by Jean Rowden
Clapping his gauntlets together to keep the circulation moving to his hands, Deepbriar continued to scan the darkness. In time he made out a tiny pinprick of light, which he identified as the street lamp by Minecliff’s post office. A long way over to the right there was another light; it hung on the side of Will Minter’s barn, to illuminate the way into the farmyard. Deepbriar stamped his feet. Midnight was only moments away, and the street lamp would go out, followed by Will’s, the farmer being very much a creature of habit. He’d told Deepbriar he let his dogs out for a few minutes every night, then turned off the light when he shut them in before going to his bed.
Sure enough the village lamp blinked off. As his eyes adjusted, Deepbriar made out the horizon. Between the village and the remaining light lay Ferdy Quinn’s farm, shrouded in darkness. As he’d suspected, anybody in that top field could well appear to be above the horizon. A man walking behind a herd of cows, maybe shooing them along with a lantern, could account for the strange motion that Jenkins had put down to the flight of a space-ship.
The speck of brightness at Minter’s farm vanished. A rising wind brought more rain and Deepbriar shrugged deeper into his cape. He decided he’d done all he could, so he fetched his bike, doing his best to dry the saddle before hoisting himself back on to the machine, ready to take up his patrol around Quinn’s farm. His detour had taken over half an hour, but he thought it had been worth while. He rode without lights. Freewheeling down the hill he was travelling fast and quietly; if the prowler came back tonight there was at least some chance of taking him by surprise and catching him in the act. There wasn’t likely to be any traffic, but if there were any motor vehicles out this late he’d hear them in plenty of time to turn his lights back on.
As the slope lessened Deepbriar turned into the lane through the woods that would take him to Moody’s Corner, still making good speed with his lights off and his back to the wind. A brief flash of light showed somewhere ahead. It appeared only for the briefest moment then went out.
Deepbriar coasted to the side of the lane and put his feet to the ground, staring into the night, listening. There was no sound. He was sure that the man who let Quinn’s heifers out had been walking across the fields just after midnight, waving a light to keep them moving. If the villain planned to make another attack then he was probably out and about already. Deepbriar pushed off again, dodging round the puddles, careful to be as quiet as he could; he had no intention of announcing his approach.
The light appeared again, almost blindingly bright as it found a space between the trees. It had to be somewhere near the bridge at Moody’s Corner. The constable was elated. That light was where it had no business to be at half an hour after midnight on a Sunday morning; it looked as if the prowler was up to his old tricks again, only this time he’d have a surprise waiting for him.
Pushing on as fast as he dared, keeping one eye on the potholed surface beneath his wheels and trying to watch the light, coming and going like a will’o’the wisp, without letting it spoil his night vision, Deepbriar pursued his quarry. The man who held the light must be travelling fast; he seemed to be darting about among the trees, maybe moving from one patch of cover to the next, intent only on being unseen from the direction of the farms, and giving no thought to anyone who might be up ahead on the road.
Deepbriar put on a burst of speed, putting his head down and throwing his whole weight into it, going fast towards the sharp bend that would take him over the bridge. He thought he could hear a faint humming sound above the swish of his tyres and the splatter of rain.
As Deepbriar rounded the corner a bright light shone straight into his eyes and he swerved. He could see nothing behind the light, but he heard a cry of dismay as he careered across its path. Half-blinded, he glimpsed a dark shape that loomed up at him, sliding by and landing a glancing blow on his knee as it passed. Only when it had gone from his vision did he realise it had been another cyclist.
Frantically Deepbriar fought for control of his own machine, somehow keeping it upright and coming to a halt with the front wheel precariously close to the drop into the stream beyond the side of the bridge.
‘Is that you, Mr Deepbriar?’ Harry’s voice sounded strained, but he too had managed to stay on his bike, and was struggling to turn round. The new headlamp that had played so distractingly among the trees as he rode along the lanes was now wavering wildly across the landscape, sending random beams in all directions.
Deepbriar turned on his battery lamp. ‘Harry! I’d forgotten about you! Are you all right?’
‘Bit of a shock,’ Harry Bartle admitted. ‘I didn’t see you. I’d expected to meet you a long way back. I thought you must have gone off after somebody.’
‘I was riding without lights,’ Deepbriar admitted, and he explained about the information he’d gleaned from the salesman, and his theory that Jenkins had seen a light used by the man who had been targeting Quinn’s farm all week.
‘That sounds about right,’ Harry agreed. ‘I’m sorry; if the villain’s out there I’ve just messed up your plan, coming blundering along with a light that he could see all the way from Falbrough.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ the constable said ruefully. ‘I thought it was my lucky night, seeing that lamp of yours. But it might be worth carrying on. If he’s out there we could still catch him, if you don’t mind doing the rounds again.’
Harry nodded eagerly. ‘No, of course not. At least the rain’s nearly stopped.’
‘So it has. Reckon those clouds might lift in a bit.’ Deepbriar shook his head gloomily. ‘That’s not so good, there’s more than half a moon, and this villain prefers a dark night.’
‘Shall I turn my lamp off?’ Harry asked.
‘Long as nobody sees you riding through the village,’ Deepbriar replied, ‘don’t want you being reported, you know what a load of busybodies they are, can’t trust ’em to be asleep even at this hour, so just keep your eyes peeled. Should be safe enough once you’re heading up to Quinn’s.’
‘Right. I won’t let you down this time, Mr Deepbriar, I’ll see you somewhere near the farm gate,’ Harry said. ‘This is a right old game. And wasn’t it great all that stuff Peter Brook came out with? It was like having Dick Bland or Mitch O’Hara in the bar.’
Deepbriar sniffed. It was all right for the likes of Harry Bartle to be so cheerful; he wasn’t the one who would have to face Sergeant Hubbard if they’d missed another visitation at Quinn’s farm.
The water had begun to seep into Deepbriar’s regulation size tens, making slow but inevitable progress towards his toes, and he could feel a coldness creeping down his neck as well. The rain had stopped, although drips from trees by the roadside kept up a constant shower so it wasn’t much of an improvement.
Will Minter’s house and outbuildings lay shrouded in silent darkness, along with the row of four labourers’ cottages that fronted the road. No dogs barked as Deepbriar pedalled stoically by, his eyes fixed on the distant shadows that hid Ferdy Quinn’s farm. Too late now, but he realised he should have sent Harry this way, for if the villain was at work again tonight he was far more likely to be found between the village and Quinn’s place, not out here.
As he rode Deepbriar considered who it might be. Somebody from Minecliff surely, since the attacks had been concentrated on just one local target. But what was their motive? Ferdy Quinn wasn’t popular, but he wasn’t the kind to make serious enemies, and he insisted that once Bunyard was discounted he could think of nobody who wished him harm.
Deepbriar’s calculations always came back to Bert Bunyard. Could a man ride a bicycle with one leg in plaster? That was impossible. And he’d taken a good look at the ancient wreck of a lorry that stood forlornly on flat tyres in the yard at Hurdles Farm; it hadn’t been moved in months. Bunyard had a swaybacked old draught mare too, but there had been no trace of hoof marks at any of the crime scenes.
It was no use, in this instance it would take more than the detective skills of his two heroes to
find the villain by a process of deduction: he needed evidence. He needed to catch the criminal in the act. And the sooner the better, because he wanted to get back to spending his nights in bed. He had no illusions about the Inspector’s patrol car which was supposed to take over while he was facing a picket line in Belston, that would be like sending a couple of lap-dogs out to catch a wily old country fox.
Deepbriar kept a constant watch for any sign of life in the dark landscape as he cycled on. Once he saw something move on the other side of a hedge, but it was only a cow. Nothing stirred as he arrived at Quinn’s gate. He dismounted for a few minutes and stood straining his ears, hearing nothing but the normal after-dark sounds; the rustle of some small creature on the grass verge near his feet and the distant hoot of an owl.
Deepbriar had just set his foot to the pedal again when the scream split the night. It rose to an unbearable pitch, unearthly and utterly terrifying; it was the sound of a soul in torment, in the last desperate throes of pain or fear.
Chapter Eight
* * *
For less than a heartbeat Thorny Deepbriar hesitated, then the long years of experience took over. He almost flew down the road, legs pumping, head bent low over the handlebars, every ounce of effort concentrated on reaching the source of that terrible sound.
He had given no credence to Jenkins’s wild theories, and he still didn’t, but a terrifying thought drove him; suppose this had some connection to the abduction of Joe Spraggs? The mysterious car that had knocked down old Bronc could have reappeared, and not missed its victim this time, but surely he’d have heard the sound of the motor?
As he pedalled, Deepbriar was praying with all his heart that the terrible cry hadn’t been uttered by Harry. He suppressed a shudder; no human should ever be driven to make such a sound. It had been a bad idea giving in to the young man’s enthusiasm, he should never have agreed to let him come.
Without slackening speed, Deepbriar leant forward to turn on his lamp. The bright beam showed him the wet surface of the road, but around him the shadows deepened; field, hedge and tree passed by unseen, shrouded in darkness.
The dynamo outshone his battery lamp. At some distance it caught a glimmer of metal; as Deepbriar drew closer, the shiny speck became a reflection from the rim of Harry’s new bicycle lamp, now showing no light. The machine lay in the middle of the road; there were no skid marks, no sign of a car, and no movement except the bike’s back wheel slowly spinning. No Harry.
Brakes screeching, his tyres skidding on the wet surface, Deepbriar came to a halt beside the abandoned bike, reaching down to snatch Harry’s new lamp from its bracket, relieved to find it unbroken. He shone the bright beam along the sodden hedgerows.
Nothing moved. There was no sound but the steady drip of water and a faint sigh of wind in the leaves. To the right of the road a gateway led into one of Ferdy Quinn’s fields. Deepbriar hastily dropped his bike on the verge and dragged Harry’s machine out of the road, then he stumbled across the rough grass and shone the lamp into the field.
Thin pasture poached by many cloven feet sloped away uphill, with a fence running across from left to right, about halfway up. What appeared to be a body was slumped bonelessly against the sodden wooden rails, looking as if it would fall without their support.
Deepbriar climbed over the gate and ran, his heart thumping as if it would burst with the effort. The rag doll figure didn’t move as he approached, though to Deepbriar it seemed his breathing was making enough noise to waken the dead. With a feeling of unreality he recognised Harry Bartle’s checked cap and knitted scarf. Gasping for breath he reached out to the sagging shoulder, afraid that the body would fall at his touch. ‘Harry?’
The young man leapt as if he’d been hit, straightening up and turning, his fists coming up in a swift gesture of defence. His face was paper-white, and his eyes were like two dark holes poked in fresh snow. He stared wildly at the constable.
Deepbriar dragged in a lungful of cold damp air. ‘Harry?’ he said again.
Bartle shuddered, a deep involuntary spasm that shook his whole body. Gradually, as if he was coming from a deep sleep, he focused his gaze on the face of the man before him. ‘Did you see it?’ he asked bleakly.
‘See it?’ Deepbriar was confused. ‘I heard it. I heard something. It wasn’t you that yelled then lad? You’re all right?’
‘I think so. But …’ He sunk his head into his hands. ‘Dear Lord!’ Despite coming from a man who never entered the village church except for weddings and funerals, it sounded more like a desperate prayer than blasphemy. ‘I hope I never see a thing like that again!’
‘What did you see?’ Deepbriar shone the lamp across the deserted field, the beam illuminating nothing but wet grass.
‘Up there,’ Harry said, pointing to a copse of trees that crowned the hill and straggled away down the slope towards Quinn’s farmhouse. He gave another convulsive shudder. ‘I don’t know what it was.’ His voice shook. ‘I don’t even know what made me look that way. Then there was that scream … I leapt off the bike and ran up here.’ He gestured at the lamp in Deepbriar’s hand. ‘I was an idiot, I didn’t think of bringing that. There was a break in the clouds, just for a second, and that’s when I saw it.’
‘Saw what?’
‘I’m not drunk, Mr Deepbriar, I swear. I only had a pint all evening.’ The colour was coming back to Harry’s face now, and he grimaced. ‘You’ll think I’m crazy.’
‘Can’t judge that unless you tell me,’ Deepbriar said reasonably, playing the beam of the lamp across the line of trees.
Harry Bartle swallowed hard. ‘Well, for a start it had a long head, pale coloured, coming up to a sort of blunt point. And it was big. Wide as well as high, if you know what I mean. The top of it was a good three foot above that bit of fence you can see there.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t describe it. It was like something out of a nightmare. It wasn’t human, it couldn’t have been. Its body was misshapen, lumpy just below the head, then sort of rounded. The way it moved was weird, like its legs were too short for its body.’ He shook his head. ‘You know me, Mr Deepbriar, I never swallowed any of that flying saucer stuff, but maybe I was wrong.’
The constable patted his shoulder. ‘I reckon I’ll take a look up there, see if there’s anything to see. I won’t believe in Martians until I’ve shaken one by the hand. A man’s mind can play funny tricks in the dark,’ he went on, reassuringly, but he couldn’t help remembering that awful scream; he too might have been ready to see monsters if he’d been confronted with something out of the ordinary just at that moment.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Harry said firmly, climbing on to the railings. ‘I think I’d rather be going out of my head than believe that I saw what I thought I saw.’ He paused astride the fence. ‘Am I making sense?’
‘Enough. Don’t you fret, perhaps you got a bit overheated getting yourself up here so fast. A long time ago, when I was a lad, I had a spot of fever. And there I was, lying in bed, telling my poor mother to throw these three big dogs out of my room, because they were keeping me awake! I can still remember what they looked like, they were as real to me as you are right now. For years I thought she’d been telling me fibs when she swore they weren’t there.’
‘The scream was real,’ Harry reminded him.
‘That’s why we’re going up there,’ Deepbriar said. ‘Can you tell exactly where you saw this thing?’
‘It was inside the fence,’ Harry replied, his eyes following the sweep of the lamp. ‘There, just by that big beech tree.’
They reached the spot and peered over the wooden rails. Just inside, the tangle of undergrowth was too thick to have allowed anyone through, but a little further into the wood a grassy track ran between the trees. Deepbriar worked his way towards it, but he couldn’t make out any tracks. ‘It’s no good,’ he said, ‘I’ll have to come back in daylight, we’ll only trample on the evidence, if there is any. Was it going towards Quinn’s farm, or away from it?’
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br /> ‘Away.’ Harry pointed. ‘Down there. And it was moving fast.’
As any midnight prowler would, Deepbriar thought, if he was afraid of being discovered. But he was at a loss to explain the thing Harry had seen, or the reason for that terrible scream.
The sun rose in a glory of red and yellow streaks splashed broadly across the eastern sky. Deepbriar breathed in deeply and forgot to care about the shortness of his night’s sleep. The rain had left the world clean and fresh, and even the coldness of the air seemed invigorating rather than unpleasant; he was in a rare good mood as he cycled out towards Quinn’s farm, heading for the spot where he’d found Harry Bartle the night before. Having received his assurance that he’d fit in a visit to Mrs Emerson, Mary had thawed a little over breakfast, and although she hadn’t totally forgiven him yet, she’d given him a second rasher of bacon.
Another source of pleasure was the knowledge that it was Saturday, so he was only on duty until midday. He’d had four hours sleep, which was enough, and no matter what happened he was determined to spend a few hours in the company of Dick Bland that afternoon.
In daylight the little copse on the hill was a place of peaceful green solitude, in keeping with his cheerful frame of mind. Deepbriar located the beech tree and climbed over the fence, noticing the marks he and Harry had left the night before. Under the canopy of leaves the green track ran away to left and right. A little reluctantly he turned to the right, towards Quinn’s farm. He didn’t particularly want to see Ferdy Quinn, but if Harry’s apparition had been the mischief-making prowler then he’d have to find out what he’d been up to this time. With luck he might have left some sign of his passing.
The path skirted the wood then led out through a gate to follow an old trackway between two hedges. A few yards beyond the gate Deepbriar found what he was looking for. A patch of mud in the centre of the track held a boot print. The impression was perfectly clear, and it had obviously been left since the rain stopped. Unless Ferdy or one of his farm hands had been out overnight, then it looked as if he’d finally made a breakthrough.
