Mr. Granger spoke a few words which were lost in the wind. Then Mrs. Block spoke, and then Mr. Granger. They alternated like this for some time, with the other people occasionally responding with a word or phrase in unison.
Chloe thought she heard a scuffling behind her, but it was small and faint, like a mouse or vole in the underbrush. She ignored it.
Mrs. Block poured the cup of wine on the ground and said a few words. Mr. Granger then knelt and placed the bundle on the ground. Chloe raised her head a little more. Mr. Granger said a sharp word and one of the men broke out of the circle and rummaged through the picnic hamper. In his hand, Chloe caught the glint of steel in the firelight. The blade was larger than a kitchen knife, but not by much. Or did it only seem larger? The man handed the knife to Mr. Granger, who held it aloft with one hand. Chloe did not hear him say anything, but the other members of the circle spoke a word in unison.
The little white bundle remained still on the ground.
No, this could not be. She had read of such things in sensational novels and magazine articles, but she had enough sense to not believe them. Most of them anyway. She knew there were primitive tribes that performed cannibalism, and that her own Norman and Saxon ancestors had engaged in brutality of the worst sorts. But this was modern Britain.
The voices below rose in a rhythmic chant, one phrase over and over again. Bodies swayed, and the chant became a song, slow and rhythmic. It would have been pleasing to her ears if not for the knife and the poor creature inside the bundle. Mr. Granger opened the cloth, and in the light of the failing sun and the dancing flames, she saw what looked like a rounded head.
She leaped to her feet, staggered forward and drew breath to shout when something jumped into her field of vision. It passed her by a few feet and then turned to face her.
It was a wolf, no, a wild dog, standing tall and ferocious before her. Its black body was lit from behind, and she could only make out its silhouette and the glint of its eyes which were fixed upon her. It did not growl, but took a step toward her, and then stood, watching. Its complete lack of motion as it stared at her was unnerving. Then, its ears swiveled in a way all too familiar to her.
“My God,” she whispered. “It’s you.”
Chapter 26
The hound stood frozen, then bolted to the side and tore off around the edge of the hill. She could not call to it without risking being heard by the people in the circle. The people in the circle!
She leaped up the last few feet to the top of the hill. Mr. Granger was sawing into the thing lying on the cloth, blocking her view with his body. Oh God, please let it be a young pig or some other animal. Mr. Granger handed a piece to the person beside him, but there was no blood. The man took it, tore off a hunk and handed it to the next person. Mr. Granger then handed another large piece to the person on his other side, took a piece for himself and sat back. He took a bite.
In front of him, lying on the white cloth, was a bread man. It was now headless but it had arms and legs and was clearly a large loaf in the shape of a man. Oh, thank heavens. Her heart still beat hard in her chest and her hand was at her throat. She crouched down now, hoping no one had seen her.
Mrs. Block pulled cups from the hamper and filled them with wine, handing them around. When everyone had a cup and a hunk of bread, they all sat down. The ritual must be over, and they were chatting now, eating, drinking and laughing. In the flickering firelight, the shapes of their bodies, some wide and some narrow, resembled the stones.
Chloe walked the rest of the way down the hill. She would have to think about Mr. Granger and Mrs. Block later. She circled around the hill, looking. How sensitive was the hound’s hearing? She moved as softly as she could, and wished Camille had chosen a color other than black for the creature’s covering. It could be anywhere in the gathering dark.
Perhaps the creature was shy, trying to avoid the people and would move away from the circle. But then why had it come so close to her? Unless it had not seen her. She had been holding very still, and though the hound seemed to be able to perceive patterns, she had been neither upright nor in a place that it would anticipate a human to be. Then she had jumped up.
She had been searching for a long while when she heard voices close by. She dropped behind some thick brush and held motionless. Twenty paces away, Mr. Granger, Mrs. Block, her niece and the two others were passing.
She had to get home soon. She could not risk being on the moors in full dark, not even for the hound. Once she was sure the people were gone, she went back in the direction of her original hiding place. The hound must have come from behind her, where the abandoned mine was. But where was it now?
When she reached the spot she had last seen the hound, she checked the circle. Everyone was gone, and the fire was extinguished. No sign of the hound. This was her chance to get a closer look at the circle. Had the hound only accidentally come upon the people, or had it been going on purpose?
As she walked toward the circle, she felt the air become suddenly colder. It was moist and touched her skin like soft, icy fingers. The scent of the earth and the moor grass was stronger here, and something was watching her, she could feel it. She kept moving, and the air warmed, but the feeling of being watched remained. This was ridiculous. The moor didn’t watch.
The stones stood in pools of darkness, though the shadows were not sharply defined in this low light. There were only darker and lighter areas. It looked like the worshipers, for she was now sure that this was what they were, had left nothing behind. There would be no reason for them to return tonight, she hoped.
She was still outside the circle when she pulled out her lantern, lit it and held it aloft. Something was off about the stones, but what? She was one step inside the circle when she realized what it was. One of the dark areas at the base of a stone was too large. Something just the size of the hound was in its shadow, crouching.
Her thoughts raced to the store mannequin, then the scarecrow and to Camille’s muddy corpse. She was suddenly not so sure of her safety. How certain was she, really, that the hound would not harm her? Had it been imitating the murder?
The hound rose and walked toward her. There were no squeaks or sounds. Its movements were as graceful and fluid as a real animal. Beautiful. It turned its head toward her, and in the lantern light, she saw the apertures in its eyes constrict and then dilate.
“Hello, beautiful. Come here.” She put out her hand, as if toward a dog.
Its ears swiveled, and it turned away, toward the fire pit. It poked its paw in and started to scoop ashes into a pile. Smoke rose from the ashes and the hound stopped and sat back. She knew the ashes had to be scorching hot, but the hound had no ability to sense pain. Perhaps it had seen the smoke and stopped? If so, it was able to understand things that could harm it. How had it learned that?
“What are you doing?” she said. It lifted its head and watched her approach. She found a stick and squatted at the far edge of the fire pit. She stirred the ashes, studying the hound’s reaction. Its visual apertures dilated and constricted, focusing as it studied the ashes, then her face.
“Now, what do you want with these?” she asked. The hound stood again and pawed at the ashes. She scooted a few inches around the fire pit to be closer to it. She wracked her brains about the power switch on the creature, and thought she remembered it being underneath its body. Or was she mixing it up with Giles? If it was as strong as Giles, she could not overpower it, but maybe she could get a hand under it without it knowing.
The hound looked at her as she stirred the ashes again with the stick. She scooted closer when the hound pawed at them again.
“Are you cooling them? Is that what you’re doing?”
They took turns stirring and pawing the ashes until Chloe had scooted up next to the hound. The creature was huge, as large as an Irish Wolfhound. His head was large but not blocky. Camille must have gone to great care to create the skull. Its ears were elegantly pointed, as was its tail. Its cloth coveri
ng was close-fitting, giving it a sleek and powerful appearance.
She placed her hand on its shoulder and it leaped up, backing away from the fire, crab-like until it got its footing.
“It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.”
She stirred the ashes again. It watched the ashes, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have said it desired them. But of course, a machine could feel neither desire nor repulsion. She kept stirring until it moved closer and was at the edge of the pit. It put its front paws into the pit, digging and digging until it had a new pile in front of itself.
Chloe pulled back in horror at what it did next. It opened its jaws. The action was unnatural and abnormally slow and its mouth opened far wider than it should have. Inside was a row of pointed wooden teeth set into its jaw with screws. The hound lowered his head and scooped a huge mouthful of ashes and then tipped its head back, closing its jaws slowly.
What in blazes was it doing? It couldn’t eat. And even if it had been trying to imitate the action of another animal or a person, nothing ate ashes.
“Ashes. Ashes,” she muttered. “Why ashes? You apply patterns, so have you done this before? Have you seen someone else do it?”
It had spent the most of its life with Camille. Why would she need ashes? Ashes were used in what? She thought. Gardening? She had heard of potash fertilizer, but was that really made of ashes? What else used ashes? Soap making. But Camille wouldn’t have needed to make soap. But wait. Soap dissolved things because it was a base, an alkaline.
She thought of the bottle of potassium hydroxide and the murky liquid in the bottle in Camille’s laboratory. Ashes could be used to create an alkaline fluid. They had been used in just such a way for centuries in soap making. And the solvents used in cleaning mechanicals, like the dark red powder she and Ambrose had found in the mine, were also alkaline.
The hound was eating, in a fashion. It was gathering items to make an alkaline solution, just like the one in Camille’s battery, the battery that was inside the hound.
How sad. It could not possibly succeed. It must be imitating what it had seen Camille do but it was in vain. It could not actually open its own battery casing and work on itself.
The hound turned and started up the hill.
“Wait!” she called. It turned its head for a moment, and then was gone.
Chapter 27
Chloe raced the steamcycle home, going too fast and hitting ruts and bumps much too hard. It was full dark, and though the headlamp illuminated the road, she knew Ambrose would not be pleased that she was out so late. It started to rain as she arrived home. She parked in the carriage house and hurried inside, pulling off her head scarf and coat as she came through the back kitchen door. Ambrose was not in the sitting room or in his temporary office. She opened the door to his rooms to find him reading in bed, Giles sitting on his nightstand.
“Isn’t it a little early for you to turn in?” Chloe said.
“Yes, and I wish I didn’t have to be here.” He shivered and coughed into a handkerchief.
“You’re sick.” She sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Yes, and I hope by resting well tonight, I can be up and about tomorrow. How was your visit to town?”
“Fine, just fine. Is there anything I can get you?” She took in the cup of tea and glass of water on the bedside table. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, I had a little supper. But I’m not very hungry.”
He assured her twice more that he was in need of nothing before insisting on being left alone.
After breakfast, she made sure Ambrose was comfortable and then found William in his study. He sat in a brown leather chair with his ankle resting on his knee. A book was open in his lap.
“Excuse me,” said Chloe from the doorway.
He looked up and registered a moment of surprise before rising and offering her a chair.
“I would like to ask you a question,” said Chloe, seating herself. “I am in need of a certain set of parts that can be found in a zoetrope. They are one of the few household mechanicals with a rotational axis joint that I require. I was informed that you might have an old broken one about.”
He assessed her and rubbed his beard. Her heart leapt to her throat when she thought he might see through her false request or think she was offensive to ask to destroy his belongings.
“No, I don’t,” he said.
“You don’t have one, or you don’t have one I may use?”
“Both. I used to have one, but even if it were still in my possession, I would not part with it. It belonged to my late wife.”
“But you no longer have it?”
“As I said,” he gave her a sharp look.
She had to be cautious.
“Could you tell me more about Rose? Ambrose says she was an extraordinary woman.”
“She was extraordinary. She was as kind and good-natured a woman as ever a husband could wish. Although she had an independent streak that could cause tension.”
“A trait she shares with her brother.”
He smiled at that, and shook his head. “Her brother and I have not always gotten along, as I’m sure you know. Our natures seem to be incompatible. But Rose was devoted to him.”
She knew better than to broach the subject of Rose’s death and the circumstances surrounding her medical care, or lack thereof. How could she get William back onto the topic of the zoetrope? She could hardly mention that Ambrose had told her that Rose had one without appearing monstrous to want to disassemble it.
“Did Rose enjoy plants as Ambrose does?”
“Yes, though she loved them for their own sake. She had no interest in classification and study. She merely saw and enjoyed. She painted them also. That’s one of her paintings there.” He motioned to a painting of a flower-carpeted hillside.
“Not unlike her brother. He draws, but does not paint. It looks like she had a love of beauty, light and color.”
“Yes.”
“And she had a zoetrope?”
He nodded. Now she was getting somewhere.
“Did it break?” She tried to look appropriately concerned without betraying her keenness to know exactly what happened to it.
“I suppose a servant broke it and threw away the parts. I noticed it was missing a fortnight ago. I asked Mrs. Block who then questioned the maids, but none of them admitted to it. Of course, they wouldn’t be willing to get in trouble for breaking an item like that. It could be taken out of their wages.”
“Of course.” Chloe’s heart was pounding. Camille had vanished from her house five days before Chloe had arrived. And she and Ambrose had been staying with the Aynesworths for eight days now, for a total of thirteen days. If the zoetrope had gone missing two weeks ago, then it would have disappeared around the same time Camille had vanished.
William spoke a little more of his wife, but Chloe was only half-listening. Someone had taken the zoetrope. It could possibly have been Camille or Mr. Granger who could have taken it during one of their visits to the Aynesworths. But that seemed unlikely. Was Camille desperate enough to steal to obtain money for her escape?
It was either that or a member of the Aynesworth family had taken it outside. There was no innocent reason for that. Part of it had been found in the bog. Could it have been the object used to bash Camille’s head? Her blood ran cold. If that was the case, then the killer was under this very roof.
Chloe checked on Ambrose and found him asleep. She touched his forehead with the back of her hand. He had a low fever. Well then, rest was best for him. It was better that he was asleep anyway. He would not approve of her planned activities. She placed a light kiss on his forehead and gently closed the door.
She got the zoetrope part out of her laboratory, dressed for a ride and took the steamcycle into town. She parked it outside of town with a stab of frustration. It was a longer walk this way, and she had too much to accomplish. But she felt bad enough without scandalizing the family by riding through town astride a r
oaring machine.
No one was smoking or sitting outside the police station this time, and she hurried inside and closed the door quickly behind her. The young man at the front desk was surprised to see her, but regained his composure when she asked to see the inspector. He went to fetch him.
“I did not think I would again have the pleasure,” said Inspector Lockton. “Is Mr. Sullivan with you?”
“No, he is ill at home. I came alone. May we talk in your office?”
“Certainly.”
He closed the door behind him and remained standing. Chloe lost no time, but set the bundle on the desk and opened it.
“This is the other half of the object you showed me the other day. It’s a zoetrope. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“It’s a cylinder of colored glass set over a gas flame. You light the flame, wind it and the mechanism turns the cylinder, creating a light display. Some of them have attached music boxes that play simultaneously.”
“Oh yes, I have seen those. But how can you be sure? If we showed this to Lydford, Van der Smoot and Tucker, would they agree?”
“Yes, they would. There was also a piece of glass.” She indicated the green shard that lay on the cloth with the piece. “It was trapped inside the mechanism. And, there were multi-colored glass pieces in a little hiding spot near the bog where they found Camille. It was definitely a zoetrope.”
“What hiding spot?” His expression was sharp now.
“There’s a rock formation between the bog and crossroads. Like a cairn. One of the stones moves, and there was a box lid inside with paper scraps, broken glass and other oddments. But the glass was gone when I checked a second time.”
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