Saving Tara Goodwin (Mystery Book 1) (47 page)

Angela involuntarily swallowed hard, ‘He is ready. But do it gently, understood?’

She nodded, and without a word, lifted him up over her shoulder.

‘So how long will it take?’

‘Not long. I’ve got one dug already.’

Taking her cigarettes and wine, Angela went down to sit on the old stone bridge, and as time slipped away into oblivion, thought Sir Henry had been quite a nice man really.

Sitting there, she suddenly jumped and broke out in a hot prickly sweat when an eerie black clad figure silently appeared at her side.

‘Jesus Christ … Don’t you ever do that again …’

‘Sorry.’

‘I should bloody well think so. Dear god …, are you trying to drive me crazy …?’

Shakily lighting a cigarette, her hand trembled as she sucked hard on the smoke.

‘So is it done?’

‘Yes. He’s at rest now.’

‘Good, and I hope you were gentle, when you finished him off.’

The Church Warden looked puzzled, ‘But I thought you’d already done that.’

‘Me? Don’t be stupid … I only drugged him … I don’t kill people!’

The Warden frowned, ‘Oh dear. Neither did I.’

Angela stared at her, ‘My god, he’s buried alive then, so what are we going to do?’

‘Well we can’t dig him up, ‘cos I dropped a great lump of marble on his grave.’

‘But what will he do when he wakes up?’

‘Well likely as not, I reckon he’ll go mad.’

4
6

Angela had endured the most hideous night of her life, because thanks to Sir Henry, all her demons had risen up and come to play, and even now as she cuddled up in her deep bed and looked out to the bright early light of dawn, the stark images refused to go away.

Images of him screaming in terror as he gradually suffocated, his fingers running with blood as he scratched frantically at the lid of the coffin - and even with the keeper sat reluctantly outside her door, it made little difference to the horror within.

Giving a long sigh, she finally had to accept that murdering by proxy was still murder, and although she’d hidden the responsibility of it all behind the sinister Church Warden, those tragic lost lives in Thornley’s graveyard were souls who could never rest in peace, and now Sir Henry had released them, and brought them to play in her mind.

It was a changing of the days, she could feel it, she could feel it all around her, those moving wisps of ghostly awareness, those risen souls who had now come to stay.

And she knew now, that never again could she stay alone in the bunker, not for one hour, one day, and most certainly, not for one night.

Retribution had come to live with her, and now her cottage belonged to someone else, someone who would never let her be.

So she would purge the cottage by cleaning, painting, and polishing all the furniture, and hang gentle paintings to soothe the mind, and maybe paintings of guardian fairies, but no, Samantha had been a fairy.

But angels, angels would be kind, angels wouldn’t bring nightmares to anyone, and she would fill the cottage with laughter, love, music and happy people, and never again would she be alone and afraid.

As the overnight train rumbled to a halt, Frank came awake and heard the name, Penzance, and clambering to his feet, took the Bergen and stepped out onto the platform.

The early morning air held a chill, but the clear blue sky foretold the coming of another late summers day, and walking through to the taxi line, climbed in beside the driver.

‘Where to, mate?’

‘A decent café, and somewhere near the quay.’

‘I know just the place, we’ll be there in a couple of minutes.’

Driving off along the sea road, he pulled over at a café with steamed up windows.

‘The boys from the dock use that one, it’s good food and isn’t expensive.’

Nodding, Frank paid him off, and taking the Bergen, walked over.

The café was already half full with workmen, and ordering a full English breakfast, went through to the men’s room, and stripping to the waist, washed and shaved, and when he sat down, his breakfast was unceremoniously placed in front of him.

With a full stomach, he hoisted the Bergen over his shoulder and took a long walk along the seafront, and by the time he walked back to the Steamship ticket office there was already a long queue of waiting passengers.

Collecting his booking confirmation, he slipped it into his pocket and crossed over the narrow road, and stepping onto the cobbled approach to the quay, thought it was like entering a different world.

Dumping the Bergen at the rope barrier, he joined the queue to the check-in cabin, and as the luggage was craned aboard, the metal gangway was wrestled into position, and walking along the quay, stepped on board the Scillonian, and in no time at all she was edging out into deep water.

So in less than three hours he would step ashore at the familiar quay of Hugh Town, and although Mrs P would give him the latest information of the yacht, he knew the disposal of
Polyvotis
would be down to him, and no-one else.

The shrill alarm had woken Martha at five o’clock, and remembering that ma’am wanted to be on her way by six, slipped out of bed and padded down the stairs, and having made a pot of tea, carried the tray back up.

‘Ma’am. It’s time to wake up.’

‘Oh, leave me alone. I’m tired.’

‘But ma’am, you must wake up, ‘cos you’re going to the islands today.’

Lucinda murmured into the pillow, ‘Don’t be silly, I haven’t got any islands.’

‘But that’s where you’re going, to the Isles of Scilly.’

Lucinda blinked, and struggling up in bed, yawned and stretched her arms.

‘Oh god, that’s right, and I do wish they’d leave me alone.’

‘I know, and it’s a terrible thing to be sure, but have a cup of tea and you’ll wake up.’

‘Alright, you can stop nagging. But am I packed? Is everything ready?’

‘Yes, it’s all done, so have a shower and get dressed, and you can get on your way.’

Dressed in her posh outfit, Lucinda made a final check of her handbag, but Martha had been meticulous and everything was there. Credit cards, money, handkerchief, Mace, keys, comb, wipes, perfume and the .22 automatic pistol with silencer.

‘Now Martha, don’t forget, they’ll be searching for our new guests and we don’t want anyone snooping around, do we?’

‘No ma’am, that wouldn’t do at all.’

Lucinda drove away at six o’clock, and Martha was pleased, because the way her mistress drove, she should be in Penzance in plenty of time to catch the helicopter.

Having arrived in Penzance, Lucinda was surprised.

After only twenty minutes from taking off, the Sikorski was touching down on St Mary’s, and while the porter from the hotel took her luggage in his van, she boarded the bus that would take her to town, and in no time at all she had arrived at Hugh Town.

The Scillonian docked at Hugh Town and the luggage was soon craned off onto the quay, and collecting his Bergen, Frank wandered up to the phone booths.

Calling Moon Shadow, his heart skipped a beat when he heard the sound of her rich and musky, musical accent, ‘Hello.’

‘Mrs P? It’s Frank, I’ve just arrived.’

‘Good, it’s about time. And one of these days you’ll remember my name.’

‘Yeah, sorry about that, but I still feel guilty, you know, saying it.’

Antoinette gazed out to sea, and pressing her lips together, held back the tears.

‘Yes, I know … But I’ve told you so many times, it wasn’t your fault, it never was, it was the Balkan connection going out of control, that’s what killed Archie, not you.’

Standing in the emptiness of his life, Frank wished he could turn the clock back.

‘I know, but I can’t help feeling responsible, us making love, when I should …’

‘Alright. Well if you insist on playing the martyr, then what can I do for you?’

Frank heard the angry pain in her voice, but didn’t know how to make it better.

‘Well I was wondering if there was any more news, you know, about that yacht.’

‘I see. Well at the moment, she’s laying disabled at anchor between Tresco and Bryher, and for more information, go to the quay by the Mermaid pub at five o’clock, there’ll be two old sailors by the sea wall, so listen very carefully to what they’re saying, and Frank, if you get hurt with this ugly business, I’ll never forgive you.’

Stepping off the bus, Lucinda soon realised she looked out of place in her posh outfit as just about everyone was dressed in smart casual clothes, and then she noticed a clothes shop that seemed to have everything from French chic to ultra-smart casual.

Enjoying the browsing, she bought leather sandals, shorts and tee shirts, a classy pair of casual trousers and a soft colourful jumper, and while chatting to the assistant, was told the tourist information office was just down the street.

Strolling down, she collected brochures, maps and timetables, and wandering back, stepped through the ancient doorway of the Atlantic Inn, and buying a gin and tonic, settled herself at a table in the corner and began to read through the information.

As time drifted away, she thought it was quite pleasant to be here in the old Inn, its low exposed beams giving a warm and snug ambience while the gentle banter of the locals sent a relaxed and happy sound all around the bar.

Looking over to the large picture window, she saw old French doors leading out onto a sunny terrace, and beyond was the wide bay of the harbour, now full with dinghies, yachts and launches all held gently bobbing at anchor, and across to the left, saw the Scillonian tied up at the far end of the quay, but already she was making ready to sail again.

Soaking it all up, she gazed around the bar and saw a tall, rugged looking man, duck under the low beam as he stepped in off the street, and finding an empty space at the bar, set his backpack down and ordered a pint of Guinness.

She sat motionless, his big brown eyes sending a shiver through her memory, and in a flash, remembered that unwanted visitor to the farm. Mr Frank Lewis.

Sitting in shocked confusion, she realised that as it couldn’t be an amazing coincidence, it had to be part of that hellish conspiracy, and Angela must have sent him here to get proof when she killed Rattenegger, and armed with that, could send her back to that bloody awful sanatorium.

Oh Angela, what a filthy, cunning bitch you are.

But when she looked back to the bar, all she saw was an empty Guinness glass.

Stepping out of the Atlantic Inn, Frank felt all the better for the pint of Guinness, and wandering up to the Garrison, turned onto the steep rise and passed by a hotel with its sunny terrace looking out over the off-islands of Tresco and Bryher.

Walking up to the Garrison, he passed through the archway of the ancient fortification, and what might have been the guardroom and jail way back in the 1700s.

Slogging on up he eventually reached the fortified wall, and following it along, stopped to look over the edge, and lighting a cigarette, took a much closer look, because he was now facing what had always been bothering him.

Way back then, those clever builders had known just what they were doing, and when they built the running wall, they’d positioned the many cannon emplacements so that each overlooked the other and gave a murderous crossfire, and while it denied any hope for an invading navy, it now gave him little chance of remaining unseen, but down below was a grassy outcrop over on the edge, which with any luck would hide him and the Bergen.

Waiting till the area was free of tourists, he pushed the heavy Bergen up onto the gun emplacement, and climbing up after it, lowered it over the side, and taking hold of the stonework, eased himself over and dropped down onto the steep slope.

Pulling the Bergen, he inched down and found the ground cut away beneath the outcrop, and while it formed a natural ledge, it was just wide and long enough to hide everything.

It wasn’t perfect but it would do the job, and now he could leave the Bergen in safety while he went back down to the quay and listened to the two old sailors, and later, return to the ledge, make camp, watch the channel and sleep undisturbed for the night.

Just as long as he didn’t roll off the cliff.

Lucinda stepped out of the pub, but Lewis was nowhere in sight, and with a scowl, shrugged and walked on to the hotel.

The afternoon was surprisingly hot and her smart suit had suddenly become a nuisance, but soon she could take a shower, and when her crowded mind felt a little more settled, she would decide what to do about the honourable Mr Lewis.

Walking through the ornate archway, she made her way to reception, and having checked in, the receptionist looked past her and called to a young porter.

‘Luigi. Would you take the luggage, and show Mrs Coogan to her room.’

Lucinda turned, and just for a moment it was as if she were looking at a beautiful doll, because standing there was a gorgeous boy, just so tall and slender with dark curly hair, and whilst his handsome face would soon break the heart of many a woman, just now in his boyish years, his dark flashing eyes held all the innocence of a beguiling youth.

‘Mi scusi.’

The receptionist handed him the room key and pointed down to Lucinda’s luggage.

‘Bagagli.’

The young boy smiled happily, his perfect teeth flashing in the purest of white.

‘Si, comprende.’

The receptionist apologised to Lucinda, but her cool eyes were only for the young boy.

‘Sorry about that, he’s Italian you see, and working for us on a foreign exchange trip, and actually, he understands quite a lot of English, but has a problem with the speech, that’s why he’s staying with us for a while, for work experience and help him improve.’

As he collected her bags and shopping, Lucinda watched his graceful young body.

‘Yes, it’s a good idea, but he seems rather young.’

The woman stared past her, and snatching her gaze away, looked back to Lucinda.

‘Sorry? Oh, I see. Yes, he’s only sixteen, but he’s such a good boy, and very willing.’

Lucinda suppressed a smile as she wondered just how willing she’d like him to be.

Following him through the hotel, Lucinda became absorbed as she watched the lithe movements of his young athletic body, his small, tight bottom seeming to possess an erotic rhythm all of its own, and as she became entranced, wondered if any of the women here on the islands had sought to broaden his more worldly education.