Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  ***

  Dawson is sidetracked in his quest for cigarettes by Lieutenant Beaumont, who needs help unloading another truck that just arrived. Then the Captain himself arrives in a scout car full of luggage, and Dawson is forced into fetching and carrying. When he's finally done, Dawson grabs a packet of cigarettes and sets off back to the digging site.

  When he goes back, he's surprised to see no trace of Jenkins. As he trudges across the field, he realizes that there's a stranger standing in the trench, a painfully thin and ragged individual.

  Maybe that’s just Jenkins’ jacket hanging from a shovel, he thinks.

  Then, whatever it is, falls into the trench out of sight. Dawson hears a scream.

  “Jenkins!” he shouts as he breaks into a run. “What are you playing at? If Foghorn catches you mucking about he'll have you on punishment duties for a fortnight.”

  Dawson's almost at the trench when Jenkins leaps out of it, screaming like a banshee, and collides with him. Dawson is knocked onto his backside, as Jenkins races past him.

  “What the –?” Dawson scrambles to his feet and looks around. But there's nothing to be seen, nothing to account for his comrade's crazed behavior.

  He takes a couple steps forward and looks down into the trench. He sees shovels and some discarded cigarette butts. He peers more closely as something catches his eye. Along with the prints of army boots, he can almost make out some very different footprints. The strange prints are faint but overlap the others. And they look as if they've been made by bare feet.

  Nonsense! Get a grip, man.

  Dawson turns from the ditch and starts to run after Jenkins, who's now disappearing behind the big tent. Dawson catches up with the little man to find him cowering against the back wall of the inn, surrounded by a small knot of soldiers.

  “What's up with him?” one asks as Dawson runs up.

  “His nerve's gone, mate,” he replies, “I reckon he needs to see the Medical Officer immediately.”

  He tries to get his friend to stand up. Another man helps, and between them, they get the Welshman to his feet. They begin to walk him towards the tent, so he can lie down. Then Dawson notices Jenkins is limping. There's blood on the cuff of Jenkins' pants.

  First time I've seen an attack of the jitters damn near tear a man's boot clean off, thinks Dawson.

  ***

  Rachel exits the shady church, out into the sunshine, which leaves her dazzled for a moment. As her eyes adjust, she thinks she sees Carl standing by the gate about ten yards away. She's about to wave at him, hoping he's feeling better. But then, as she begins to see clearly, the man-like shape disappears.

  “You get any good stuff for your story?” asks Carl. He's behind her, sheltering from the wind by the church wall as he smokes a cigarette.

  “Yeah,” says Rachel, “you feeling better?”

  “Sure!” he gives a rueful smile. “I guess I just needed a smoke. I get a bit agitated without the old nicotine.”

  “Mister Black's about to introduce me to some of the locals,” she says, gesturing at the gravestones.

  “One in particular,” says the priest, leading them through the overgrown churchyard.

  “This,” he says, “is the resting place of the last witch in the parish. Well, the last as far as I know.”

  Rachel leans closer to the stone. The thing is badly weather-worn, thanks to its cliff-top location, and the lettering is seriously faded. But she can still read the dates – 1809 to 1907 – and the name.

  “Jenny Oglethorpe? Really?”

  “Yeah,” says Carl, “In books, witches have classier names.”

  “Well,” says Black, “This witch was not fictional. The Oglethorpes are a very old Suffolk family. She was the last of the line, and when she died, the village was deprived of a very interesting character. According to some villagers, she's still active, mind you – they claim she haunts the churchyard.”

  “Spooky! And you're saying she was a genuine witch?” Rachel asks. “With a black cat and a broomstick?”

  “She did have a black cat, they tell me, but not a broomstick. And witch may be the wrong term. She was known as a cunning woman; one who is believed to have a second sight.”

  “You mean she could see the future? Or ghosts?” asks Rachel.

  “She saw the unquiet dead, they say – spirits that have not moved on from our earthly sphere, for whatever reason. If you're interested in that sort of thing, you could try the library in Ipswich, by the way.”

  “Thanks, I might stop there on my way back to London.”

  Pity old Jenny's not around anymore; she might have some answers for me.

  There's a sudden clattering and something flies past her head, shattering against the tombstone. She jumps back.

  “Crap!”

  Looking around, she sees Carl and the priest both looking up at the church roof.

  “Loose slate, I think, picked up by a gust of wind,” says Black.

  “Yeah, that must be it,” says Carl. His face is pale and he looks more shocked than Rachel.

  Maybe the guy's nerves really are shot.

  “You don't suppose that was old Jenny, telling you to show witches a little more respect?” she jokes.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Carl replies, moving away from the church.

  “I very much doubt it,” says Black. “She was a kindly old soul by all accounts. No, sometimes an accident is just that.”

  They're distracted by a dark-green military ambulance racing past the churchyard towards the Green Man.

  “That looks kind of ominous,” says Carl.

  “It looks like it might be a story,” said Rachel, setting off towards the churchyard gate. “It was nice to meet you, Reverend Black,” she calls back to the priest.

  “Perhaps I'd better come with you,” he replies, hurrying to catch up with her. “Technically, everyone here is part of my flock, I suppose.”

  By the time they get to the inn, a small crowd has gathered. Black mingles with the locals to find out what's going on, while Rachel and Carl tag along discreetly.

  “It seems that one of the soldiers has suffered an accident,” says the priest. “I would normally try to offer some words of comfort, but they think the poor young man is beyond all that now.”

  “Oh my god, he's dead?” asks Rachel.

  “No, but he's had some sort of severe shock and can't talk coherently.”

  “Does anyone know what happened?” asks Carl.

  “An accident while digging a trench, apparently.”

  “Did he fall in it or something?” asks Rachel.

  “No, miss!” says Molly Bishop, eager to gossip “I was hangin' out the washin' round the back and I heard this shout that was cut short. I say a shout, more of a scream, it was. Well, I know some soldiers was digging in the field so I went round the back and I saw two of 'em carryin' him, and he’s lookin' pale as death!”

  “But did you see what happened?”

  “No, miss, I just heard the scream, and it sent shivers down my spine, it did! And there was blood! Blood runnin' down the poor bloke's leg!”

  It seems serious, and Rachel wonders if she'll be allowed to report a military matter?

  Better not take notes until later, just in case.

  A small group of soldiers clear a path through the onlookers, and two army paramedics appear with a stretcher. They're accompanied by Tony Beaumont, who nods to Rachel and her companions as he passes. She catches a glimpse of the man on the stretcher. He stares right through her, unseeing.

  Something must have really terrified the poor guy.

  The paramedics put the stretcher down for a moment to open the doors of the ambulance. Reverend Black takes the opportunity to talk to the soldier and again Rachel tags along.

  “You're in good hands, lad!” says the priest. “Nothing can hurt you now.”

  The man doesn’t seem to hear Black. He looks past the priest and stares at Rachel. He sits upright and shouts,

  “The
y're in the trees! They'll come for you!”

  Rachel flinches as he flings out an arm and points – at her? She looks around and sees Carl standing behind her. He looks as shaken as she feels. After a moment in shocked silence, the bystanders start to talk excitedly.

  The paramedics strap the man down as he continues to rave, then they load him into the ambulance and it speeds off with electric bells clattering. Some take this as a cue to go about their business, but some linger. Reverend Black is talking to a small group of villagers, some of whom are casting sideway glances at the two Americans.

  “What was that about?” she asks Carl.

  “Beats me,” he says, lighting up another cigarette. His hands are shaking.

  Rachel takes a look at the enlarged army camp that's clustered around the village inn. Two more trucks have arrived and been parked by the tent, along with a scout car. There were also two new civilian vehicles outside the inn. One is a small, battered car similar to her own Morris, but the other is an impressive black limousine.

  “It seems you've got quite a few more visitors,” she told Black.

  “Ah, yes, that will be the group from the British Museum.”

  As she looks over, she sees a man in an expensive-looking suit coming from the Green Man and joining a group of army officers, among them Tony Beaumont. The newcomer doesn't seem the academic type to Rachel. His clothes are too expensive, for a start.

  “I share your puzzlement, Miss Rubin,” says the priest, following her gaze. “That man certainly doesn't strike me as the type one would find on his knees in a ditch digging up pottery fragments. But perhaps he's here to dig up something else.”

  She gives the priest a sharp look.

  “You know what? There's something going on. I mean, more than the usual war stuff.”

  The old man laughs.

  “There's almost always something going on, and it's almost always 'war stuff.'”

  “Seems like the show's over,” says Carl. “Maybe we could go on with the guided tour?”

  “Actually,” says Rachel, “I could do with a drink after seeing that guy.”

  “The pub won't be open for another hour,” says Carl.

  Smiling, Black produced a silver-plated flask from inside his jacket.

  “If Molly will provide us with some glasses, I'll be happy to share a decent alcoholic beverage.”

  Chapter 6

  Captain Walker is not impressed. He's assembled a quick, informal investigation at his field HQ to find out what happened to Jenkins. But Dawson isn't making any sense.

  “Sapper Dawson, are you claiming that no one else was present when Jenkins was assaulted?”

  Dawson, still visibly shaken, says in a low voice,

  “No, sir. Nobody else about, sir.”

  Bryce, the well-dressed civilian, has been lounging against the mantelpiece of the little cottage sitting room.

  He stands upright and asks, “You saw nothing at all, out of the ordinary?”

  Dawson looks around, then back at the captain. He's not used to being questioned by 'civvies'.

  “Answer the question,” orders the captain.

  “No. No, sir, I didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Except -”

  “What is it?”

  Bryce's voice is quiet and refined, but incisive.

  “Well, I thought I saw someone in the trench just before ... before I found Sapper Jenkins.”

  “Someone, apart from Jenkins, you mean?” asks the stranger.

  “Well, it might have been. But when I got closer, there was nobody there.”

  There's a pause while Captain Walker looks to Bryce, who spends a long moment staring at Dawson. Then he gives a nod to the officer and turns away.

  “All right, Dawson, we're done here. Now don't go gossiping about this! That sort of thing does nobody any good. Dismissed!”

  Dawson salutes and leaves.

  “Well?” asks Walker.

  “Well, what?” returns Bryce.

  “Does this incident have anything to do with your – with our mission here?”

  “I very much doubt it. I can't imagine the person I'm looking for would try to bump off a common soldier. What possible motive would he have? And even if he did, I suspect he would choose a less bizarre and ineffective method.”

  The Captain is about to ask another question, but Bryce shakes his head. Some subjects are off limits.

  “We both saw the poor fellow. His mind's gone. He was at Dunkirk? You can report him as a victim of delayed shock, a terrible thing.”

  “But how do you explain his wounds?”

  Bryce shrugs. “Self-inflicted? It has been known. Some men shoot themselves in the foot. But we may never know unless the poor chap recovers.”

  “So, I've lost an experienced man, and we don't really know why?”

  “Yes,” says Bryce, as he leaves the room. “Let's hope it isn't the start of a trend.”

  ***

  Bryce appears from the back door of the cottage, and two Engineers stand watching as he passes by. They might as well be garden ornaments for all the attention he pays them. But Dawson still resists the urge to salute. Foskett silently curses at him behind Bryce’s back, then fights the sudden conviction that the bastard has eyes in the back of his head. Bryce leaves and the men resume their conversation,

  “I know I was hard on him sometimes,” says Foskett, “But I never meant any harm. He's a good lad. Bloody good singer, like all them Welshies.”

  “Aye, and not a bad footballer, either.”

  “Corp?” asks Dawson. “Who's that ugly bugger in the posh civvies? How come he gets to question me about all that?”

  “No idea, son. But he's got government written all over him. Look at that motor! Cost a pretty penny. Best stay clear of him! His sort's usually bad news”

  A pause, then Foskett asks, “Look, son, you can tell me. What really happened?”

  “I've no idea, Corp,” replies Dawson. “But, here's a thought – you might want to put the toilet somewhere else.”

  ***

  Rachel sits in the Green Man's dining room with Reverend Black and Carl Tanner. The pilot is quiet and seems preoccupied with his own thoughts, but the priest makes up for it with a stream of talk about local folklore.

  Rachel, still trying to make sense of her nightmare, asks, “So, can you tell me some more about this legend, the crown and so on?”

  “Well,” says the priest, “there is a folk song about it, often sung in this very pub on Saturday nights. Don't worry, I won't sing! It goes like this,

  “The king who waits in darkness,

  The king under the sea

  Lies dreaming of fled power

  And all that still might be

  “Then you have the chorus,

  “So long as he bides the sun will rise

  On a land that's fair and free

  So long as bides no conqueror

  Can come from o'er the sea

  “And there's another verse,

  “The king who waits in darkness

  A lord of great renown,

  His diadem upon his breast

  A splendid kingly crown.”

  “So, the king in question is ...?” asks Rachel.

  “Most likely a chap called Redwald, one of the first Saxon chiefs.”

  “And he's really buried under the sea like it says?”

  “Well, perhaps that's what this new inspection will discover,” says the priest, after a pause. The thought seems to bother him, and he frowns into his whiskey glass.

  “Right, the inspection. Isn't it a bit strange, to be doing that kind of thing in wartime?” she asks.

  “Not really,” says Carl. “There's a big drive to raise national morale. Anything goes, and that includes culture, history, national heritage, and so forth.”

  “Precisely,” says Black. “When the war broke out, the government closed all the theaters and cinemas. It seemed a sensible precaution, due to the risk of bombing. But people
were miserable and the policy had to be reversed.”

  Rachel tried to imagine New York without Broadway shows, without movies.

  People would riot. There'd be total chaos!

  “So the idea,” she says, “is to give people some sense of England's ancient roots, which were pretty much German, to help rally them against the Germans?”

  Carl gives a hollow laugh.

  “That's Brit logic for you.”

  Black says sharply, “Well, it's not that simple; in the last war, we were silly enough to ban Beethoven concerts and the like. Now, we recognize that it's the Nazis we're up against, not the German people as such. A bunch of political gangsters are not an entire race, after all.”

  “True enough,” says Carl.

  Rachel jots down the priest's words, then says to Carl,

  “Hey, fella, you never told me how a farm-boy from Wisconsin got to be in the Royal Air Force? I need some background, here, or my editor will be on my case!”

  He blanks out for a moment, then smiles, and again he's the pleasant young man she met at breakfast.

  This guy sure can turn on the charm, she thought. I'll have to watch out for that.

  “True enough,” says Carl. “Well, there was this old guy who used to fly this crop-duster, and he used the straight road by my daddy's farm as a kind of runway when he was paid to spray our fields -”

  Rachel scribbles frantically as the priest smiles benignly.

  ***

  Bryce glances at the odd trio in the dining room and makes a mental note to check their backgrounds, just in case. He nods to Molly Bishop as he passes the reception and goes up to his room. One of Captain Walker's men can bring up the rest of his luggage later, but in the meantime he has to check a few things.

  He locks the door and opens the suitcase he was about to unpack before being sidetracked by the fuss over Jenkins. Removing a few buff-colored folders, some spare shirts and socks, and a leather-bound journal, he then opens a concealed compartment and takes out a snub-nosed semi-automatic pistol. He checks the ammunition clip, then ensures that the safety is on before placing it in a specially-made pocket in his jacket.