Bourn’s Edge

by Barbara Davies

  “The one with the scarecrow sitting on it?”

  Liz chuckled. “That’s meant to be Prince Charles but he didn’t come out quite right. Don’t suppose he’ll win. Competition is the steepest I can remember. Janet Edwards has done a witch on a broomstick that makes your flesh creep, and Gary Jones has made a brilliant pirate. He’s got an eye patch, a parrot, and a wooden leg. Well, both legs are wooden, but you know what I mean.”

  Cassie finished the last of her fruit. “I enjoyed that,” she said, putting down the spoon. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Liz kicked back her chair and stood up. “Want your coffee here or in your room?” She began to clear away the dessert dishes.

  Cassie considered. “In my room, please.”

  “Going to watch a bit of TV?”

  “I might. It depends what’s on.”

  “I’m afraid reception can be a bit grainy. Depends on the weather.”

  “What do people do in the evenings?”

  “Most nights there’s something on at the church hall. W.I., Garden Club, skittles, Dance Class (they’re learning Salsa), that kind of thing. Otherwise people just go to the pub or stay in and read a book. Talking of which, you missed the mobile library this morning. It comes round every Thursday, if you’re interested.”

  “Thanks,” said Cassie. “But I’ve got some phone calls to make tonight anyway.” Including one to the elusive DS Edlin, who still hadn’t returned her call. “I think I’ll make it an early night.”

  Chapter 5

  Armitage dried his hands on the prison towel and flopped down on the narrow bed. An hour working out in the gym had left him feeling tired and hungry but the results were worth it. He gave his stomach a satisfied pat; already his beer gut was smaller. He had let himself go, he supposed. That wouldn’t happen again.

  He checked his watch—half an hour until lunch—then retrieved his mobile phone from its hiding place and dialled. It was answered after only two rings.

  “Any news?” Armitage listened as Rigby brought him up to date and grinned. “What did I tell you? I knew sooner or later she’d call them. Where did you say? Never heard of the place.” He examined his fingernails, decided they needed a trim, and stopped Rigby in mid flow. “Never mind how far it is from bloody Ludlow. I don’t need to know where Bourn’s Edge is as long as you do. Yeah. And this time no cock-ups, right? Take some of the boys with you. I don’t care how you do it, just get it done.”

  THE BLOCK STANDING between Tarian and her painting had dissolved, and since early morning she had been hard at it, wielding brush and palette knife with a deft touch she thought had deserted her. She hadn’t even stopped for lunch. Which made the knock at her front door even more annoying.

  Mumbling a curse—a brush was clenched between her teeth—she ignored it and hoped whoever it was would go away.

  The knock came again, louder.

  She spat out the brush. “Boar’s entrails!”

  Anwar and Drysi had risen in their baskets, and their hackles were up. Anwar looked at her, and an image of the Rev. Simon Wright came into her head.

  “That’s all I need.”

  She heaved open the front door and glared at the man standing on her doorstep—his iron cross was making her teeth ache. “Yes?”

  “Er, good afternoon, Ms. Brangwen,” said the vicar. “I hope this isn’t an inconvenient moment?”

  “It is, as it happens.”

  He took in her paint-spattered appearance, and the cheeks beneath his beard reddened. “I’m so sorry.” He made as if to leave, then halted and turned back. “But since I’ve already disturbed you.” He gave her a hopeful look.

  She sighed and stood aside. “You’d better come in.”

  He hesitated. Hardly surprising, given the way Anwar and Drysi were eying him. Tarian’s soft word of command sent them to their baskets. The vicar gave a sigh of relief and stepped inside her hall.

  “It’s about the scarecrow contest.” He wiped his feet on her doormat, blinked at the boar spear hanging on the wall, and followed her into the kitchen.

  “What about it?” She turned to look at him and folded her arms.

  He ran a finger round the inside of his dog collar. “Well, I’m supposed to be judging it tomorrow, as you know, but I have to go away tonight—a friend of mine is in hospital—and won’t be back ’til Sunday. So I was wondering . . .”

  She frowned. “Yes?”

  “I know it’s short notice, but, I was wondering if you might judge the contest.”

  “Me?” Her eyebrows shot up. “I know nothing about scarecrows, Reverend. Isn’t there anyone more suitable? A member of your congregation, perhaps?”

  He fingered his crucifix. “Well, I did ask some of them before I approached you, of course.” Might have guessed I would be his last resort. “But it requires an unbiased judge, and most of my parishioners, if they haven’t entered a scarecrow themselves this year, are related to someone who has.”

  “I see.”

  His tone became wheedling. “With your artist’s eye, Ms. Brangwen, your aesthetic sensibility—”

  “I would be at a disadvantage,” she completed.

  “What? Oh.” He smiled as he realised she had made a joke. “Ha. Good one. It’s true some of the entries are a bit of an eyesore. But it’s all for a good cause, you know.”

  Tarian stared out of the kitchen window while she considered his request. The vicar must be desperate if he had got up the nerve to pay her a visit in person. She tossed a mental coin, sighed, and faced him.

  “All right.”

  From the way his jaw dropped, he had expected her to put up more of a fight. “Really?”

  She nodded. “I’ll judge your scarecrows. For this year only. Don’t expect me to do it again.”

  He beamed. “Oh that’s terrific. I can’t thank you enough, Ms. Brangwen.”

  “Yes you can.”

  He looked apprehensive. “Um. How?”

  “By leaving so that I can get on with my work.”

  “Of course.” He turned at once and made for the door. “Thanks again for doing this, Ms. Brangwen. And good luck with the judging.”

  Tarian closed the door behind him.

  IT DIDN’T TAKE Cassie long to reach the signpost Liz had told her about. She climbed over the battered wooden stile and started along the footpath, which sloped gently uphill. Her intention had been to take a look at Tarian’s house, but the presence of the vicar on the artist’s doorstep had stymied that. It was a lovely afternoon, however, so she had walked past, as if she intended to visit Bourn Forest all along.

  The forest canopy wasn’t in full leaf yet and let through dappled sunlight. In the distance a pigeon cooed. When was the last time she had been on a woodland walk? That school outing to Sutton Park’s nature trail? She determined to make the most of it.

  A scrabble along a branch overhead proved to be a squirrel. It paused, feathery tail twitching, and looked down at her with beady black eyes before scurrying off. She sucked in a lungful of air, noticing the smell of spring foliage and leaf mould, and lengthened her stride.

  She was feeling much happier. She had managed to get in touch with DS Edlin that morning, and though he had proved to be as sceptical as his boss, he had agreed to look into the incident with the white van. He’d also promised her that, if he found proof Armitage was behind the attempt to shunt her off the road, he would investigate the possibility of getting her onto a witness protection scheme.

  What must be a game trail branched off the path to the right, and Cassie took it. Liz had warned her to stick to the footpath, but she was feeling adventurous. It wasn’t long before she began to regret her impulse. The trail was proving steeper than the path had been, made more treacherous by tree roots. Ivy-covered trunks pressed ever closer, until branches were tangling in her hair and scratching her cheeks. The light dimmed and the birdsong and rustle of wildlife searching for food in the undergrowth faded, leaving behind a brooding silence.


  Maybe it was her imagination, but this part of the forest felt different. Mosses and lichens coated many of the trunks, and they had that twisted almost sinister shape that comes only with great age. There was a watchful quality here that she found unnerving. She had the feeling the trees were weighing her up, and if they should detect any ill intent towards them on her part . . . How could Tarian spend so much time alone in such a place? But then, the company of those dogs must make for a very different woodland experience.

  Deciding discretion was the better part of valour, Cassie retraced her steps. As the incline gentled, the light grew brighter and her surroundings airier, and the cheerful sounds of the forest returned. Cassie felt a profound sense of relief and laughed at herself. It was Liz’s fault. Over breakfast she had delighted in telling Cassie spooky tales of how, every time the current owner tried to sell Bourn Forest, the sale fell through, and if he tried to fell his trees, accidents befell the tree surgeons.

  She jumped down from the stile and walked back down the hill. The vicar’s car had gone from outside Tarian’s house, but she had no idea if Tarian was at home. Curiosity got the better of her, and she pretended to empty a stone from her shoe while giving the house a good long look.

  So she did the house up herself? Not a bad job. Wonder which of the windows belongs to her studio? Because all artists had a studio, didn’t they? The temptation to peek inside was overwhelming, but she knew that would be taking her fascination with Tarian to stalker-like levels, so reluctantly she put her shoe back on and carried on down the hill.

  TARIAN HAD JUST become immersed in her painting once more when something dragged her back to her surroundings—an irritating buzzing sound at the edge of her hearing. Puzzled, she straightened, and gave the sound her full attention.

  The ward.

  The faintness of the buzzing indicated that the threat to the mortal woman, whose name she had learned was Cassie Lewis, was not serious as yet. But it was drawing closer. She wondered what it was.

  “Anwar. Drysi.” Her call brought the wolfhounds to her side. “Remember this mortal?” She pictured Cassie in her mind and sent them the image. Anwar’s nose nudged her hand in acknowledgment. “Find her. Something is hunting her. When you know what it is, come and tell me. Understand?”

  Drysi let out a soft bark, and Anwar whined.

  “Good dogs.” She fondled their ears then opened the front door for them and pointed. “Go. And don’t let anyone see you.”

  CASSIE HAD NOTICED that most of the front gardens contained scarecrows of one kind or another. Now, she took the opportunity to take a closer look. What a motley assortment. Some were traditional, made of turnip heads and twigs; others had utilised more modern materials—she thought using a shop window dummy was cheating. Her favourites were the pirate and the burglar carrying a bag marked “swag.” But she wasn’t the judge, and the vicar probably had very different taste.

  A loud rumble drew her attention to the hollowness of her stomach. She checked her watch and was startled to find it was much later than she had thought. No wonder I’m starving. Wonder what’s for supper?

  She was passing the church when a sound like claws clicking on concrete made her glance over her shoulder. There was nothing there, though, so she carried on. Movement up ahead caught her eye: a black Renault was coming up the road towards her. Its windows were in need of a good wash, but she could make out the shapes of two people in the front and two in the back. It slowed as it drew nearer, and veered towards the pavement on which she was walking.

  A tourist wanting directions? She was readying herself to give her stock answer, “Sorry. I’m a stranger here myself,” when she heard the sound of a door closing nearby.

  Dr. Reynolds—Liz had told her the village had only the one doctor, so it must be him—was in the process of locking up the surgery. He saw Cassie watching him and smiled, revealing even white teeth.

  “Enjoying your stay with us, Ms. Lewis?” He must be another subscriber to the village grapevine.

  “Very much, thank you.”

  He picked up his bag and hurried to join her. She slowed so he could fall into step. Close up, he was older than she had at first thought. Must be the boyish good looks and well cut suit.

  “Making a home visit?” She nodded at his heavy bag.

  “Mrs. Dobson. She’s housebound so I like to look in on her from time to time. After that it’ll be time to see what Madge—my wife—has cooked for supper.” He glanced at her. “I expect you’re ready for something to eat too.”

  “You bet. My stomach feels like my throat’s been cut.”

  She remembered the black Renault and turned, expecting to see its driver winding down his window, but there was no sign of it. Belatedly she registered the revving of an engine. She turned and saw the car disappearing up the hill. Must have changed his mind.

  Something moved in the pub car park across the road, and she glanced at the doctor who looked a question at her in return. “Did you just see a couple of dogs?” she asked. They weren’t there now. Could she have imagined their heads ducking down behind the low wall?

  “No. But I shouldn’t worry. They’re probably Tarian Brangwen’s.”

  She looked for the artist, but could see no sign of her.

  “They get loose from time to time,” continued Dr. Reynolds. “But they don’t cause any damage.” He checked his watch. “I’d better get on if I’m going to visit Mrs. Dobson. Nice talking to you.”

  “And you.”

  As he hurried off, she stared hard at the wall of the car park, but the dogs’ heads didn’t reappear. Then another rumble from her stomach drew her attention back to more pressing concerns.

  TARIAN PUT ASIDE her book as a panting Anwar and Drysi came into the sitting room. The dogs threw themselves on the rug by her feet and looked up at her.

  “Well?” She nudged the closer of the two, Anwar, with her foot. “Did you find her?” He licked his chops and rested his head on his paws. “Oh I see. Going to let your wife speak for you, are you, Lazybones?” Amused, she dug in her foot and tickled his ribs. He gave a contented sigh and closed his eyes.

  Tarian turned her attention to Drysi. “Well?” The wolfhound gazed deep into her eyes, and after a moment a stream of images popped into her head.

  Cassie Lewis walking along the road.

  A black car—correction, a very dirty black car—coming in the opposite direction, the driver’s face unclear, the number plate illegible.

  The car pulling closer to the pavement, as though preparing to mount it.

  Cassie turning her head, her lips moving as she speaks to someone: Dr. Reynolds.

  The black car changing course at the last minute, pulling away from the kerb, and speeding off into the distance.

  The images stopped, and it was Drysi’s turn to drop her head onto her paws and sigh.

  “Well done,” Tarian told her.

  She went through to the kitchen and returned with a couple of boar’s thighbones, the flesh still clinging to them. The dogs caught them with a snap of teeth. Tarian resumed her seat and stared into the log fire, as gnawing noises joined the crackle of flames.

  She doubted Cassie was even aware of her narrow escape. But if the doctor hadn’t arrived at just the right moment . . . They didn’t want a witness. Wonder who they are, and why they want to kill her.

  The jangling buzz of the ward hadn’t gone away. If anything it was growing louder. Which meant the danger wasn’t over. She glanced out the window and saw that night was drawing in. The thugs would be back—while Cassie was asleep and vulnerable.

  She got to her feet and began to pace. Drysi and Anwar continued their gnawing while they watched her. She halted by the sitting room window and gazed down the hill. Then an idea struck her and she began to laugh. The dogs exchanged a glance.

  “Don’t mind me,” she told them with a grin.

  It took Tarian a few moments to find what she was after: a tattered street plan of Bourn’s
Edge. She spread it out on a table, traced a circle with her forefinger around the village, and followed it with a series of glyphs. Then she muttered a few words and gestured. Her head throbbed in response and she waited for the spell’s backwash to pass.

  “Look after her,” she murmured, and went back to her book.

  Chapter 6

  Cassie knuckled grit from her eyes and sat up. It had been the worst night’s sleep she’d had in ages. Around midnight, what sounded like foxes rummaging through the rubbish sacks had disturbed her. Except now she came to think about it, hadn’t the bin men collected those yesterday? Then there were the weird dreams. She drew back the curtains and blinked.

  All around the B & B’s front garden and along the road in both directions lay scarecrows toppled like ninepins. As for the garden itself, it looked like a herd of wildebeest had stampeded through it. Part of the fence had been flattened, the wooden bench lay on its side, and where was Prince Charles? Heavy footprints marred the once pristine borders, and the carefully tended plants and shrubs had been squashed flat.

  Foxes don’t do that.

  Cassie pulled her jacket on over her nightie and hurried downstairs. “Liz. Liz. Are you all right?” She followed the clatter and appetising smells to the kitchen, where her landlady was cooking breakfast.

  Liz did a double take at Cassie’s appearance and gave her a rueful grin. “You’ve seen the state of my front garden, I take it?” Cassie nodded. “Don’t suppose you heard or saw anything last night?”

  “I thought it was foxes. Sorry.”