by Blythe Baker
I decided to park it just off the drive in a low divot of a hill, where it could remain hidden away from the rest of the farm. I tucked the keys in my pocket and hurried up the hill, staring out over the landscape.
The farm was just up ahead a short ways, the golden lights from the house already spilling out onto the ground.
I was going to have to be careful if I didn’t want to get caught.
The air was cool, and my boots were slick from the dew on the grass as I approached the farmhouse, doing my best to duck low behind the tall grass patches along the side of the road.
As I approached, I heard the tractor running around the backside of the barn, which was nestled up on the hilltop above the house.
With any luck, that means Mr. Cooke is too busy, and won’t catch me, I thought.
I hurried around to the garage, knowing this was the place where the beggar had broken in. It was dark, as were the nearby windows.
I knew I had to try and be quick, especially before my nerves got the better of me. If I was caught, then what happened to the beggar could very easily happen to me.
I tried the door on the garage, and found it, surprisingly unlocked.
As I pushed the door open, it creaked slightly, sending sharp and terrifying needles of fear into my bloodstream.
I forced myself to take long, deep breaths in through my nose as I huddled in the shadows, fighting the urge to take off across the fields and race back to the car.
The building smelled of oil, dust, and stale manure. I wrinkled my nose as I looked around, squinting through the darkness. My ears were perked, ready to catch the slightest change in sound, or any indication of the farmer’s wife coming into the garage.
I didn’t dare chance turning on the flashlight, fearing that it would alert the farmer or his wife.
I found a shelf along the wall that was stacked with nonperishable goods. Rows and rows of cans and preserved jars of jams, vegetables, and meats sat nicely in lines, organized and orderly…
All except for a row down toward the bottom, which seemed to be missing more than a few cans.
I knelt down and picked up one of the cans, and realized it was canned mackerel.
I thought hard, back to the night I’d seen the beggar’s body. Had I seen anything like this nearby?
I couldn’t remember if Sam had mentioned what had been found with the beggar, nor if the farmer himself had mentioned anything…
I stood, eyeing that shelf with apprehension.
There was a work table beside it, which was horribly messy compared to the shelf that was so neat and tidy. Old, oily rags were scattered across it, along with a small, opened box of –
Bullets.
My father had a rifle while I was growing up. He’d shown my sister and me how to use it so that we wouldn’t accidentally hurt ourselves with it. I’d seen the size of the bullets that he used to go pheasant hunting, and they were a great deal smaller than these.
These bullets…they’d easily tear through the flesh of a man without any trouble.
I reached out and touched one, seeing the way they shone, even in the darkness.
A creaking sound behind me sent shivers down my spine.
“Well, well…look what the cat dragged in.”
15
I was certain I had never been so frightened in all my life.
I stood frozen in that dark garage, my heart pounding against my chest so loudly that I thought it would beat right out of my body.
Footsteps against the hard, concrete floor behind me caused my blood to sing with terror, but like a rabbit caught in a trap, I could do nothing. My fingers went numb, and my mind had gone blank.
“When I saw a shadow rustling about in here, I thought at first that it was that despicable vagabond come back to haunt me,” the farmer said. He laughed once, a sound that reminded me of a bark. “But then I remembered there was no way he’d still be walking around…it wasn’t possible.”
“Mr. Cooke,” I said, my voice trembling as I slowly turned around, my hands lifted in the air. “I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I simply wanted to – ”
“I don’t care what you wanted,” Mr. Cooke said, stepping fully into the garage.
It was at that moment that I noticed the rifle in his hands…pointed straight at me.
My breathing was sharp, coming in hard and fast. Darkness began to press in on me, especially around the edges of my vision.
“What is it about my property that makes all of you people think it’s perfectly fine to break into my home?” he asked, his voice rising ever so slightly.
“Mr. Cooke, I just wanted to help. I have been working with the police, and all I wanted to do was help you – ”
“Oh, well, this makes perfect sense, then, doesn’t it?” he asked. “That day when you showed up here with that Sidney Mason, I thought something was suspicious…especially since you both seemed so keen to talk about that beggar fool.”
“All we wanted was to know what happened to him,” I said. “His death was so sudden, so severe, that – ”
“Well, of course it was,” Mr. Cooke said. “What did you expect? When someone forces his way onto a man’s property, do you suggest he just allow it to happen? That he do nothing to fight back?”
His voice was rising in volume, and it made my head throb.
I backed into the workbench behind me, the rifle rounds in the box shaking and clanking together as I did.
Mrs. Cooke, please! I thought desperately. Please come out here and see what your husband is doing, what he might do –
“I could have forgiven him if he had only come around that one time, as horribly as he acted. I could forgive nearly starving to death and wanting food. Wouldn’t it have been better if he had asked me instead? But no. He thought it was best to sneak in like a criminal in the middle of the night, and steal from my family,” he said, snarling.
My hands were trembling as I tried as discreetly as I could to find something on the workbench that I could use to defend myself. An old blade, a spike, a nail…I didn’t care. I just wanted something that could put some distance between me and the farmer.
“You know, I almost felt bad, after everything happened…finding out that the beggar was actually Polish,” the farmer said. “It made it so much easier to kill him thinking he was a German.”
My fingers scraped across something cool to the touch, something metal. A screw! It was slightly rusted, but a gentle press on the pointed end with the tip of my thumb told me it would do the trick.
“So you admit to killing the beggar?” I asked, easing the screw back toward my pocket, careful to keep my eyes locked on his. So far he hadn’t noticed my discovery.
“I thought I already did,” the farmer said, furrowing his brow.
His face was even gaunter in the shadows than it had been when I’d first met him.
“Why?” I asked. “Just because he came back to your property?”
“Yes, wouldn’t you have killed him?” he demanded.
“No!” I said, anger piercing through some of the fear. “I would have called the police and let them handle it.
“They wouldn’t have done anything,” Mr. Cooke said. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. He would have kept coming back again, and again, and again…just like the enemy. They’re like roaches, an infestation, and deserve nothing less than a fiery, burning – ”
“Mr. Cooke…” I said. “You used your anger toward the Germans to fuel your hate of that poor beggar?”
“So what if I did?” he asked. “This war is the worst thing that our country has ever had to endure. It has driven ordinary, happy people to the depths of despair, having to experience a drought of peace for yet a second time in such a short amount of time…”
He lashed out, slamming his fist into the wall beside him, causing all the tools hanging there to dance and tremble, a hammer tumbling to the floor of the garage.
“These wars have taken my f
amily away from me,” he said, just barely above a whisper. “My son, and his son…both of them were killed by those – ”
There was a rather childish sob that escaped him, but it quickly changed into a growl.
“My son, William…bright eyed, wanted to be a doctor…he just had another baby, you know. His wife, Henriette, almost died in childbirth. He was just able to hold their new baby before they shipped him back off to the front lines…” he said.
My heart ached, despite the fear. How was I feeling sympathy for this man?
Because he is as broken as I was when Roger died…I realized. Even still…now is not the time for compassion.
“And my grandson…just turned eighteen. Handsome as anything, with his whole future ahead of him. He had dreams of joining the theater, performing Shakespeare to the veterans of the war…but now he is gone, too. The life ripped right out of him. And for what reason? Money? Power?”
He lowered his rifle, and I breathed a small sigh of relief.
“I know how you feel…” I said nervously, my gaze still keeping sharp watch on that rifle.
“No, you don’t,” the farmer said, setting the rifle down against the wall.
“I do,” I said. “I lost my husband in the war too. He was killed in one of the air raid bombings in London.”
The farmer spared me a quick glance over his shoulder as he walked over to a cabinet along the far wall. “Was he now…” he said, pulling the door open.
“I understand the pain that comes with losing someone you love so dearly,” I said. “I understand the fight against hatred, bitterness against an enemy whose face we’ve never seen, which makes it so much easier to despise them.”
“That it does…” he said. “And that’s perfectly all right with me.”
I heard the sound of something rustling around inside the cabinet, and I wasn’t sure what in the world it was that he was doing. He wasn’t making it easy to understand.
“Mr. Cooke, I am terribly sorry this all happened to you, but you understand that an innocent life was lost because of your anger?” I asked.
He turned back around, a circle of rope draped over his arm, and a rough sackcloth in his other hand.
My heart began to race as my eyes fell on them. “Mr. Cooke?” I asked, realizing there was nowhere I could possibly go. “What are you – ”
“I’m sorry that you lost your husband, but don’t fret too much. I can make sure you go to see him soon enough,” he said, walking toward me with the sackcloth outstretched in his hands.
I tried to run toward the door back outside, but he was faster; he grabbed onto my wrist and yanked me backward.
Before I had a chance to react, he shoved a cloth between my teeth, and then pulled the sackcloth bag over my head.
I shrieked, but the sound was muffled by the cloth in my mouth. Even as I reached up to rip the bag off my head, he beat me to it, dragging both of my hands behind my back and tying the rope around my waist, pinning my arms behind me.
Panic flooded me, threatening to consume me as he grabbed onto the back of my shirt and began to shove me outside.
I could just see through the thin sackcloth; the horizon was growing bright, the dim light of dawn causing the tops of the trees to appear as inked images on the beautiful grey backdrop.
I wanted to ask him what he was planning to do. Where he meant to take me.
But the answer became quite clear just a moment later.
A stone well, like something out of a fairy tale, appeared at the edge of the garden…and he was steering me right toward it.
“I’m sorry it had to end this way,” he said. “But I’m just a simple farmer, who wishes for nothing more than a quiet life. And like I said. I’m doing you a favor. You’ll be with your husband soon enough.”
I squirmed, trying to break free from his grip, doing whatever I could to dig my heels in and stop moving closer to the well.
“You’ll have to say hello to my son and grandson for me, as well…” Mr. Cooke said.
You can tell them yourself –
I was just able to reach my back pocket, and pulled out the screw. With a deft twist of my waist, I was able to graze the back of his hand with the sharp point.
He let out a cry of pain, letting go of me.
I didn’t hesitate. I took off back down toward the main road.
My strides were clumsy and my view unclear, but I didn’t care. I was much younger than Mr. Cooke, so I knew I could easily outrun him, hands tied behind my back or not.
As I ran, I worked my shoulders and elbows, shifting the rope, loosening the knots.
I just made it to the hill where I’d stashed Nathanial’s car when I managed to get the rope loose. I let out a cry of joy and tossed the ropes aside, yanking the sackcloth from my head at the same moment. I spat the cloth in my mouth out and threw myself against the car.
With trembling hands, I shoved the key in the lock…just as I heard Mr. Cooke’s angry shouts growing closer.
I wrenched open the door and dove inside, slamming it behind me. It took me two or three times to get the engine to start, muttering to myself underneath my breath as I did.
Come on, come on, come on!
The engine turned over, and I threw the car into reverse, stomping on the pedal. The car flew backwards just as Mr. Cooke crested the hill, his rifle back in his hands.
The sound of the gunshot echoed throughout the still morning, making me scream as I ducked down behind the wheel.
When I lifted my head, I twisted the steering wheel, causing the car’s wheels to spin in the dirt, nearly turning it all the way around.
Throwing it into drive, I stepped on the gas and drove away, dodging and weaving through the sparse trees in order to protect myself.
As soon as I was on the road, I realized I’d been holding my breath.
16
“Inspector Graves!” I shouted, panting, as I raced into the police station. “Inspector Graves, you have to come quickly.”
One of the receptionists tried to stop me, but I hurried right past her desk toward the hallway leading back to the rest of the station.
Other officers peeked their heads out of their offices, and at the very end, Sam Graves appeared.
“Helen Lightholder…” he said. “What seems to be the matter?”
I staggered to a halt, my strength very nearly giving out on me as I rested my hands on my knees, sucking in breath after breath. “I know – who killed – the beggar.”
There was muttering behind me, but I couldn’t care less.
“He just – he just tried to kill me,” I said.
Sam’s face hardened as I looked up at him. “Who was it?”
“One of the farmers, outside of town,” I said, my mouth dry and tacky. “Mr. Cooke.”
More muttering.
Sam seemed to debate with himself internally. He snatched his jacket from a hook just inside his office. “Come with me, Mrs. Lightholder,” he said, throwing it over his shoulder.
We made it to his car, but not before he collected a pair of constables to follow along after us.
Outside, he gestured for me to climb into the passenger seat beside him. The other policemen, I noticed, piled into a separate vehicle.
“Tell me what happened,” he said. “Don’t leave anything out.”
So I did. I told him about Sidney’s suspicions about the farmer. I told him about how I’d gone with Sidney to help with the tractor and everything Mr. Cooke had said. I even told him that I’d sneaked into the farm myself to look for clues.
I had no intention of hiding anything, even if he looked at me like he was just about ready to wring my neck.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” he said. “I could arrest you right here and now for all the things you’ve done; breaking and entering, interfering with police business, trespassing…”
“I know,” I said. “But we really have to get to him. He is grieving the loss of his son and his grandson, and I thi
nk it’s made him lose his mind.”
“That’s about what it sounds like,” Sam said. “While I won’t be arresting you, since your life was in danger, I hope you know that I will not tolerate your interference like this again. Consider this a warning.”
“Duly noted,” I said.
The farm came into view a short time later, and my heart began to race.
I looked back over my shoulder and found that the policemen following in the car behind us lagged far in the distance. It seemed we were on our own, at least for the moment.
“He has his gun, remember,” I said.
“I remember,” Sam said. “Get in the back seat, and keep your head down.”
I didn’t hesitate.
We pulled up to the farm, and Sam pulled the car around. He didn’t wait for the constables to arrive but got out of our car right away. His bellowing voice broke the silence.
“Mr. Cooke, this is Inspector Samuel Graves. Come out with your hands held above you in the air. If you come forward armed, be aware that I will not hesitate to shoot.”
I waited with baited breath.
A few moments passed, and nothing happened.
“Mr. Cooke, I will not ask you again,” Sam said. “If you do not come out, then I will – ”
“I’m here, Inspector.”
I chanced a glance out of the side window, just my eyes peeking over the protection the rest of the metal body could offer me.
Mr. Cooke stood outside the door to his garage, his hands empty.
“I expected that Lightholder woman would bring you back here…” he said.
“Mr. Cooke, I understand that you are not only responsible for the death of the nameless refugee from Poland, but also the attempted murder of Helen Lightholder?”
My heart skipped. Attempted murder. It seemed so much more frightening hearing it like that.
“I am, sir,” Mr. Cooke said. “I will not deny it.”
“And you are willing to admit this in a court of law?” Sam asked.
“Yes,” Mr. Cooke said. “Just…please be kind to my wife. She had nothing to do with this. She deserves to live in peace. That’s all we have ever wanted.”
