by Shaun Baines
There was no road to the Foxglove’s home. Holly navigated a single-track lane tracing the outskirts of a conifer plantation. Peering through the pine trunks, the daylight gave way to dankness. Holly shivered, her imagination suggesting a list of dangerous animals just out of view.
She drove slowly, remembering the bird she had accidentally killed and not wanting to repeat the incident. As she turned a corner, a police car hurtled toward her and she swerved into a ditch to avoid a crash. The officer was decked in a luminous yellow vest and lifted a finger of acknowledgement before driving on.
Holly’s tyres bit into the mud on the fourth attempt. Cursing, she righted herself onto the track and continued past a rusting telephone box to a grey brick house called Bellcraig Stack where the Foxgloves lived. The windows were small and few, their wooden frames decorated with peeling paint. Twists of smoke drifted from the chimney.
In the front garden was a tan coloured goat lying on its stomach. It was tethered to a gnarled apple tree. The goat made no effort to move as Holly walked by. Its baleful eyes followed her from the gate to the house before closing in a lack of interest.
Purple spired flowers filled the borders, swaying under the weight of cotton-tailed bumble bees.
The house’s front door was shut, but warmth bled through gaps in the frame.
“Is anybody home?” Holly shouted, rapping her knuckles on the door.
A rustle came from inside and Regina appeared, a scarf tightened around her head. “If you’re selling pegs, gypsy girl, we don’t need any.”
Holly cleared her throat. “You said to pop by. I’m Holly Fleet from the Little Belton Herald.”
Regina’s eyes narrowed as a memory dawned on her. “The barmaid, you mean?”
A cry came from the conifer forest. An animal or bird sounding as if it was panicked. Regina peered over Holly’s shoulder, waiting for another shriek, but none came and Regina seemed to relax.
“That’ll be Black Eye Bobby,” she said. “I’m not surprised he’s about. The scoundrel.”
“I don’t think I know him,” Holly said.
“And you don’t want to, neither,” Regina said, her fingers curling around the door’s edge. “It’s not a good time, right now. Come back again.”
“What about your sister? Is she around?”
Regina looked to the forest again. “I don’t know,” she said, the skin around her eyes contracting. She took a moment before forcing a smile. “Perhaps you should come in, after all.”
Holly followed Regina into the house and found herself in a large room with low ceilings. It was lit by candles and a roaring fire. The heat was oppressive and Holly immediately shrugged off her coat.
“Best to keep that on,” Regina said. “You don’t want to catch a cold.”
Not wanting to seem impolite, Holly put the coat back on, but undid her collar button in the desperate hope she wouldn’t pass out.
“You’ll want a bite to eat, then?” Regina asked and disappeared into the kitchen without waiting for an answer.
Holly retreated from the heat of the fire and looked about the room. Two armchairs faced the hearth, each with their own side table covered in shabby paperbacks. A radio gathered dust in the corner. There were several demijohns filled with red or white fluid. Home-brew, she surmised, listening to the airlocks pop as the fluid fermented. Threadbare rugs hung from the walls, but there were none on the floor, which was made of stone slabs.
A painting of a black raven was nailed to the ceiling.
“There you are now,” Regina said, returning to the room with a tray. “Let’s warm our bones by the fire.”
Holly groaned inwardly, taking a seat while sweat collected under her armpits. The tray was thrust into her lap and Regina sat opposite, stretching out her feet so that they were inches from the flames.
On the tray was a sandwich and a glass of liquid. Holly turned up a corner of the bread to reveal a thick layer of butter and sliced tomatoes.
Regina pulled a blanket over her thin legs. “We grow those ourselves and that’s parsnip wine you’ve got there. Only bring it out for special occasions, mind you.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I’m not that hungry, Ms Foxglove. It is Ms, isn’t it?”
“Neither of us had time for that marriage nonsense.” Regina’s eyes fell on the sandwich. “We don’t like waste in this house, Mrs Fleet.”
The sandwich loomed up at Holly like some creature from a horror film. Moisture trickled down her spine. Who on earth ate tomato and butter sandwiches? Even if she wasn’t boiling from the inside out, she’d struggle to eat such a concoction. Holly felt Regina’s gaze upon her and picked up the sandwich, offering a small smile. She took a bite, working it around her mouth. The bread was claggy with tomato juice and quickly turned to mush.
Fighting her gag reflex, Holly swallowed. The bite was gone, but the taste remained. She reached for the parsnip wine and rinsed her mouth, replacing one bad taste with another.
But Regina looked pleased and settled into her armchair. “We don’t have many visitors, my sister and I. Can’t say why.”
Holly pointed to the painting on the ceiling. “Big Gregg has the same picture in his pub.”
Regina nodded. “Most people have an image of Black Eye Bobby in their homes. They say, it keeps him from their door.”
“Black Eye Bobby?” Holly asked. “Is that local folklore?”
“If you say so,” Regina said. “He takes the form of a raven, but really he’s a portent. He’s a sign that evil is drawing close.”
Recalling Regina’s words at the door, it appeared Black Eye Bobby was more than folklore for her. As a village, Little Belton had survived as a farming community long before they discovered coal in the hills. The place was steeped in history. Holly wasn’t surprised that some of that history had gone off track here and there.
“Where is Nancy?” she asked, picking a tomato seed from between her teeth.
“Whose story have you come for?” Regina asked. “Mine or my sister’s?”
Holly considered her answer. She wasn’t sure why she was here at all and judging by the scowl on Regina’s face, she was wondering why she would stay.
“I’m happy to listen to anything you have to say,” Holly said.
“You’re not very bright, dear. I think Old Jack was wrong about you.”
The comment made Holly feel ill, though it could have been the tomato sandwich churning inside her. “That’s not kind, Ms Foxglove.”
Holly removed the tray from her lap, attempting to place it on the floor as she stood. The heat made her woozy and she stumbled. The tray clattered to the stone floor. The tomato sandwich skidded into the fire and hissed in the heat.
“Oh, what a mess you’ve made,” Regina said, wringing her hands.
“Perhaps I’ll come back when you’re feeling more sociable,” Holly said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
“No, I’m sorry, dear. It’s not you who’s disturbing me.”
“What’s the matter?” Holly asked, wiping sweat from her face. “Is it Black Eye Bobby?”
Regina pointed to the closed door. “The police. You must have seen them.”
As Holly stared at her, Regina’s veneer cracked. She wasn’t the woman parting crowds at The Travelling Star. She was a woman trying to ask for help.
Regina’s hand went to her mouth, her fingers teasing out her lips.
“Where’s Nancy?” Holly asked again.
“She could be anywhere, but I feel certain she is going to die.”
Chapter Six
“I got suspicious when Nancy didn’t take her goat,” Regina said.
The fire was a carpet of red embers. Regina reached down the side of her armchair and retrieved a poker, jabbing it into the fire. She let it rest there, turning it in her hand, watching the tip glow white hot. “I like to stay by the fire. The furthest I go is to tend my vegetables or for a warm meal at The Travelling Star, but Nancy? She is a wanderer
and Little Belton is no place to wander on your own. She couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
The room held onto its heat like a jealous lover and Holly steadied herself, wafting her notebook in front of her red face. “Did Nancy go for a walk? Did she get lost?”
“Aren’t you listening to me?” Regina banged the poker against the fireplace and swung it in Holly’s direction. “My sister is troubled. Her obsession was turning her mad.”
“What was she obsessed about?” Holly was surprised by the question, popping out of her mouth as it did. She should be running for the door, but she watched the poker cool and waited for an answer.
The hardness slipped from Regina’s face. She lowered the poker and pitched it into the fire. Her hands trembled as she tightened the scarf knot under her chin.
“I’m sorry,” Regina said. “It’s like missing every second beat of your heart.”
“I understand,” Holly said, but she didn’t. She didn’t understand this woman at all.
Regina pulled her feet from the fire and crossed them at the ankles. “My sister didn’t want the new owner of Black Rock Manor taking over the estate.”
“But no one knows who he is.”
“You’ve lived here long enough to know we have our ways of finding out.”
Despite the heat, Holly felt a chill.
“There were too many rumours to ignore,” Regina continued. “My sister believed the estate had been bought by an outsider. Someone with more money than sense.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” Holly asked.
Regina snorted. “To some, no, but to my sister, yes. She wanted a Wentworth in there. One of the old families. Someone who understood the land and its ways.”
“That seems sensible.” Holly had nothing to commit to her notebook and drew a sad face instead. “It’s important to keep with tradition.”
“Nancy kept a file. It’s a box filled with newspaper clippings and nonsense about the new owner.”
“Why?” Holly asked.
“She sensed something was coming our way,” Regina said. “Something bad.”
Holly wiped the sweat from her upper lip. “Can I see it? The file?”
Regina uncrossed her ankles and tapped her feet on the floor. “The file has gone, too.”
Anger crackled in Regina’s voice, sounding like the logs in the fire and Holly strolled around the room, pretending to examine the rugs. She came across a framed black and white photograph and paused.
Holly inspected the blurry faces, recognising Regina and Nancy, looking like mirror images of each other. There was a small boy next to them, trying to look taller than he was. It might have been Old Jack as a boy. He had the same glint in his eyes he did now.
When Holly turned to Regina, she jumped. The sister stood behind her, her movement soft and unheard.
“She left her goat,” Regina said, her breath smelling like sour tomatoes. “When she goes for a walk, she always takes her goat.”
“Where exactly does she go?” Holly asked.
Pulling the scarf tighter around her neck, Regina tucked a stray hair under the material. “She never said and I never asked.”
“Do you believe Nancy may have been meeting with the new owner? Perhaps to confront him with her findings?”
“It’s the sort of thing the silly old girl would do.”
“What did the police say about it all?” Holly asked.
“They’ll file a missing person’s report, but they said there was no need to worry yet.” Regina grabbed Holly’s hands and squeezed them tightly. “But I am worried. She’s been gone for two days. The weather around here is unpredictable. Mark my words, this place will kill you if you give it half a chance.”
Holly tried to free her hands, but they were trapped in Regina’s iron clasp.
“You don’t believe that, do you?” Holly asked.
Regina shook her head. “If what Old Jack says about you is true, I believe in you, Mrs Fleet.”
***
Holly left Regina by the fire and stepped outside to find a signal on her mobile phone. She held it aloft, stumbling through the garden in search of higher ground. Her phone stayed blank and useless in the barren landscape of Bellcraig Stack. Holly jammed it into her pocket and looked to the red telephone box.
The door moved reluctantly, groaning in protest and Holly shouldered it open. Inside were two metal buckets containing tomato plants standing four foot high. The lower fruits were red and glistening, similar to the tomatoes she’d been forced to eat. The top fruits were green and hard.
A sign had been taped to a pane of glass.
‘Use the phone. Leave the tomatoes. N+R’
Nothing went to waste. Even the telephone box had been turned into a greenhouse.
She eased around the plants, careful not to damage them. Picking up the phone, she heard a tone and dialled.
Old Jack answered the phone with a cough. “Little Belton Herald,” he said, eventually.
“I’ve got a problem,” Holly said.
Over the next five minutes, she recounted her time with Regina. There was no need to consult her notebook. The weirdness of the meeting was burnished onto Holly’s brain. When she finished, her mouth was dry and the sweat on her back had turned cold.
“You should have seen her, Jack. She was sick with worry and maybe something else. Panic or guilt? You don’t think she’s involved in her sister’s disappearance, do you?”
Holly listened to static on the line until Old Jack decided to speak. “They got lost once. The Foxgloves. In the middle of a blizzard. They were nought but twenty, the pair of them. After three days, we gave them up for dead, but you can’t keep good women down.”
Holly wiped the cooling sweat from her brow. If she’d been lost in a storm, maybe she would have opted to live in an oven of a house.
“Where had they been?” she asked.
Jack sighed. “They never said, pet, but they retired to that house of theirs and were never the same again. We suspected they’d grown afraid of the cold. After a while, we just let them be. No social calls, nothing.”
“Didn’t anyone check on them?”
“I tried, believe me. You see, I was sweet on Nancy.” Holly heard rustling and wondered if Old Jack was using a handkerchief. “I wanted to marry her one day.”
Holly didn’t know what to say. She rubbed a tomato with the pad of her thumb, careful not to leave a bruise.
“They’re not bad people,” Old Jack continued. “They’re country folk. They have a hard exterior, but that’s only the outside of them. That’s why you have to find Nancy. There’s no way she would abandon everything without a good reason. She might not have married me, but she was married to that house.”
Feeding another coin into the machine, Holly looked at the dark hills and the conifers blowing in the breeze. The landscape was breath-taking, but it was also bleak and threatening. If Nancy was out there, Holly couldn’t see how she could survive.
Gathering her thoughts, Holly’s eyes followed the line of conifers, pausing on the last tree.
She jumped.
On the top branch, seemingly waiting to be noticed, perched a sleek raven. It cawed and the wind blew in response, lifting it into the air. The raven swooped to the ground, hopping into the darkness of the forest.
“Find Callum Acres,” Old Jack said. “He’s the gamekeeper of the Black Rock Estate. There isn’t a blade of grass moves on that land he doesn’t know about.”
“And then what?” Holly asked, tearing her gaze from the trees.
There was more rustling and Old Jack’s voice grew faint.
“And then find the only woman I ever loved.”
Chapter Seven
The driveway to Holly’s cottage was blocked by a flatbed truck. It was hand-painted in olive green. Rivulets of paint had dried before being brushed smooth and hung like unripened grapes. The truck blended into the landscape and would have been lost except for the pink teddy bear strapped to its
grill.
Mr Winnow appeared, swinging a plastic bag in his hand. His face split into a grin when he saw her.
“There you are now, Mrs Fleet,” he said. “Just making your delivery.”
He opened the bag and invited her to take a look.
Holly peered inside to be greeted by a wet trout staring back at her.
“That’s a big truck to be delivering such a small fish,” Holly said.
The door to the cottage opened and Derek leapt from the front step, waving a wad of banknotes in the air.
“I knew we had this somewhere, Mr Winnow. Three hundred, you said?” Derek thumbed through the money, coming to a standstill when he saw his wife.
Holly’s mouth dropped open, mirroring that of the trout. “Three hundred pounds for a fish?”
Derek’s eyes darted from Mr Winnow to the truck. “I didn’t know you’d be back so soon.”
“I came to collect my walking boots.”
“Oh, are you taking to the hills, then?” Mr Winnow asked. “You should head for the Faerie Ring by Arden Wood. Beautiful views if the fog is thin enough.”
Holly’s fingers were twitching and her jaw tightened. She ignored Mr Winnow’s walking advice and focused entirely on her husband.
“Why are you spending so much money, Derek?”
“I’m buying a shed.”
Mr Winnow shuffled on his feet, looking away as he spoke. “Delivered it in my truck, Mrs Fleet. The trout was my way of a thank you for the extra business.”
“May I have a word with my husband, please?” Holly asked, steaming toward Derek and stopping inches from his pallid face.
“Do you understand what we’re doing here?” she asked, the words hissing from her like an over-boiling kettle. “We’re barely hanging on, that’s what. You don’t have your own business anymore. You don’t have a job anymore.”
“We said we needed a shed,” Derek said, the money quivering in his hands.
“Eventually. Maybe after I’ve scraped enough money together to keep the lights on.”
