Warriors

CHAPTER 47

Congreve stepped through the doorway and out into the rank and bitter air.

A stiff wind blew across the tufted, tempting grass to either side of the narrow ribbon of earth winding back to his automobile. Despite its benign, meadowlike appearance, it was not grass at all, he knew, but a vast soggy marsh. When the wind blew upon the distant hills, it whistled mournfully in the crevices of granite, and sometimes it shuddered like a man in pain.

He winced at the thought.

The encounter inside the cottage had shaken him, he suddenly realized. Here he was, anthropomorphizing nature, giving it human qualities. This was the stuff of romantics and poets, he laughed to himself, not bloody policemen.

These people, whoever they were, were not to be taken lightly. They were stone killers. And he had to find out who they were. And why they killed. He tightened his woolen greatcoat around him, pulled down his cap, and set off, glad to be escaping this execrable place.

As he walked, he repeatedly glanced back over his shoulder, looking at the dark cottage and trying to draw information from it and the very ground it stood upon. He was perhaps a quarter of a mile away from it when the oddest thing happened.

A solitary bird began to bother him.

Or perhaps a bat. Diving on him and swooping out of the darkness to brush the top of his head. He felt repeated soft bumps through the woolen cap. He tried to bat it away and quickened his pace, even though the footing was sketchy at best.

But he couldn’t escape the shrieking bird!

It returned again and again to beleaguer him, and now its aggression was sharply defined. It had its claws out, and with each pass it was raking the top of his head and slashing at his frozen ears painfully. It would be humorous were it not so terribly disturbing, a wild creature harassing a lone man in the middle of nowhere and—

Blood was pouring down his face.

He tried to swipe it out of his eyes so he could see where he was going, but there must have been a large gash on his forehead. He slapped at the air and paused to think a moment, gather himself, and curse softly.

Then the creature attacked again, its most vicious stabbing yet. It staggered him and he plunged forward, desperate for the safety of his car. He hadn’t taken five steps when he felt the ground sag under his feet and he plunged down the rocky muddy slope and into the mist. He got to his feet, still blinded and now disoriented. He managed to keep his legs under him and headed in the direction of the causeway that was somewhere above.

He stumbled and fell again. And suddenly he was up above his knees in weed and slime. He reached out for a tuft of grass and pulled. It sank beneath his weight. He kicked out with his feet, and they would not answer him. He kicked again and one foot sucked itself free, but as he plunged ahead, reckless and panic-stricken, he trod deeper water still.

Now he floundered helplessly, beating the weed with his fist and rolled umbrella. He heard a scream rise from his throat. He was sinking into the muck. He knew how this ended. Alex Hawke’s friend Stokely Jones had nearly suffered a similar fate once in the Florida Keys. Quicksand. Stoke had been breathing through his nose when the cavalry arrived. But Congreve’s cavalry was a good two hours away, and he didn’t have that long.

A curlew startled him. It rose from the marsh directly in front of him, flapping its wings and whistling its mournful cry. His tormentor chased it across the moorland and disappeared.

His face was covered in muck and blood, and it came to him to cup his free hand and scoop up bog water, splashing it against his face. The bog waters were now chest high, and he could no longer even feel his feet. The tempting tufts of grass were useless, and many had died learning that lesson.

He blinked, trying to see.

Somehow he’d gotten closer to the bank he’d fallen from. And there he saw his salvation. A heavy root protruded from the mucky dirt about halfway to the top. He stretched a trembling hand toward it and fell miserably short. No way. He could never reach it with his hands. Haul himself up that steep embankment by sheer force of will and survival instinct.

But.

He still had Mary Poppins, didn’t he, and by Jove, he used her now, whispering a solemn and heartfelt prayer of gratitude to his beloved Diana as he hooked onto the root and clawed his way up the muddy bank.

It was odd, wasn’t it? You went down one road looking for one thing and found something else entirely. “Yes!” he exclaimed, having reached the summit at last. He got to his feet, inhaled a bite of boggy air, and straightened himself up. This was one of those moments he lived for. The very reason he’d chosen to be a copper in the first place.

Live to tell the tale and you’re halfway home. Have a few precious clues in your pocket? You’re an ace detective!

The murder plot, like the swirling fog, was thickening.

The yellow peril fired right up, spitting smoke and making joyful popping sounds. He managed to get her turned around and proceeded carefully along the muddy ridge until he reached the main thoroughfare. Hello, what’s this? he thought, peering through the rain-spattered windscreen.

Two wavering wafers of light were approaching on the roadway from the north, rounding a wide curve. A large car, slowing, as if looking for the proper turning… He reached for the switch to cut his own headlamps, but it was too late. The car — he could make it out now — was an old Rolls-Royce saloon. Silver in color. A vintage Roller from the 1930s, he’d guess, the Phantom II, most likely.

It sped up immediately, disappearing into the fog before he could make out the number tag. But he’d caught a glimpse of two people up front in the glow of the dash lights. Small. Women, most likely, as one had longish dark hair and the other a short bob.

That was interesting.

He flipped on his headlamps and fog lamps, deciding to follow the Phantom II. He felt good. Never happy about taking a human life, of course, but mostly satisfied with the evening’s adventure.

He turned over events of the case in his mind all the way home. He was able to follow the silver Rolls along the twisting road for perhaps an hour before it dissolved into the fog. Never was able to make out the number plate on her, sadly enough.