezing asthmatically, next to Jon. “Rest easy, Mr. Graham. We’ll take care of the lady.”
Jon was immediately suspicious. From which direction had the old man come? “That’s okay. I’ll take her home.”
“We’re used to doing things our way ’ere.”
“I’ll take her home, Tavy.”
“So be it.” Tavy cleared his throat with a soupy arrrgh and then made a clicking sound with his tongue. Chelsea left Mrs. Butler’s side and trotted to her master. Tavy pointed away. With her tail wagging, the dog trotted away. The old man nodded to Jon and trailed after the dog. Within a moment, they were swallowed up into the fog.
What else could he have done? He took a deep breath, and touched Mrs. Butler’s thin arm. She offered no resistance. “Mrs. Butler?” Jon asked her. “I’ll take you home.”
“I … I was looking for my daughter.” She hung her head, hair draped across her face.
“Hold on, Mrs. Butler, I’ll see you safe.”
“Will you get my daughter back to me?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She must be sleepwalking, was all Jon could think this was about.
They walked. Jon held her elbow lightly, hoping she would understand he didn’t want to push or pull her around.
Her voice was so soft, he almost had to stoop to hear her. “They think that body was hers. It wasn’t. No one will listen.”
Jon didn’t say anything, but he thought that maybe she wasn’t sleepwalking after all. She had a purpose, even if it was misguided.
They came to the turn in the lane that led down to the village and her house again. A sparkle caught his eye, and he watched as water trickled across their path to the sea. Upon the burbling stream, columns of thick mist floated. One after another, like a ghost army, the pillars marched downstream and slipped silently off the edge of the cliff. Witnessing this, he could understand why people took night walks—time floated, as if suspended in this corner of the world, streams danced to sea, waves rolled to shore, and clocks ticked, for time, for eternity.
The fog grew thicker. The woman’s safety was a priority.
They arrived within a few yards of her cottage, which was ablaze with light. Jon glanced at the woman next to him. She was staring ahead; her cheeks were wet. He couldn’t help his intake of breath when he saw her face. My God! Wh
at a beauty! And so young! How does she have a ten-year-old daughter?
“Mrs. Butler?” A woman crossed the front garden and stood on the front walk, fists resting on her hips, dark hair standing out all over her head. It was the police constable, Allison Craig. She said, “At it again, Ruth?”
“I was only walking.”
“She should stay in at night.” Jon told the woman, cross that this had happened with a constable in the house.
“It isn’t as if she announces she’ll be leaving. And what are you doing here?”
He turned and left. He could hear the woman sputtering as he walked away. He silently cursed. He had hoped it was too dark for her to recognize him. Trewe would question his interference.
Not chancing a shortcut along the cliffs, Jon took the lane. A few turns and a few tiers of road later, he arrived at Frog’s Turn. His feet crunched around the gravel walk to the caravan-home. Who had been following Ruth Butler so closely? Who watched her besides Tavy?
Now that Jon had seen her—astoundingly, remarkably seen her—he had to think about this. Motives might be discovered in the shadows of the past, but what had Mrs. Butler done to provoke a stalker, besides being an attractive, young, American woman with a ten-year-old daughter? Some offenders didn’t need motive. A chance phrase, a small glance without any meaning attached, and the crazy could interpret an entire notebook of reasons for harassment or worse.
The crimes in a small village could be personal, close to home; one had opportunity to become personal with the villagers. But here was a gorgeous woman in terrible trouble, and his hands were tied. The situation could become precarious balancing between impartiality and personal involvement, and he had no business interfering any more. He struggled with a desire to fix things—the harder the challenge the more adamantly he wanted to make it work—but fixing some things was impossible. One must come to a conclusion about what is and what isn’t doable. He could understand how being an impartial referee of the law in a small village would be a difficult assignment.
And after seeing Mrs. Butler? Phew! Of course, it was a dark night. And a glimpse of face isn’t the person, is it? She might be loud and obnoxious. She might be a liar, a cheat. Who’s to say she didn’t orchestrate her daughter’s death for insurance purposes? A wicked thought, but these were wicked times.
Inside his caravan again, he took out one of his favorites from his traveling stack: Rebecca. He plumped his pillow, wrestling it into conformity. Nothing like a good book to let the brain relax. Ah, “the blood-red rhododendrons,” which was a foreshadowing thing. He arrived at the part where Mrs. Danvers welcomed the new Mrs. De Winter, the point-of-view character, “… I could see that black figure standing out alone, individual and apart, and for all her silence I knew her eye to be upon me.” Creepy.
He knew the feeling. The suspicious character had turned and looked at him before disappearing, as if whoever it was wanted Jon to try and catch him.
In a fool’s paradise only the fools have peace. He slapped the paperback down on the top of the stack. He really didn’t feel like reading anything creepy. Best find forgetfulness in sleep.
The next time Annie came to, the heavy thing that had been above her wasn’t there, and she was breathing cold air that held a thin keening of sour. She tried to see something, but the cloth over her eyes was tighter than it had been. She was lying on something soft and this time she could move more freely. She reached and pulled up long strips of cloth and soft fluff, like loose cotton wool. She pulled the cloth off her eyes just as another hand grabbed hers—a freezing hand, a much larger hand. She sucked in her breath and tried to speak, but coughed instead.
“Don’t try to talk,” a man said.
She recalled everything in that instant of voice recognition. It was that man from the beach, the one who had been following her mother. She had to pee or scream. What came out was a low moan, and the urgency of her body’s need pressed into her brain so that she could think of little else.
The man said, “You’ve had a concussion. You will get better, but you must keep your eyes closed.”
“Where am I?” she managed to say. Her breaths were coming up short and her urgency made the breaths tiny. “I need to use the toilet.”
“I will help you.”
The tears came then. “No, please. Leave me alone.”
“It’s all down to trust, isn’t it?” His voice was smooth. It was a soft, mundane voice with little accent. It turned her stomach.
“No, don’t t-t-touch me.”
“I am a doctor. Nothing about you is shocking to me. I do not like little girls. I will not touch you without reason. You need not worry on that account. We’ve already done this many times. Allow me to help you to the toilet. I would rather you did not soil my lovely place again.”
Warm tears flowed, and her nose was stopped up so that she could only breathe through her mouth. A noise came out like little “snicks” that sounded like a baby’s cry. It hurt her ears, the loudness of her breaths in contrast to the wheezing next to her. She wondered how she could stop the hands that touched her now, but she was helpless without sight.
With a revulsion that made her want to bend double, she submitted to being helped to stand. There was a clanking metallic noise related to the unfamiliar bracelet on one wrist. She pulled against it. With a tight gasp she caught a chain in her hand. Chained. A claw-finger of cold dug into her thudding heart. It was hard to breathe. Her stomach wanted to be sick, but she concentrated on breathing. With another jolt, she realized she was wearing some sort of cotton stretchy material, like jogging bottoms, instead of her jeans. And where were her shoes? She began to cry in earnest as the big hands pushed her forward. The chain rattled.
“W-w-where?” she managed to ask between choking sobs. She meant many things at once: Where am I? Where am I supposed to be? Where are my shoes? Where are my own clothes?
“Stop sniveling. Sit here.”
She could hear his wheezing dip lower. Her trousers were jerked down. Her knickers were missing. She was pushed backward, and a rough partition caught her behind the knees so that she sat with a gasp on a cold toilet seat. She couldn’t stop the spasms of tears, but she held her free hand across her mouth so she wasn’t loud. The terror from the man breathing hoarsely above her head and the chill air coming up and touching her private parts kept her from letting go, although by now her stomach hurt from holding it in.
His voice growled, “I don’t have all day.”
With fear and panic and the horror of having things that she kept private become so bare to a stranger, she let a moan escape and then let loose the only warmth left in her. She heard nothing but a slight whistling sound beneath her, and somewhere far away, water poured into water. The cold air pushed up into her and turned her to ice through and through.
19
Jon’s experience with the figure on the cliff kept his adrenaline pumping. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t get comfortable, unable to turn down the volume of his thoughts. His cracker box abode jerked every time he turned over.
It was three in the morning when he gave it up, only to sit drooped across a chair trying to sort a jumble of things in his mind.
Being out of doors gave him relief from his claustrophobia and would help him come to terms with his cramped quarters. He tramped out into the night air and down the lane toward the village. He brushed past the low-hanging branches of a tree. The wet air chilled his face. Life had taken a strange turn in recent months. He hated loose ends and uncertainty.
All of his thirty-two years, he took pleasure in the process it took to accomplish tasks. He valued his job and believed in what he did. He could take orders and he liked to complete a job. In everything, he did his best. He was a committed man, dedicated to becoming an excellent police officer. So far, his personal life did not reflect that same dedication and focus.
He didn’t see the tree root before he tripped over it. Picking himself up, he brushed off the knees of his trouse
rs. Just goes to show, life doesn’t always work out as expected, and sometimes things take an unanticipated tumble.
Take women. He wondered if he’d ever meet one he could actually like. And love? He’d been in love many times, but had never been successful with keeping anyone in love with him. He wondered what exactly he was missing; women were attracted enough to go out with him, but as soon as he began thinking seriously, they made for the exit.
He took a deep breath of good sea air and wondered if he’d ever known any girls from Cornwall. He definitely had never met anyone from America other than older couples on holiday in London. He’d never met anyone near his age or younger from America. He wondered if Mrs. Butler liked Dallas reruns, too. Why was she “Mrs.”? What was the story?
He spent a good amount of time outdoors, so he sported a decent tan. His last girlfriend had described him as having rugged good looks. But by the time she gave him the boot, she’d said he was grungy and smelled of dead leaves.
There was a season for everything, in his reckoning. He didn’t keep a neat closet—so? The choice, in his mind, came down to comfort or ironing.
Anyway, at thirty-two years of age, any thought of settling down could be construed as a momentary lapse of sanity. He could afford a daily and he took all his suits and uniforms out for cleaning.
But he definitely didn’t like being alone. There was nothing worse than going to bed in a silent flat, having had yet another cold sandwich for supper, or popping into Jack’s Pulpit for a pint and finding not a single familiar face because all his mates had fallen across the altar of matrimony.
Yes, it was hell being alone, although there were perks. He could date whomever. But here lately the whomevers were hardly worth the effort. Perhaps he was too critical. Was he looking for perfection? Of course, he didn’t offer perfection, so how could he expect it? Was there no woman that could overlook his idiosyncrasies and love him for everything he was?
