The Murders at Clarion Castle, page 18
Dorothy nodded. She could see the crushed blades of grass and the slight depressions in the ground. “And that means that whoever was riding the motorbike must have come from somewhere within walking distance of this spot.” She turned in a circle, surveying the field and the woods that surrounded them on three sides, her flicker of excitement waning as she saw just how dense the forest was and how vast a swath of countryside they were facing. “Although we don’t have anything to give us a hint on which direction we’d need to go before we find that somewhere.”
And the sun was sinking lower, the first purple shadows of dusk beginning to fall between the trees. They didn’t have more than an hour at most before it would be fully dark.
“We don’t have anything to give us a hint yet,” Tom corrected. “Come on, let’s keep looking.”
It was Dorothy who found the marks, after about five minutes of kicking through the fallen leaves and brambles that covered the ground. “Tom!” she called out. “Look here!”
Tom came at once to her side, and she pointed. There, on a muddy patch of ground between two leaves, was the clear imprint of a small dog’s paw.
Tom looked at her. “Bonzo?”
“I hope so.” Dorothy’s chest felt tight with just how much she hoped that the paw print had been left by the brave little dog.
Tom leaned over a little to study the print. “It looks like he was heading in this direction.” He pointed off through the trees, away from the wheat field.
They set off, winding their way through the forest, stopping every few feet to inspect the ground. The air grew damp and chillier, and Dorothy felt a tug of foreboding gather inside her. The woods were still, save for the occasional rustle of a squirrel or a bird in the trees, and somehow the silence felt menacing. But the ground was damp enough to show the paw print marks of a small dog in several places, and so they kept on.
Finally the woods began to thin. And, raising her head, Dorothy saw a small stone cottage silhouetted against the last crimson bands of sunset.
The place looked innocent enough, and yet she froze, instinctively putting her hand out to catch hold of Tom’s arm. Neither of them spoke as they studied the place in silence. Then Tom murmured, “Do we go up and knock on the door so that we can get a look inside? We could claim our car’s out of petrol and we’re hoping to telephone to the nearest garage.”
As excuses went, it was a perfectly plausible one, but Dorothy shook her head. “Not yet, anyway. Do you see any signs that Bonzo’s been here?”
They both scanned the ground, although it was difficult to see anything in the gathering dark, and after a few moments, Dorothy shook her head again and said, “Let’s see if we can get a little closer.”
They moved through the trees, approaching the stone cottage from the front. Dorothy could tell from the stiffness of Tom’s gait that his leg was hurting him. She knew the artificial leg chafed if he walked on it for too long, but she also knew that he’d never complain.
The cottage windows were already covered with the usual blackout curtains. Tom raised an eyebrow, glancing at Dorothy. “Either whoever lives there is extra careful about the blackout regulations . . .”
“Or else they don’t want anyone getting a look inside,” Dorothy finished for him. She was about to say something more, when she suddenly froze. A man in a dark suit was striding through the woods off to the right of the cottage, where a narrow dirt lane led towards the front door. He was still at least five hundred yards away, but Dorothy still recognised him at once.
“That’s him!” she breathed to Tom. “That’s the man who threatened Lady Hawthorne!”
Tom didn’t move, but his whole posture tensed and hardened somehow, and his expression turned a shade darker. He didn’t talk much about his time over in France, but right this moment, Dorothy got a glimpse of the Tom who’d been to war and had to fight for his own life and the lives of the other men in his company.
He took an instinctive half-step forwards, but Dorothy caught hold of his arm again. “You can’t tackle him here. I know you could take him on, but we don’t know how many others are in the cottage, just waiting to come out and back him up if they hear a row from outside.”
“You’re right.” Tom’s stiff muscles relaxed a fraction, and he eyed the stranger, a furrow gathering between his brows. “We need a way to draw him off, away from here.”
In Dorothy’s experience, some ideas crept up on you slowly, while others struck all at once, with the force of an icy gust of wind. The plan that jumped into her head now was one of the icy-gust kind, and it took her breath away just as thoroughly.
“I have an idea,” she whispered to Tom. “Fair warning, though, you’re going to hate it.”
Chapter thirty-eight
Dorothy
Dorothy took a breath and softly cleared her throat in hopes that her voice wouldn’t shake. Her throat felt dry and her palms were clammy, but she wasn’t actually nervous for herself so much as for Tom. She didn’t have any doubt that Tom would protect her with his life— and that was exactly the problem. She couldn’t let this turn into a situation where Tom sacrificed his own life to save hers.
Yet they had to find Evie and stop Siegfried, and Dorothy had to act now, right away, before the dark-haired man got any closer to the cottage. Otherwise this plan was doomed before it had even begun.
She opened her mouth and called out in the sing-song voice of someone calling to a favourite pet, “Bonzo! Bonnn-zo!”
The dark-haired man stopped in mid step, turning at the sound of her voice, squinting into the shadows of the trees. Dorothy spun quickly away. She couldn’t let on that she’d seen him or knew that he was there. Her job was to be the bait. The silly, oblivious bait that would draw the dark-haired man away from any friends he might have inside the stone house.
“Bonzo!” She took a few steps forward, crunching through leaves and dry bracken, deliberately making as much noise as she possibly could. She just had to hope that it was enough to draw the dark-haired stranger, yet not so much as to alert anyone who might be inside. “Here boy! Bonnn-zo!”
She heard the dark-haired man’s steps behind her long before she let herself spin around to face him. If she’d thought she was nervous before, it was nothing to the wave of fear that swamped her now. She couldn't control her gasp or her instinctive jerk backwards at the sight of his face.
“You!”
The dark-haired man’s upper lip curled back, sneering. He’d recognised her, as well, despite the fading light. “Did you actually follow me all the way here on account of that wretched dog?”
A spark of anger cut right through Dorothy’s fear. “Yes, I did. And you’d better not have hurt him!”
The man barked a short laugh at that. “The dog’s going to be the least of your—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish, though. Tom slammed into him in a flying tackle from behind that carried them both to the ground. Dorothy jumped back, trying to stay out of the way. Trust Tom. She had to trust him. Even with one leg missing, he was bigger and stronger than the stranger—
The dark-haired man was fighting like a man possessed, though, thrashing and kicking as he tried to break free of Tom’s grip. Dorothy’s heart almost stopped as she saw something metallic flash in the stranger’s hand. A knife. Somehow, he’d pulled out a knife.
Tom either saw or sensed the threat, though, and grabbed hold of the other man’s wrist, slamming the knife hand hard against the ground, trying to break the stranger’s grip on the knife hilt.
Dorothy couldn’t stand it another second. She bent, seized up the biggest fallen branch within reach, and darted forwards, bringing the hefty wooden stick down on the stranger’s head with a crash. He dropped the knife, which gave Tom the opening to deliver a sharp uppercut punch to his jaw.
The stranger groaned and collapsed, lying motionless.
Tom got up slowly— although not before he’d pulled up the stranger’s eyelid to check whether he was really unconscious and not just shamming.
“All right?” he asked Dorothy.
“I’m not the one who was just wrestling with a German spy!” Now that it was all over, Dorothy was having a hard time not shivering. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” Tom drew off his belt, using it to bind the stranger’s hands behind his back. Then he used the dark-haired man’s own belt to do the same with the man's ankles. “We need to let Harry and Nigel know about this, though. I can go and try to fetch Alice. If—”
“I’ll stay,” Dorothy said at once. “We can drag him into the bushes so that we’ll both be hidden.”
“You’re sure?” Tom asked.
“It’ll be dark soon. I’ll be perfectly safe. If there is anyone inside the cottage, I doubt they’ll bother coming out here into the woods—” Dorothy stopped abruptly. She’d been looking once more up at the small stone cottage, and something had caught her eye.
There was a narrow dormer window in the upper story, just under the thatched eaves . . . and from it, something white fluttered, highlighted by the very last rays of the sinking sun.
“Evie!” she gasped.
“What?” Tom looked round, puzzled.
“No, I don’t mean I’ve seen her. But do you see that ribbon?” Dorothy pointed. “I’ll bet anything that Evie put it there for us to spot.”
Tom’s gaze followed where she was pointing, and he nodded, but his expression was a bit more cautious. “It’s possible, of course,” he said. “But we can’t know for sure that she’s inside.”
“She is.” Dorothy couldn’t entirely explain her utter certainty that they’d found Evie at last, but she felt it all the same. “I know it. Go and find Alice, Tom, and then get her to telephone Harry up at the castle.”
Chapter thirty-nine
Alice
Alice Greenleaf paused, leaning against a moss-covered milestone to ease the weight from her aching feet. Ahead of her, red-gold rays of the late afternoon sun slanted through ancient oaks, casting long shadows across the Pilgrim Way. The cool forest air carried the scent of damp earth and wild thyme.
But Alice found little comfort in nature's offerings at the moment. Her new shoes—acquired for her disguise as a pilgrim—were still playing havoc with her blisters.
’Thanne longen folke to goon on pilgrimages’ she murmured, recalling Chaucer's words from The Canterbury Tales. What a difference, she thought, between her solitary quest and the one undertaken by those merry medieval travellers nearly six centuries ago! They had companionship, horses to bear their weight, and most importantly, certainty of destination. Canterbury Cathedral awaited their journey's end, its spires a promise of spiritual renewal.
Alice, on the other hand, had only questions and growing unease. The cottage where she'd believed Evie was being held had proven empty, the kidnappers having moved their prisoner before dawn. Each fork in the path presented a painful choice—might she be walking farther from her friend with every step?
She adjusted her herb pouch, fingers brushing against the dried lavender and chamomile she'd gathered earlier. The herbs wouldn't guide her to Evie, but their familiar textures grounded her in this moment of doubt.
"Pilgrims must have faith," she told herself, though the words rang hollow in the fading sunlight. The Pilgrim Way stretched before her like a riddle without answer, branching into paths as numerous as possibilities in a game of chess.
A sudden rustling from a nearby hedgerow broke her reverie.
Alice tensed, her hand moving instinctively to the small knife concealed in her belt—a precaution she'd taken after her discoveries at Blair Cottage. The rustling grew more frantic.
Then a small, dirt-covered ball of fur burst through the undergrowth.
"Bonzo?" Alice exclaimed, recognising the tan and white Pomeranian despite his bedraggled state. The dog's usually pristine coat was matted with mud and studded with burs, his bright eyes wide with exhaustion and relief at finding a familiar face.
Alice knelt, ignoring the protest from her tired knees, and gathered the trembling creature into her arms. Bonzo licked her face frantically, his entire body quivering with the force of his wagging tail.
"What are you doing here, little one?" she whispered, examining him for injuries. "Hawthorne Manor is nearly five miles away."
Had he been running from something? Or someone? The dog's presence so far from home suggested circumstances beyond a simple escape through an unlatched gate. Alice stroked his head, noticing how he calmed at her touch, his trembling gradually subsiding.
Unscrewing her thermos, she poured water into her cupped palm, watching as the small pink tongue lapped gratefully. After Bonzo had drunk his fill, Alice set about removing the worst of the burs from his coat, using the small comb she carried to coax petals or pollen from plant specimens.
As the shadows deepened around them, Alice confronted the decision before her. The practical herbalist within urged return to The Shepherd's Rest before complete darkness fell. The seeker in her heart protested abandoning the search for Evie.
"You can't find her in the dark," she reasoned aloud, her words meant as much for herself as for the dog. "And now I'm responsible for you, too."
She studied Bonzo thoughtfully, remembering how he had once tracked Evie to a church when given the command she’d taught him. Worth trying, at least.
"Bonzo," she said firmly, kneeling to look into his bright eyes. "Find Evie."
The Pomeranian's ears perked up at the familiar words. He turned in a circle, nose to the ground, then looked back at Alice with a whine of confusion. He pawed at the earth, clearly understanding what was asked but finding no trail to follow.
Alice sighed. "No scents here, are there? I suppose it was too much to hope for."
Straightening, she made her decision. "Let's live to fight another day," she told Bonzo, gently tucking him into the crook of her arm.
As she retraced her steps along the Pilgrim Way, Alice found comfort in the warm weight of Bonzo against her chest. Perhaps faith, she reflected, wasn't about blindly believing in predestined outcomes but in recognising the unexpected blessings that appear along the journey—even when they arrive in the form of a dirty, burr-covered Pomeranian.
The analytical part of her mind began calculating the possibilities. If Bonzo had travelled this far from Hawthorne Manor, what had driven him to flee? And more importantly, what might his presence here signify about Evie's location—if anything? These questions would need to wait until she reached the inn, but Alice felt the first stirrings of hope. In her experience, such seemingly random encounters often proved to be the thread that, when pulled, unravelled even the most complex mysteries.
The way seemed shorter with company, even such small company as Bonzo. The distant profile of The Shepherd's Rest Inn appeared between the trees, a temporary sanctuary lit by the setting sun. Tomorrow would bring renewed searching, but tonight required rest and strategy—and a telephone call to Harry at the castle. Perhaps he and the others had made discoveries that would guide her next steps.
As they approached the inn, Alice felt Bonzo stiffen in her arms.
He was staring fixedly at something ahead.
Following his line of sight, she noticed a figure slipping between the shadows near the inn's stable yard. Something about the furtive movement triggered her instincts.
"Curious," she murmured, instinctively dropping into a crouch behind a thicket of hawthorn. Bonzo sensed her tension and remained perfectly still in her arms, his earlier excitement replaced by watchful silence.
The figure—tall and lean, clad in dark clothing that would soon blend into the deepening dusk—paused briefly, head turning as if scanning for pursuers. Though the fading light obscured any distinguishing features, there was something vaguely familiar about the figure, a certain military precision that reminded Alice of the commando trainees she’d encountered nearly a month ago. Yet something else nagged at her. There was a hesitation in the way the man moved.
Logic dictated that she should continue to The Shepherd's Rest, telephone Harry, and report her findings. That would be the prudent course—the safe course. Yet Alice had learned long ago that safety rarely walked hand-in-hand with discovery.
"What do you think, Bonzo?" she whispered. "Shall we see where our mysterious friend is headed?"
The Pomeranian offered no objection beyond a quick lick to her wrist. Alice took it as assent.
Setting Bonzo gently on the ground, she secured his makeshift lead—fashioned from the length of twine she carried for bundling herbs. "Stay close and quiet," she instructed, though she doubted the instruction was necessary. The little dog seemed to understand the gravity of their impromptu surveillance mission.
Alice moved warily, each footfall placed with deliberate care to avoid crackling leaves or snapping twigs. The figure ahead kept a steady, though somewhat irregular pace, along a barely discernible trail that veered away from the main pilgrim path.
The rational portion of Alice's mind catalogued possibilities: a local resident taking a shortcut home, another pilgrim seeking solitude, or—more ominously—someone connected to Evie's disappearance. The latter seemed increasingly probable as the figure followed a route that grew progressively more obscure, eventually departing from any path Alice recognised from her previous explorations.
After nearly twenty minutes of careful pursuit, she noticed the woods had begun to thin. Ahead, silhouetted against the last crimson bands of sunset, stood a small stone cottage Alice hadn't encountered in her previous searches. Smoke curled from its chimney in a thin grey ribbon, suggesting recent occupation.
