Demon on a Distant Shore

by Linda Welch

  “How long has that been there?”

  He frowned. “I do not know.”

  “Wasn’t here when we came in.”

  He let go of me, went over and picked up the paper. I joined him, peering over his shoulder as he unfolded it.

  Talk to Peter Cooper.

  The ruled paper had been torn from a ledger and hand-writing in blue ink … well, I’m no expert, but from the way the letters angled, I thought the writing looked feminine.

  “Someone slipped it under there while we were freshening up,” I suggested. I snagged the paper from his hand and waved it under his nose. “Still think everything here’s hunky-dory?”

  “Where do you come up with these phrases?”

  “Peter Cooper, huh? I suppose now you’re going to say a breeze blew this under our door. It has nothing to do with our reason for being in Little Barrow. We should ignore it.”

  He plucked the note from my hand as he spoke in a kind of exasperated monotone. “No, Tiff. You were right all along. This case is not clear-cut and straightforward. Mysterious note slipped under door - is someone trying to help us on the sly?”

  “Or point us in the wrong direction.”

  “Either way, all is not right in Little Barrow.”

  I tried to look inscrutable. “My thoughts exactly, Watson.”

  “Why am I Watson?”

  “We can’t both be Holmes. I called dibs.”

  Royal coughed out a little chuckle. “All right, Holmes. Your lowly assistant suggests we pursue this with caution.”

  I wrapped my arms around his waist. “Watson was too useful to Holmes to be a lowly assistant.”

  “Useful?”

  I beetled my eyebrows up and down. “In many and varied ways.”

  “I would rather be indispensible,” he said huskily.

  I shifted my arms from his waist to his neck, pulled his head closer and told him what he wanted to hear, and meant it with all my heart. “You are indispensible, and don’t you forget it.”

  Chapter Six

  “Are you ready for lunch?” Royal asked.

  I should have been dead on my feet, but I’d got my second wind and after all those hours sitting on my butt in planes, airports and cars, planting it on another chair was the last thing I wanted. “Can we go for a walk first?”

  “Fine by me.”

  We grabbed light jackets, went downstairs and through the front entrance.

  The inn sat on one side of the village square. Except the square was oval, and paved over, and a road ran through it. But from the way other buildings were positioned, I bet it started as a village square. A long, low ancient building with white walls, sagging thatched roof and small windows squatted across the square almost opposite the inn. A large, faded sign on the wall beside the door, sporting a grubby-white duck with feathers in disarray and an oversized yellow beak, named it The Ugly Duck Tavern. I spotted a square, white building on our left with a sign identifying it as a shop and post office. Apart from shop, inn and tavern, this part of the village was a huddle of small cottages with brick or whitewashed walls, tile or thatched roofs.

  A muddy yellow light, which I took to be the sun, hung in the sky. The air was calm, unmoving, warm and humid. We didn’t need our jackets; I tied the sleeves of mine around my waist to leave my hands free; Royal draped his over one shoulder. We would not need a fire in our small fireplace and I bet Malcolm knew it.

  We crossed the square to where an alley ran abreast of the Ugly Duck. Lights burned inside and through the windows we saw a crowd of men and women at small tables and a long bar in the back of the room. Voices chatting up a storm came through the open door, laughter rising with their conversation. Low ceilings, exposed beams; golden light made copper and brass gleam. The old pub shone out a welcome.

  We went on down the alley, which snaked between tiny brick cottages with garden plots in front.

  I looked back at The Hart and Garter before we walked between the first cottages and lost sight of it, picturing the small, rotund couple who ran the place. Recalling Greg Short’s response to my questions, I frowned, convinced he knew something about the Nortons which we, as yet, did not.

  The alley took us back to the Pewsey road, which cut through the square on its way to Salisbury. The road widened and after a walk of two minutes we came to a crossroads. A sign pointed to Devizes in the north, Pewsey to the east, Salisbury to the south, and Old Church Lane to the west. Sure enough, a church spire stuck up through the trees farther down the rough, poorly paved, potholed lane. We headed that way.

  The sun disappeared behind an unbroken gray bank so high it was barely recognizable as clouds. I’m accustomed to clear blue summer skies which seem to go on forever. The gloom above my head now made me feel penned in.

  Four large cottages sat on the left side of the lane. On our right, a grass verge turned into a steeply sloping bank thick with nettle and cowslip topped by a low, untidy hedge, then flattened to a big field of long grass. A couple dozen brown and white cows contentedly grazed near a line of trees which hid whatever lay directly behind them. Past there, a few houses perched atop a hill, and the land rose steeply to the Salisbury Plain beyond.

  The brick wall which breasted the first cottage hid all but the roof. A tiny iron gate barred entrance to the front yard; next to that the wall stopped at the end of a narrow driveway where a kid sat on a metallic-blue scooter just in the lane. A motor came to life and a car backed from a garage and down the driveway of the next house. The boy glanced at me. I smiled. He looked back at the car. He must be waiting for the car so he could follow it, or it could follow him.

  The car reversed until the rear wheels hit the uneven paving. The driver looked right and left. It happened fast. She put her foot down and shot out into the lane. She didn’t check her rearview mirror; she didn’t see the boy. I stepped off the curb, threw my hands in the air and shouted, “Look out!”

  The car went right through him, straightened out and came to a sudden, grinding stop.

  The kid stared at me with a fixed expression: desperation, disbelief, shock.

  Jesus! He wasn’t waiting for the car. He didn’t look at it; he thought I was smiling at someone behind him. He was dead.

  I dropped my arms as the car pulled alongside. “Can I help you?” a woman with short dark hair asked.

  “Um… .” Words failed me for a moment.

  “I thought you waved me down,” she said uncertainly.

  “We thought we recognized you,” Royal put in. “Sorry to have startled you.”

  I slanted my eyes and gave him a little smile, a silent thank you.

  The woman frowned and shook her head a little. “Not to worry.” Her face cleared as she smiled up at him. “It happens.”

  Royal touched his fingers to an imaginary brim and gave her a sexy smile. The rat. “I hope we’re not holding you up.”

  “Not at all,” she simpered. Then she checked her wristwatch. “Well actually, I should be going.”

  And with one more ogle at Royal, she drove off.

  I crossed the road to scooter-boy. Closer, the scuffs on his brown leather jacket, rips in his jeans, and the horrendous wound on the side of his head were apparent.

  The lane is quiet this late at night. He sits on his scooter, looking through his pockets, and pulls out a half-empty pack of cigarettes. He’s surprised to hear a motor coming down the lane, because he can’t see one; it does not have its lights on. His lights are on and he faces the crossroads, so it will see him, but he should get off the road, just in case.

  He stands, straddling the scooter, and swings his leg over. He sees the shiny outline of a big car as it catches the light from the cottage lamps. But the car speeds up. It’s coming too fast. Pushing the scooter by the handle-bars, grunting with effort, he puts on a desperate burst of speed and almost clears the road. The car clips the scooter’s rear wheel. He feels the impact but no pain as his bike slews, goes over, and his body flips through the air.

/>   I shuddered and wished I had a drink to moisten my dry mouth and throat. “Do you realize what happened to you?”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  What business is it of yours? Not, how can you see me when nobody else can?

  I may lose my temper with living people, but I am pretty good at keeping it where the dead are concerned. I have met all sorts - I would not let this boy’s surly tone rile me. “You were in an accident.”

  “No kidding.” He spoke to Royal. “The woman’s ‘ilarious.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to give Royal an apologetic smile. He had already figured it out, hence his explanation to the woman in the car. Now he just shrugged and leaned on the stone wall.

  “He can’t see you,” I told the kid. “Just me. Do you recall what happened?”

  “Yeah. I fell off me bike.”

  I sighed internally. Were all British shades contrary? I jabbed one finger at the head wound. “You got that from a fall?”

  “I weren’t wearing an ‘elmet.”

  A car turned off the Salisbury road and came down the lane, so I scuttled back to the wall and waited till it went on past the church.

  I walked back to the kid, folded my arms and just looked at him.

  “Car ‘it me” he admitted. “Bleeding Darnel Fowler. Bombing along in ‘is Bentley with ‘is ‘eadlights off. Don’t understand it. I ‘ad me lights on. ‘E should ‘ave seen me.” He dropped his chin. “I woke up and lay ‘ere for ‘alf an ‘our before Mrs. Campry found me.” He nodded his head at the house behind him.

  “Had he been drinking?”

  He made a snorting noise. “Nah. Not when ‘e just got off work. I ‘eard Mrs. Campry say it were ‘it and run. Local boy killed, no witnesses, no suspects. Big event for Little Barra. Everyone like a flock of crows, looking at the blood on the road. Knew Darnel kept ‘is mouth shut when ‘e turned up ‘ere looking shocked as the rest of them. ‘Poor kid,’ ‘e says. “‘We’ll find out who did this,’ ‘e tells me mum.”

  I paced around him as I spoke. “When did it happen?”

  “Dunno. Lost track of the days.” He turned his head to watch me.

  I fingered my chin, looking him and his scooter over. “Did he take anything of yours?”

  “Why you asking all the questions?”

  “We’re detectives. We might be able to help you.”

  “Gonna bring me back to life are you? ‘Cause that’s the only way you can ‘elp me.”

  “I can’t make promises, but maybe we can bring this Darnel Fowler to justice.”

  Maybe sixteen, he looked at the distant downs. His long brown hair framed a thin face with just a shadow of whiskers on the chin. “Makes no difference to me.”

  “But your parents … finding your killer might bring them closure.”

  His head whipped back to me, his voice came out softer. “Me mum was upset, not just with me dying, ‘cause the coppers weren’t any ‘elp.”

  “Coppers?”

  Royal cleared his throat to get my attention. “The police.”

  Oh. “Then give us a chance. What’s your name, where does Darnel Fowler live, and did he take anything of yours?”

  He swung one leg over the scooter and sat sidesaddle. “Name’s Johnny Marsh and Darnel didn’t take anything of mine.”

  Drat. No evidence to be found with this Darnel Fowler.

  “Hm.” I paced around some more. The far side of the bike was battered and scraped, the gas tank crunched in. An idea sparked. “Do you know what happened to your scooter?”

  It was a long shot: Darnel Fowler’s car could have paint on it somewhere. A forensic team would find some, even if Fowler cleaned up. But could I persuade the police to look at the car? This was not Clarion or Salt Lake City. Here, I was unknown. I couldn’t go to the local police and tell them I was psychic and knew who killed Johnny Marsh. Well, I could, and be laughed at, or arrested.

  But first things first. My mind went a mile a minute and it felt good.

  “Mum kept me gear.”

  “How do you know?”

  He pointed down the lane at the last cottage. “That’s our ‘ouse. Was our ‘ouse. She took all me stuff with ‘er when she moved away. I remember that, it were just yesterday.”

  So the poor kid sat here and watched his mother load her entire house, her entire life and his, in a moving van and drive away. “You know where she moved to?”

  “Basin’stoke.”

  I glanced back at Royal again. “Basinstoke?”

  He nodded. “Basingstoke. Not far from here.”

  “Where can we find Fowler?” I asked Johnny.

  “Lives in The Close, but if you want to take a look at ‘im, ‘e sings in the church choir and they practices tomorrow afternoon.” Johnny nodded at the church. “Very upstanding member of the community is Darnel. Never misses a Sunday service.”

  “What time?”

  “They starts at eleven, finishes round one.”

  “There could be paint from your scooter on Fowler’s car.”

  “You’re a clever one, aren’t you.”

  I heard a small sigh behind me. Poor Royal, the observer of a one-sided conversation, again. Although my ghostly friends and acquaintances have helped us out in several cases, he still runs on faith.

  Johnny broke in on my silent musing. “Why you doing this for me?”

  “I’m just a big softie.”

  I ignored the barely suppressed wheeze of laughter from Royal.

  Why do I help them? How can I not? Ignoring them would eat at me. Whether his killer is in prison or living a normal life - in whatever form it takes - makes no difference to the shade of the victim, he lingers nonetheless. But a killer should be punished. He should not be living a normal life while his victim is doomed to an un-life. And the perp will hopefully take his final breath after not too many years if his place of incarceration supports the death penalty. When that happens, the shade will pass on to wherever they go.

  I mentally kicked myself. As if finding the Nortons was not enough of a chore, I now had to do what I could to put Johnny’s killer behind bars.

  I told Royal everything Johnny had said as we walked back to the inn.

  “Hm, I wonder how his mother came to move away so quickly.” he said.

  “Probably couldn’t stand living right where her son died.”

  “I can see that, but surely it is an ongoing investigation.” He hiked one shoulder. “Well, Basingstoke is close and she is not a suspect. Law enforcement had no reason to ask her to remain in the immediate area.”

  We checked out the lunch buffet at the Hart and Garter. Salads, sandwiches cut in quarters, three different quiches, fresh fruit - it appealed to me. But Royal suggested we try the menu.

  “We’re lucky, they are serving a traditional British menu today,” he told me, then emphasized: “Very traditional.”

  The twinkle in his eye and smirking lips should have warned me, but I naively followed him back inside. We went along the passageway and past the stairs to the restaurant. Situated in the middle of the inn, the small square room had no windows, imprisoning air heavy with the smell of roasting meat. Tables to seat between four and eight people were crushed together with little space between them. Seating arrangements like these are one of my pet peeves, as you have to squeeze into your chair lest you pull it out too far and smack one at another table.

  A waitress with a laden tray came through the swinging doors of what had to be the kitchen, and stopped to tell us to sit anywhere we liked. Not that we had a choice with only one unoccupied table. We settled in chairs and I unfolded the menu which lay on the white linen tablecloth.

  Lucky? I thought as I read it dubiously.

  Steak and Kidney Pudding. No way. The Brits may like animal’s insides, but not this gal. And Royal knew it.

  Steak and Ale Pie. That sounded better.

  Toad in the Hole?Come on now, this menu’s a joke, isn’t it?

  Seeing my expres
sion, Royal asked, “Is something wrong?”

  I didn’t want to be rude, but this was too much for me to stomach. The French eat frog’s legs and snails, so maybe the English enjoyed chomping down on big fat toads, but the visuals it evoked made me ill. I pushed the menu away with the tips of my fingers, as if it were dirty.

  I kept my voice low. “They eat toads.”

  He almost fell off the chair laughing. My face grew hot, so I knew it must be bright red.

  Because an unrestrained belly-laugh is contagious, I expected other diners to join in. I glanced around, and several did meet my gaze with a polite smile, but most concentrated on their food as if a maniac had not become hysterical right before their eyes.

  “Sausages,” he choked out. “They’re sausages.”

  Scowling, I ducked my head. I would not ask why sausages were called toads, and definitely not ask about the hole they were in.

  I glowered at him as I poked the menu with my forefinger. “This is why you wanted to eat inside, so you can laugh at me. You knew what I’d think of their menu.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, not looking at all so. “I could not resist. Think of it this way, I am not laughing at you, I am laughing with you.”

  I tried to make my voice dry. “Well ha ha ha.”

  I lifted the menu again to hide my smile and grimaced as I pulled it in close again. Cornish Pasties. Yeah, I’d heard of those. Potatoes and veggies in pastry, right?

  He caught his breath and managed to say, “Would you like me to interpret?”

  I ignored him. Faggots in gravy. Oh, my goodness.

  This was as bad as trying to decipher their speech. None of the entrees had accompanying descriptions, as if diners were supposed to know what they were.

  Maybe I’d go with the soup.

  Cock-A-Leekie. Kidney. Nope, not the soup.

  I hopefully checked the dessert menu on the back page.

  Malvern Pudding, Steamed Jam Pudding, Eve’s Pudding - Brits like their puddings - Cheesecake, Trifle, Spotted… . I lifted the menu to eye level, thinking I misread the italicized writing. Nope. Spotted Dick.

  What the hell? I peeked at Royal over the top of my menu. He had his head down, but rolled his eyes up to meet mine. They still twinkled, and he still looked smug. Okay. Not gonna ask.