Demon on a Distant Shore

by Linda Welch

  Warmth briefly washed over my skin. It felt comforting, but alarming, and I stared at Royal with wide eyes. “Did you feel that?”

  His eyes reflected wonder. “Yes. It felt like … encouragement”

  I didn’t like the ease with which the little creature invaded my mind, and apparently also my senses. I shuddered.

  “So we’re on the right track. I wonder if more of these things were here hundreds of years ago. Maybe they were visible to some people. People like me.” I paused thoughtfully, chewing on my lower lip, then met his eyes as the answer came to me. “It’s what we are. My ability isn’t confined to seeing the dead; I can see what other people can’t, what conventional minds say shouldn’t be here. And your Gelpha sensitivity let you feel it.”

  We didn’t have a convenient book of the arcane to leaf through and find a picture of our Elemental with accompanying information. Royal did browse the web, because not everything on there concerning the mythical is rubbish. Some is information taken from ancient texts. But he didn’t find anything like the little creature which drew us outside and projected its feelings.

  Feelings. I did not doubt what the Elemental put in my head with feelings as clear as the spoken word, and I didn’t doubt what I sensed now. Something in Little Barrow stank to high heaven and it was not the landowner’s organic manure.

  I studied Royal as he talked on his cell. A wishy-washy sun came through the window, enough to enhance his copper and gold hair into glowing metallic fibers which lay over smooth, pale copper skin. Muscles rolled as he shifted on the edge of the bed. Fairly mesmerized, my mouth went dry, probably because it hung open.

  I gave myself a mental shake. There should be a whole lot on my mind which did not include lusting after Royal. Like, would I see anything else on the supernatural side? Shades of the dead, beings from another dimension, mythical creatures - my life was already way too bizarre.

  “Hello? This is Paul Norton. We moved two weeks ago and I cannot locate some of our things.”

  Pause.

  “Oh. I must have the wrong place. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  As easy as that: a few words and an English accent, and Royal did a good English accent. The trick to getting information over the phone is to keep the exchange simple and not ask too many questions, let them assume what you are going to say. It works nine times out of ten. Getting someone on the phone who recognized Paul Norton’s voice was unlikely, and if they did, we probably had the right place.

  Being careful not to shift around too much and cause a mattress eruption, I lay on the bed while Royal called five more companies. I wanted lunch by the time he finished.

  The girl who served us seemed edgy. She held a pen so tightly, her fingers looked almost bloodless and she dropped her pad when she fumbled it from her pocket. Maybe I was hypersensitive, but I didn’t think so. Her hand shook as she poured my coffee and some slopped over the side of the cup into the saucer. She bustled off and returned with a fresh cup, but by then I’d mopped my saucer with the paper napkin. Perhaps she was just tired.

  Or she put a note under our door.

  Tall and plump, verging on hefty, with carrot-red hair lopped off just below her ears, she kept her eyelids half-lowered over pale-green eyes, all but hiding them, and she had the tendency to bob. You know, the yes’m, bob; no, sir, bob. A little tag on her snowy white apron identified her as Meagan.

  “Do you live here, Meagan?” I asked with a smile.

  Bob. “Yes’m. I have lived in Little Barrow for five years.” She spoke with the same soft, lilting tones as the Shorts.

  “Are you related to Greg and Sally Short?”

  Bob. “Yes’m. We are cousins. I expect you recognize the accent.”

  “You have beautiful accents. From Wales, I believe?”

  She smiled back, but tentatively. “Thank you, ma’am. I was born and raised in Llandudno.”

  “Like it here, do you?” Stupid question - what could she say, no, I hate the place?

  Bob. “Yes’m. I doubt you could find a nicer little place in the whole of Wiltshire.”

  I had to stop following her with my eyes else I got queasy. I itched to question her, and knew I couldn’t risk it.

  God, this was so frustrating! Knowing someone was up to something, but not being able to identify that someone, not daring to make inquiries lest we rouse suspicions.

  Meagan went to the kitchen, but came out two minutes later with our lunch. “Gammon and chips?”

  We moseyed down to the church at noon. The village looked lovely, maybe because the sun actually shone; pale, struggling to escape the clouds, but there for a change. The little lane looked prettier today.

  Johnny nodded at me as we passed him.

  “Hey, Johnny. How’s it going?”

  “Oh, you know me, just ‘anging round.”

  The poor kid didn’t have a choice. He would be here for a good many years if Royal and I couldn’t find evidence to finger his killer.

  A four-foot flint and mortar wall breasted the church, with two cars parked outside. From the sound of voices raised in song, more people were in there than could ride in those cars, so I assumed some of the villagers walked here.

  On a green mound, surrounded by a small enclosed graveyard, Saint Thomas appeared to sit on an island. Truly, the place gave me an eerie feeling. A double iron gate crooked on its hinges made a break in the low stone wall, access to a pebbled path which led to the porch, then split to wind behind the church. The stone wall faced the lane and wound around to the south. A brick retaining wall topped by low privet hedges, dropping down to a deep ditch, bound the other two sides. A square steeple with pointed spire rose from one end of the small rectangular structure, one third from the ground up built of roughly quarried stone, the rest old brick. The deep stone porch protected big oak double doors hidden in shadow.

  It seemed a cold and lonely place with a desolate air, despite organ music and voices echoing from the small gray structure and sunlight spackling the grass through beech leaves. I shivered, and decided I would not like to visit at night or the dusk of evening.

  We couldn’t miss the Bentley, a black Vintage monster, and oh joy, with one of those big old grilles.

  I kept watch while Royal got down on hands and knees. “I spy with my little eye… .”

  I kicked him gently on the sole of his foot. “Where do you come up with these phrases?”

  “I see a few dents. Minor, but definitely dents. He probably thinks they will escape notice.”

  The singing in the church stopped and a man’s voice spoke up. Royal rose to a squat. “I need something with a blade.”

  “Would a nail file work?”

  He smiled at me over his shoulder. “Perfect.”

  I pulled my little nail clippers from my pocket, unfolded the nail file and handed it to him. I watched the church door as he poked in the grill and scraped. “What you got?”

  He stood and held the clippers in front of his face. “I got metallic blue paint.”

  He dusted off his knees. Right then the church door opened with a low creak. We exchanged looks and backed across the lane. A stile in the hedge behind us made an ideal seat, so we sat on it, Royal on the top crosspiece and I on the step. What could be more natural than two tourists resting on a stile after a nice, healthy country hike? Tall as I am, my feet were inches off the ground.

  I braced my palms on the board either side of me and swung my legs as the vicar came from the church, down the path and stood at the open gate. A skinny little man on the far side of sixty with a bald head, bushy white eyebrows meeting over his nose and thin, lined face, he nodded at us pleasantly before turning sideways to speak to his choir members.

  We watched them trail out. Each one looked us over before speaking with the vicar and going on their way. Some nodded and smiled at us. A couple waved and sang a hello across the lane. Three young men walked back toward the village and a family group went in the other direction. Four people got in a
car. Meagan walked out with a handsome young black-haired man, their hands clasped. She gave me a tiny faltering smile and looked away.

  Did she leave the note for us? I could ask her, except whoever left it did so secretly. She could deny she left it. Or ask what it said. Even if I prevaricated, she would still know we had a note and maybe tell someone else. Safer to say nothing.

  My instincts identified Darnel Fowler as he walked from the church.

  Fowler was a big man, tall, sandy-haired and thickly built, and I don’t think flab made up his bulk. Slightly tip-tilted pale-brown eyes stared at us over a thin nose with flaring nostrils. The laugh lines around his wide mouth indicated he smiled a lot and his pronounced wedge of a chin put him in the nice-looking class instead of out and out handsome. The buttons of his brown tweed jacket strained to hold it together.

  He crossed the lane to us. Royal kept the hand holding the clippers behind him as if braced on the stile.

  “Darnel Fowler,” Fowler said in a rough voice like the other villagers’. “A very good morning to you. You must be our visitors from America.”

  He didn’t offer his hand, we didn’t offer ours. I did not like the way his gaze traveled up my body, then tracked back down. “What brings you to Little Barrow of all places?”

  Royal answered him with a cheerful smile. “I passed through last time I was in England, in 2007, and liked the look of the place. This is an interesting area.”

  Darnel shrugged, his mouth hitched at one corner. “It is that.”

  “And Little Barrow is central to the sites,” Royal went on. “Stonehenge, Salisbury, Bath.”

  “Oh, aye. And don’t ignore our smaller towns. Devizes and Marlborough are worth a visit.” He smiled again. “Best be on my way. Nice meeting you.”

  Royal nodded. “Likewise.”

  Darnel Fowler went to his Bentley.

  “He didn’t ask our names,” I commented as we watched him turn his car in the lane and drive toward the village.

  “I am sure every person in Little Barrow right down to the children knows our names.”

  Finally the only people in the lane, we hopped off the stile and peered at the clippers. To our relief, miniscule flakes of paint still adhered to the nail file.

  We started back to the village. Royal handed me the clippers as we came abreast of Johnny.

  As I crouched beside his scooter, Johnny asked, “What you doing?”

  I squinted at the bike and the nail file. The paint could be a match, but we couldn’t be sure without the actual scooter and access to a lab. “This paint was on Fowler’s car. Looks like it came off your scooter.”

  You don’t know how strange it is when a shade hoots out yet his expression does not change. It’s quite unsettling. “You got the bastard!”

  I handed the clippers to Royal who dipped in his pocket, pulled out a plastic baggy and inserted the clippers. Keeping a supply of baggies is an old cop habit, although these came from a supermarket, not police-issue.

  “Not yet, Johnny, but we will.”

  Royal got on the phone again and tried the truck rental companies. These calls were more difficult. He again pretended to be Paul Norton, with the story he left something in the moving van. On the third call, to Pegasus Van Lines, the receptionist sounded angry and resentful when she asked what Royal was playing at. Royal hung up.

  Tomorrow we would take a look at Pegasus Van Lines just outside Devizes. Peter Cooper’s office was in the same town. We didn’t need the Internet to locate Peter Cooper, we found him in the regional telephone directory. Peter Cooper was a private investigator.

  Chapter Eight

  Another day in Little Barrow and we actually made it to the restaurant in time for breakfast ala Hart and Garter. Meagan put a plate before me. “Bacon, and scrambled eggs American style.”

  Thick bacon, well-cooked but not crispy. What did she mean by American style scrambled eggs?

  “They generally eat their scrambled eggs moister,” Royal said from the corner of his mouth.

  I resisted scowling at him. The Brit-English tutoring was wearing a bit thin. He meant well, but couldn’t he give me a break? So I was ignorant of British words and customs, so what? I didn’t need instruction or information on every little thing. Other visiting Americans got along just fine.

  “You are so seductive when you pout.”

  I swallowed my mouthful. “I do not pout.”

  I felt Carrie nearby. Why did I only now sense her? Could English shades mask their presence?

  I made a mental note to call Lynn when I got home. She is a telepath who sees shades, although not in the way I do. Lynn considered herself an authority on the dead; I would enjoy blowing her mind.

  We headed for the rental car.

  “Off on a drive?” Carrie asked.

  I almost tripped over my feet. Where did she come from?

  “Sorry, did I startle you?”

  “Yes you did,” I hissed, wary of anyone in earshot but out of sight.

  I rolled my eyes at Royal. Realizing what was happening, he rolled his back.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “Someplace called Devizes.”

  “Haven’t been there in an age. Mind if I come?”

  “Yes we do.” I did a double-take. “What do you mean, come?”

  “Your car has a back seat, doesn’t it?”

  Getting in the face of someone so much shorter isn’t workable, so I loomed instead. “You can move away from the inn?”

  Not at all intimidated, she put hands to hips. “How could I go to Devizes with you if I couldn’t leave the inn?”

  “You can leave your place of death?”

  “Didn’t I just say I can? I go anywhere I want. I’ve been all over the British Isles and farther. I went to France last year.”

  I put one splayed hand to my forehead. This wasn’t right. She could leave the inn, which was why I didn’t always sense her inside, but she must be restrained by certain boundaries and they surely did not stretch to Devizes. She definitely couldn’t jaunt all over the world. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I have! Paris. Rome. Berne.” She shrugged her little shoulders. “One way to find out.”

  “Go on then, get in the car. It’s the blue one over there,” I challenged, pointing.

  “I have to go with you.”

  Yeah, I bet. I folded my arms and tapped the fingers of my right hand on my left shoulder. “How do you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Go wherever you want. France? Huh!”

  Her chin jutted. “Perhaps your American insubstantials can’t, but we British are obviously more advanced in that respect.”

  I tossed my head. “Yeah? I doubt British insubstantials are any different from their American counterparts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “On one end of the scale, they can move around a large area, for example an entire building. On the other end, they can’t move at all.”

  “Well, there you are.”

  What did that mean? My frustration level rose. “Answer me, Carrie.” I set my lips in a tight line and waited.

  She hefted a sigh. “Everyone has a colored glow round them. I latch onto it.”

  “A glow? You mean their aura?”

  “Is that what it’s called? Well then, I latch onto a person’s aura. It’s how I travel. It’s the only way I can move from place to place. After you left so abruptly, I was stuck in the loo for half an hour until Pauline Cox came in for a pee.”

  Unconvinced, I stared at her, fingers doing double-time on my shoulder.

  “Don’t feel bad. I get stuck in places all the time.”

  “I don’t feel bad.”

  “Don’t look at me like that.” She stamped her foot and wailed, “I am not a freak!”

  “Why would I think so?”

  “As far as I know, I’m the only one can do it.” She threw her hands out. “Every insubstantial I meet thinks I’m abnormal! They hate me!” />
  If she could go anywhere at will, she had the freedom every shade craved. Recalling Mel and Jack’s predominant emotion concerning the living - envy of their mobility - I imagined how it could backfire on her. The ability to find other shades, friends with whom to spend the lonely decades, only to be shunned instead of welcomed. They’d be jealous, and angry they couldn’t roam as she did.

  I changed the subject. “You see auras?”

  “You’re changing the subject,” she grumped, now surly rather than pathetic.

  “I know you can leave the inn, because I couldn’t find you earlier, but - ”

  “You were looking for me? How sweet. Isn’t it strange how you meet a person and instantly know you’ll be best friends?”

  “I wasn’t looking for you. I often sense when a shade is near and I didn’t sense you.”

  “And sometimes you instantly take a dislike to them. Shade? You call us shades?”

  Posture stiff, lips a tight line, Royal waited near the rental, looking across the fields at the rising Downs. I knew a vexed demon when I saw one. “I gotta go,” I told Carrie as I swung around.

  “Please, don’t be angry.”

  I sighed and stopped with my back to her. “I’m not angry.”

  “I’m so glad!” she said perkily. “Let’s go then, shall we?”

  She definitely shared one thing with Jack and Mel: mood swings. Shades are temperamental, up one moment, down the next, like they are manic depressives and off their meds.

  I started off. “You are not coming with us.”

  “How are you going to stop me,” she said at my elbow. “Have some magical, spirit-banishing powers, do you?”

  I put on a spurt of speed.

  “Won’t work!” she declared gaily. “I have you now.”

  I stopped again. I had to get rid of her before we got in the car. Royal would not appreciate an extra passenger.

  “So you see a person’s aura and… .”

  “I feel it, like a blanket.”

  “Okay. You grab hold of it?”

  “I’m very careful. I wouldn’t want to take chunks out of an aura.” She paused, then continued, “I wonder if I could? I’ve never clutched for fear I’d harm someone, I just touch.” Her gaze passed over me as she said thoughtfully, “Adhere. I adhere to an aura.”