Three Mile Drove, Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE
McPherson watched the forensic team leave the house with the tiny content of his find carefully sealed in a transparent bag. Overhead, crows were gathered on the telephone lines, which ran above the drove on either bank. Their silence, in contrast to the wind whistling sharply through them, and the stark backdrop of the dark old house behind brought to mind scenes from the old Hitchcock movie. It struck him, how a simple scene could appear so sinister.
He reflected on his visit to the village parson, David Endleberry, the evening before. He'd questioned him on the history of the house, thinking that there wasn't a lot Endleberry didn't know. In a small place like this the village parson was a "jack of all trades, the central pillar of the community and a mine of knowledge. Only it hadn't turned out that way, Endleberry hadn't had much to say about the house at all, needing the help of an old binder to assist his memory. He'd seemed to concentrate instead on what he believed were exaggerations, tricks of the mind even, in fact drawing attention away from the house itself. Was that what he'd done, and if so why? The place hadn't appeared to have been occupied since the mid-sixties, but Endleberry had settled into his role as parson shortly before that time, so he'd been told.
An old couple had apparently owned the place, Henry and Maisie Thompson. He thought back on what Endleberry had told him, about the bouts of pneumonia which had killed them within a few days of each other and that the place had thereafter been bequeathed to a child too young to occupy the property, and consequently it had fallen into an increasingly bad state of disrepair.
But it was all rumour, or so Endleberry said. Nobody seemed to know who this child was. Perhaps then, it was all hearsay, the dividing line between fact and fiction was thin on the fens. It was just Endleberry's bewildering vagueness that plagued him.
The only established fact was that Henry and Maisie Thompson had perished within a few days of each other, apparently from pneumonia.
McPherson set his car in gear and headed towards the exit to Three Mile Drove. Just as he reached the junction a car turned in. McPherson turned his head sharply to the right; both the vehicle and the driver were familiar to him. It was Claire Summerby.
* * *
Darren approached the stationary figure on the bridge, aware that his adrenaline was rising. He'd no idea what he'd say or do, he'd leave that to his instincts. The bloke wasn't encroaching on his property; he wasn't trespassing. It was just that the unusual slant of the head in his direction, was both provocative and unnerving. He simply needed to combat this feeling by confronting the figure.
As he got closer he could see that the man was tall and gaunt, and that he had a stoop. He was wearing a black anorak that had clearly seen better days. Its hood flapped madly around his neck in the wind like a giant, angry moth in confinement. Something registered in the back of Darren's mind; he'd seen this man before, and then he remembered where. It had been at the pub, where he'd asked for directions to the farm. This had been the eldest of the four men he'd encountered. The four guarded men who'd eyed him with suspicion.
'Brisk morning,' the gaunt figure grunted unsmiling, deep set eyes locked firmly upon him.
'Yeah.' Darren reached the bridge, hell bent on confrontation with the prying old bugger. 'Tell me, what is it you find so interesting about me and my property then eh?' He placed a hand on the rusty railing of the bridge, so close to him that despite the strong wind he could smell his rancid breath.
'You mean Sam Regan's place, don't yer?' the man sniffed, for once removing his gaze and looking away.
'Sam Regan's dead,' Darren said sharply, 'I reckon you know that. I spoke to you yesterday didn't I? I asked for directions. It seems a bit of a coincidence you turning up here. Anyway it's my farm as of now,' he added sourly, 'so come on, what's so interesting about this place that you can hardly take your eyes off of it?'
'I got no interest.' The stare returned to him, 'Apart from natural curiosity that is. Mind you there are those that have.'
'Such as who?' Darren growled, 'Gypsies?'
'No. Gypsies'll be the least of your problems if you're counting on staying around these parts.' He gave a laugh, a harsh sound exposing ageing, rotten teeth, 'This place has seen more comings and goings than a band of gypsies.'
'How do you mean,' Darren asked moodily, 'get to the point.'
'There are¦' the old man stopped all of a sudden, his voice freezing on the wind as a voice called from the bungalow. Darren turned in surprise at the woman calling his name as she came strolling through the rear garden towards the bridge.
'You left the doors wide open, I took the liberty of coming to find you.'
'That's okay,' Darren said, puzzled, though pleasantly surprised to see Claire Summerby.
Claire reached into her jacket pocket and took out a gold embossed cigarette lighter. 'You left this behind at the pub last night,' she said, handing it to him, 'Funny though, I don't seem to remember you smoking.'
'I don't, I gave it up,' he accepted it from her, seeing the smoothness of her hands which seemed to match the rest of her skin, 'it's habit I guess, but I still tend to put it on the table whenever I go for a drink.'
'I see.' She switched her eyes to the old man, 'Hello Seth, whatever are you doing here?' It might have been his imagination but some of the pleasantness went out of her voice as she addressed the man.
'Morning stroll, that's all Miss Summerby.' The old man sounded defensive. He turned to go. 'Hey hang on,' Darren called after him, 'What were you about to tell me?'
'Nothing that'll make any difference to you,' he muttered, making his way down from the bridge and ambling away from the bungalow along the track beside the dyke.
'Strange bloke,' Darren said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he watched him go. He turned, meeting the intelligent face of his visitor, noticing the fine lines around her eyes. She must be in her mid-thirties, he thought, though she could easily pass for thirty. But hers was the sort of face that would grow even more attractive as it aged, you could tell. Some women had this attribute, though sadly not that many. Goldie certainly didn't, he thought.
'Anyway, thanks for returning the lighter,' he said, becoming acutely aware that he'd been studying her intensely. 'It was a present from my father; I'd have hated to lose it.'
'Try to be less forgetful then.' There was a hint of humour and then a moment of silence, as he felt her fine eyes probing him. Perhaps a couple of inches shorter than him, he saw the way her long dark hair blew in the wind, he saw the way she brushed it back. Despite the chill he could almost feel the warmth of her, it was almost as if, in spite of the conditions, he could feel his own temperature rising.
She removed her gaze from him; he saw her eyes following the old man.
'Who is he?' Darren asked.
'He's Seth Rawson, a farmhand. He's way off his beaten track. What was he saying to you?'
Darren raised his eyebrows, gazed down at his pointed boots, 'Well that's just it. He'd been about to say something when you appeared.' He gave her a funny half smile, which quickly turned into a frown as he slipped the lighter into his pocket, 'He'd been hinting on that I'd have problems here, in some form or other.'
'I shouldn't pay too much attention to him,' Claire said lightly, folding her arms. 'Seth's harmless enough, just a bit of a fruitcake. Some people take delight at trying to put the fear of God into people. He's one of those, that's probably why he shut up when he did. He knew I'd see through him. When you're a newcomer you don't understand these things, whereas I do. Take no notice.'
She turned towards the bungalow, 'Anyway, I must be going. I need to be starting my rounds shortly. It's nice to have the opportunity to speak to you again.'
'I was wondering¦' Darren increased his stride as he followed the leggy brunette through the undergrowth and into the rear garden. Suddenly a piercing scream seemed to split the air in half, echoing across the fens like a crazed falsetto. He turned in alarm, his chain of thought broken. 'What the hell is that noise. I keep hearing it but I'm coming no closer to understanding where it's coming from, or what's causing it.'
'Wild animals of course.' She looked at him the way a schoolteacher might to a dim pupil. 'You don't suppose we're free from them here do you Darren? Haven't you heard a fox before?'
'For a fox that was an oddly human sound,' Darren said dubiously, and more than a little unnerved. Not that he had any particular experience with foxes though, but there was something not at all right about that hideous shriek.
'Look I was wondering¦' he repeated, shrugging the sound from his mind, 'whether you might come for a drink with me sometime.'
'I hardly know you,' she looked back, a wry smile on her lips.
'Well, it's certainly a way of getting to know me,' Darren said, walking alongside, 'how about it? A nice quiet spot, nothing too romantic though, more casual, like. How about this evening?'
'No I'm working tonight,' she said, stepping through the rear door ahead of him. 'I'm fairly pushed until the end of the week as a matter of fact, by which time I expect you'll be long gone.'
'No, as it happens I'll be spending a few days here, there are things I need to sort out, like starting to get the place done up for instance.'
'You're thinking of staying then?' He saw the way her mouth seemed to drop open in surprise. 'I'd have thought you'd have wanted to be far away from this place.'
'Why?' Darren asked defensively.
She laughed just then; it was a smooth and easy transformation of her features. Darren was already drawing the conclusion that her smile was something special.
'Oh I don't know. I guess I thought this region might be a little remote for the likes of you.'
'I doubt it,' Darren glanced at her with slight reproof, 'for the likes of me, as you put it, I'd say this place would make a change.' He drew in breath as they passed through the front door, taking in the crispness of the air.
'This place might look a mess right now, but it can be patched up nicely. I came here with pessimism, I admit that, but despite it all I think it can provide me with a new lease of life. It has prospects and I reckon I'll take up the option on it.'
He laid a hand on her shoulder, 'So how about Friday then?'
There was silence for a second or two. She was dubious, he knew that. Then she took pen and paper from her jacket pocket, jotted something down, and passed it to him.
'Call for me here, about eight.'
'Fine.' Darren raised a satisfied smile at that, but the worried look that cloaked Claire Summerby was concealed from him as she started the car.