Deadly Thyme (29 page)

Neither of the police officers noticed the older man sitting near the crowded table next to them pull a hat on, excuse himself and leave the pub.

37

J
on and Trewe had been so engrossed in conversation, the Friday night crowd and the noise of the pub could just as well have been down south in Port Isaac.

Trewe
’s mobile beeped. Trewe looked at it before answering. “Yes, Perstow?”

He stood abruptly, nodded a dismissal to Jon and left.

Puzzled, Jon followed on his heels, but by the time he’d exited there was no sign of Trewe. His mobile sounded. It was Ruth Butler.

“Mr. Graham
, there’s someone in my garden.”

He swung around full circle
, searching for Trewe. He started off at a run to Ruth Butler’s cottage. “Do you recognize him?”

“No.”

“On my way. Call 999.” He took off through the car park and over the footbridge spanning the River Perrin. The pathway ended at the alley behind Ruth Butler’s back garden. He craned his neck to see what he could over her garden wall, but could make out nothing in the dark.

The shadow of a cat slunk between dark patches. A dog barked. Jon raced through the alley to the narrow walk between cottages and to Ruth
’s front door. The cottage was dark. Jon approached the front door and knocked. “Are you all right in there?” No answer. Had something happened to her?

Two uniformed policemen arrived, breathing hard as if they
’d run uphill, which they probably had. “Check the doors and windows,” Jon ordered.

Flashing lights raked across windows along the length of the street. Tires squealed as car after car arrived in front of Ruth
’s home. Just then, Jon heard several locks click undone. The door opened. The smell of fried fish wafted out. Mrs. Butler clutched her dressing gown around her thin form. From the darkened doorway her scared face looked pale green in the flashing lights. “You came so quickly,” she whispered. “He got away.”

Shorter than Mrs. Butler, her mother peeked out from behind her.

“He didn’t go by way of the alley. I would have seen him. Might I have a peek from your vantage point?”

Mrs. Butler stepped aside and pulled the switch on a floor lamp just inside her front door. She was standing so close to Jon he could have reached out and touched her. He wanted more than anything to be able to take her in his arms, tell her he would protect her from any harm,
and promise he would always be there. All these thoughts went through his head, but at the same time he thought,
What am I thinking?
He said, “Show me where you saw him. Tell me what happened.”

“Mom and I were leaving the kitchen. I turned off the lights and saw his shadow through the blinds. He ducked down.”

“Can you tell me anything about him?”

“No.”

“How tall was he?”

“Not tall.”

“How long do you think he stood there?”

Her good hand moved up and out. “I have no idea. I dialed emergency first, then you. I was very quiet. He couldn
’t have seen me. When I put the phone down, he was gone. Look, I can take care of myself, but this sneaking business is making my mother and me jumpy.”

An officer entered through the open front door. He spoke to Jon, “In the garden,
sir.”

“Stay here,” Jon told Mrs. Butler.

In the garden, two uniformed officers held torches over a dark pair of men’s shoes, neatly set beside the bins.

“Those were Tavy
’s,” Jon said, shocked. “He keeps bringing her shoes, like a cat dragging a bloody mouse to its master.” He bent and with the blunt end of a pen, tugged at the paper showing just inside one shoe. He had one of the gloved officers place the paper in an evidence bag and seal it. “Bag the shoes, too. Let’s take this inside where we can read it properly.”

As they reentered the sitting room, Trewe was standing with Mrs. Butler and her mother speaking into his mobile, “Perstow, we need tracking dogs.”

Jon wondered briefly where Trewe had gone between leaving him at the pub and now.

The beautiful woman’s
frightened eyes were huge dark orbs in her pale face, when she asked Jon, “What is it? What’s out there?”

“There were some men
’s shoes in your garden, Mrs. Butler,” Jon said. He kept the bagged note behind him. No use worrying her further. He made eye contact with Trewe.

Trewe stepped between them. “I wonder if I might bother you for a glass of water?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Butler said.

Mrs. Thompson struggled up from her chair. “I could use something a lot stronger than water. Wouldn
’t you gentlemen care for something more substantial, too?”

“No, thank you,” Trewe answered.

The two women left the room.

Jon smoothed the note in the baggie flat and read aloud, “And we look ahead, into the bottomless lake where nothing awaits us but death. Enjoy our future, love. For your daughter
’s sake.”

“Definitely not another Mother Goose rhyme,” Trewe murmured.

Mrs. Butler reentered the room with her mother close behind her. Mrs. Thompson made an odd, choking sound. Jon glanced towards her. Her mouth opened and closed several times. Her eyes rolled upward. Her arms dropped. Her glass crashed to the floor.

“Get him!” Trewe shouted.

Jon turned. Behind Mrs. Butler, a man dressed completely in black stood in the doorway reaching for her. Something was off about his face—globs of red muck, the whites of eyes. Jon leapt to grab Mrs. Butler, but tripped. The lamp went out. A high-pitched scream rent the air, followed by a thud, an “oof!” like someone had the air knocked out of him, then silence.

Jon waved his arms in the dark. He felt nothing but empty space where Ruth had been
, but he caught and held on to the person slipping past him. “I’ve got him!” he yelled.

“No
, you don’t.” Trewe’s voice boomed in Jon’s ear. Jon released his hold. And the lights came on. Trewe had flipped the wall switch.

Jon backed away. “Sorry.” He plugged the lamp back into the wall socket. The lamp flashed on. “Who was that? Where is Mrs. Butler?”

The room was a mess of bodies and pillows and furniture. The puffy chair had been shoved against the settee. Mrs. Butler was sitting near an overturned chair cradling her hand.

Perstow appeared at the door
rubbing at his face. Other officers entered through the kitchen. Trewe yelled at them, “Go! Go! A killer’s running amok and you’re playing in the garden.”

“Did you see anything?” Jon asked Perstow, wondering at his convenient appearance.

“A man covered from head to toe in dark clothing. He was running from here.”

Mrs. Thompson lowered
a pillow away from her face. She squeaked, “Where’s Ruth-Ann? Ruth-Ann!”

Mrs. Butler said, “I
’m okay.”

“My lands and stars!” Mrs. Thompson grabbed her daughter
’s good hand. They helped each other to stand. Mrs. Thompson swayed.

“
Mom, sit here.” Ruth led her mother to a chair.

Trewe turned to Perstow. “The dogs. Where are they?”

“Just arrived.”

“Is anyone hurt?” Jon asked.

“That man grabbed me, but I gave him an elbow to the face before I fell.” Mrs. Butler bent down behind the settee. She came up with a large white cat, tail fluffed to maximum size. “I must have stepped on Mandy at the same time. Did you hear her scream?”

Jon crossed the short distance between them and patted the fluffy, white cat. “Such an unnerving sound.”

Ruth crumpled to a chair. She was trembling. “I was able to kick him but I don’t think it had much effect. I think the cat startled him into running.”

An officer entered and reported a rubbish bin on one side of the garden wall and a shed on the other side. It was an easy access to the garden. The wall
’s gate was locked from the inside. “Likely using that shed to climb in and out.”

“Have you secured it?” Jon asked.

“No, sir.”

“Do I have to give you instructions for everything?” Trewe shouted. “Do something
’bout it and call Constable Craig. Secure this house. Station someone at the front door. These women need to be kept safe!”

11:04
p.m.

Charles limped through the thick mists toward his cave, cursing the night. The chilly damp penetrated his clothing, but could not quench the hot fury that burned deep within. He rubbed his sticky palms against his jacket. The night’s cloud-shrouded moon cast a pale shadow across his path through the swirling of the thick fog. The mists didn’t hide anything.

Dogs could track him despite the wet mists. The scent of grass freshly crushed by his shoes would give him away. The mist was making the blood he
’d smeared on his face watery. He walked through the stream down to the cliff’s edge. Surely the heavy air would bury his human flakes and spores beneath its clammy fingers.

Something was wrong with his leg. He had received a severe blow to one hip and now his foot was going numb. He rubbed his chin where the woman had elbowed him. He couldn
’t figure out how or what had hit him in the leg. That noise. Bloody cat! He hated cats—smelly, germ-ridden beasts.

“
Only a fool would enter the American woman’s house like that.”

He ducked down, limping faster, tears ooz
ing out of his eyes. He didn’t have to listen to her. He was a grown man.

The cold salt air filled his lungs
, giving him strength. The whisper of waves crept into the dead stillness of the air. A cool finger of breeze touched his cheek. All would be well soon.

He reached the summit of his climb, turned
, and stumbled along the cliff top. The mists wrapped around his legs, then dispersed in his wake. He had to make several sharp turns to find the reed-thin route. He limped down the narrow path carrying the bowl of fruit and cling-wrapped sandwich he’d hidden earlier. He pushed, then pulled the moss-covered twig door into place.

Inside the tiny cavern, he groped along the familiar walls, set the bowl down near the mattress, then found and lit a candle. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears, keeping time with the surf. On his knees before
the small pool in the center of the cave, he cupped his hands into the cold, crystal clear water and splashed a bit of the coolness against his burning face and neck.

“Pain. And for what?” he muttered.

He removed his shirts. He was out of the wind but not the cold. He fired up the heater. He only used it at night during his experiments taking blood, and then he kept the heater away from the entrance. He didn’t need infrared cameras finding him. From a supply of dry clothes he took two heavy shirts and pulled them, one at a time, over his head. He threw his old, smelly shirts across to the pile of rags. Glancing around, he nodded. This place had been a smuggler’s lair, now it was his. It was far enough away from The Wife, which was a glorious thing.

His attempt to get the American woman had been thwarted again. For so many years, he
had never seen her face as she puttered about the graveyard at the church, her head down. He’d never paid her the least bit of attention until the fete. She had been there, and she danced! He had seen her face. Her face! Since then his mother’s voice grew louder and more insistent every day. He couldn’t escape. Everything was spiraling out of his control and he had to wrest it back. How could he lure the American woman to his lair without giving the police a way to find him? These are the things he needed to work out.

Lifting the bowl of food, he checked the freshness of the sandwich
’s bread and placed it near the heap of rags. The plums were good ones. She better appreciate his efforts. The place was beginning to carry a stench. He would replenish and wash the stash of clothes tomorrow; the place needed an airing. He’d already tried to take her on one outing, and it proved too much. Though she was bound and gagged, her screams had attracted attention. It was by chance the American woman was at the boulders at the same place and time he had planned to let the girl sit in the sun. Such an odd, out-of-place feeling
that
had been.